The Storm's Over

Dear George: It's in the bag, my friend. You can take it to the bank and start buying a new set of Presidential toilet covers, because this election is as done as a charbroiled T-bone. Allow me to be the first to send my hearty congratulations, kudos, and a raised glass of lemonade, 'cause you the man, Hombre! Not bad given that you've been spending most of your time mountain biking around the ranch, which I might add looks like a lot of fun, though why you would want to do it with a pack of snap happy photogs is beyond me. That bicycle helmet doesn't exactly scream "Commander-in-Chief."

Ah, but the latest polling numbers sure do, George. If someone had told me last month that America's favourite cardboard cutout of a Democrat would be a measly five polling points ahead after the beating you've taken these last few weeks, I'd have dragged them to my bookie by the short hairs and made them put some serious money where their mouth was, with a side bet on flying pigs for good measure.

Which, I am ashamed to admit, I did (though I've got double or nothing money riding on Cheney swearing at Edwards, so not to worry), but I don't want you to take that to mean that I have ever doubted you for even a second, old chum. If there is one thing I have always been certain of, it's that America will have you back in the saddle come November.

But let's face it, George. That was a hell of a month for anyone to go through without coming out smelling like a half-baked pile of Texas road kill. Between that pesky 9/11 commission, enough bad press to sink an oil tanker, the senate screwing up the marriage vote, and that fat director, whose name you've made me swear never to say (though I must say it was a little much to send the heavies around and threaten legal action, George), making trouble in the theatres, you could have counted yourself lucky if you were only fifteen points back.

Yet there you are, George, still standing tall, and you haven't even had your own convention yet. Kerry called you a liar, the commission suggested you were incompetent, a good portion of the media thinks you're a bigot, and there's America lining up behind their incumbent President like a pack of half-starved teamsters at a pig roast.

Hell, George. I'm starting to think you could drop your pants on nation-wide TV and dance like a chicken, and still have enough support to keep you going very nicely for the next three months. And while I'm pretty sure you were joking when you suggested it, I think you might want to hold off for now, as tempting as it might be.

Maybe after the election, eh partner? That'll get a few tongues wagging.

No, George, just play things nice and cool. No surprises (there aren't any more surprises, are there?), keep the ship steady as she goes, and if I were you I'd stop with all that yo-yo work on the homeland security alert status. You really don't need it given the way things are going, and I don't need to remind you that it plays hell with stock portfolios. Stick to Kerry's voting record, George. Pick on Edwards; start calling him Opie, if you have to. And if things start getting a little tight, just play a few more of those gay marriage cards.

People really get hot and bothered about that.

But the storm's over, my friend, and you weathered it like a pro. And I promise from now on that I'll stop calling every night, fuming over all that Iraqi footage, the latest body counts and debt numbers, or every time I see Rumsfeld start yakking about how in control things are.

It just don't matter much, does it George?