Misty, shit-colored memories

When I leave Washington, whenever that happens, I'm going to leave with a lot of bad memories. First, we were ripped off by our movers. Then, I was here for 9/11, the anthrax, the sniper, our invasion of Iraq, a nasty car accident, four consecutive winters of freezing my ass off. And now, the final insult. I get to watch the re-inauguration of this man:

As all the super-rich, cowboy-hatted homophobes descend on the most powerful city in the world, I find myself wishing for a tsunami or other such disaster to hit. It's everything I hate about the social divide in Washington, magnified a thousand times: motorcades and SUV limousines containing people apparently much more important than me crowd the city; hotel packages including amenities such as alligator boots (?) are selling for tens of thousands of dollars. There are dinners and balls and such, each more mind-blowingly expensive than the last. It's what Washington does best: rich people flaunt their wealth to unprecedented levels of excess, while surrounded by one of the most extremely impoverished and dangerous cities in the country. You always know where you stand in D.C.: either you're dining on the finest sauteed clubbed baby seal, or you're fishing half-eaten fried chicken out of the trash.

I can't believe I have to fucking swallow this fucking bullshit. This retard sent thousands of people to their deaths unnecessarily, but won't go to their funerals. He sent the national debt spiraling, essentially mortgaging our future. He's destroyed our standing in the international community. Etc., etc. You know the rest.

What am I supposed to do? I can't even joke about making threats, lest I get a visit from the Secret Service. And joking about threats is like my bread and butter. Ahh, but there is a loophole. Dubya is, let's see... 58 years old. If he lives out the rest of his natural life, he'll probably get to age 90 or so. There will be a big funeral, and weeping in the streets, and we'll, I don't know, name an airport after him or something. Then we'll bury him in a grave somewhere sacred and solemn. Maybe Arlington cemetary, maybe a library (and I really hope he does get a library, as that would be the most ironic thing ever). Whatever. The point is, I now make a solemn promise to the world, today:

I will pee on that grave.

That's right. I don't know when I'll do it; I don't know how. Probably under cover of night; perhaps after bribing a security guard. All I know is, I'm peeing on it. And I could be in my 60s by then; peeing on command could be difficult by that point. But I don't care. Mr. Bush, your grave will be peed on, by me. This is my pledge to the world.

How do you like that, Secret Service? Bush will no longer have you to hide behind. I will be peeing on his grave, and you can't stop me!!! BWAHHH HA HA HAAAAAA!!!! IN YOUR FACE!

I could see this turning into a grassroots movement. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go see if peeonbush.com is registered.

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