Let's Get Ready To Rumble!

Dear George: All right, my friend, tonight is the night. It's mano-a-mano, old boy, time to go for the kill! Dick softened him up, and the media has worked him over. All that's left is to get into that debate, land one good uppercut, and head on home to the ranch for a well-earned iced tea.

And I don't need to tell you I've got the farm bet on this one, hombre, so don't let me down. America, the world, and my mortgaged Halliburton shares are all counting on you.

But here's the thing, George, and don't take this the wrong way, but a confident fighter can be a sloppy fighter, and the last thing any of us need now is for you to go in there like a half-sedated George Foreman and have your lunch fed to you by a cagey, beaten and bloodied Ali that suddenly finds some fight and floors you cold. It happened then, George, and I wouldn't be your friend, advisor, or a prudent better if I didn't point this out.

Now before you say it, I'm not suggesting that Kerry is pulling some Muhammad Ali kind of "rope-a-dope" here, and calm down because that's what it's called. I'm not calling you a dope. But the thing is, George, that old piece of cardboard is finally starting to show some life, and I don't mean he's suddenly taken up square dancing.

He's finding his stride, old chum, and while it may still be about as long and shaky as a drunken French poodle's, he's getting downright uppity. And what he's turned his sights on is Iraq, and as much as you've been painting pretty pictures for the UN and everybody else that things are as happy, rosy, and friendly there as a box of kittens, you and I know they're not.

Okay, "so what," you're saying (actually, I suspect you're just giggling, but this is serious, so pay attention). He'll just flip-flop his way right off the podium, we can all laugh, and it's lemonade and crackers for everyone. Well, I would have been with you on that one, George, if it weren't for the fact that the man is getting blunt.

Blunt like a Texan, George.

He's stopped all his babble about war records, jobs, deficits, and health care, and started saying some seriously nasty things about your war effort, my friend. We can't have that, for more reasons than I need to list, though my stock portfolio and my bookie's tendency to play with baseball bats are prime among them. He's saying nasty things about you too, but here's the thing, George, he's getting angry, he's getting focused, and he's getting passionate while he does it.

He has a heartbeat after all, my friend. Not good.

So what I'm saying is: make it quick. You're the War President; you're the Man; you're the Decisive One. People like that, George; you know it, and I know it. But you've got to get on top early, and stay there, because if he starts acting at all decisive, instead of like the spasming halibut we've come to know, love, and exploit, there is going to be trouble, my friend.

Because despite how much this little exercise of yours is making your friends happy (and the Lord knows I'm grateful, George, particularly with Christmas coming and all), it is seriously ticking off the American public. Terrorism be damned, George. They want their people to come home. It's your job to keep them thinking that it's you who can do it.

And so what if pigs will fly first? It's the perception that matters here, George, and God knows that you know the value of that.

So stay focused. Don't use long sentences, watch the stutters, and whatever you do, don't smile! Keep that grim 9/11, Commander-in-Chief, hand-on-the-helm, there's-serious-business-to-be-done look that has been working like a charm. Out-serious the man, George. Out-grim him. And whatever you do, watch for those low blows.

I've got a four-to-one bet that you'll get yours in first. Don't disappoint me.