April 07, 2004

Passions of the Bush

Back in the day, the barometer of American cheesiness was the romance novel. A couple of dollars at the local checkout counter would net the prophetic prose of authors such as Danielle Steel and Jackie Collins. These romances continue to fan the flames of middle American passion; they’re also excellent when melted over nachos and hamburgers.

So what can be made of cheesy romance novels in a day when American politics and media make them look like “War and Peace”? The next logical step, obviously, is to tie them together. And like the pulp romances endlessly cranked out by anonymous ghostwriters, the politics-romance fusion is easy to write in today’s world.

(The following excerpt is from “Passions of the Bush.” Copyright 2004 by Ian McGibboney. Distributed by Partisan Press. 1,356 pages.)

Chapter 27—Nine-inch-eleven

George sat alone in the Lincoln Bedroom, anticipating the lovely visitor who was soon to come. As he sat there in the moonlight, alone with his thoughts, he reflected upon the great men before him who had shared such space. Jefferson. Lincoln. Roosevelt. Kennedy. Reagan. Clinton. Oh, how he despised Clinton. Like JFK before him, Clinton had the nerve to turn the White House into his own lair of lust. George cringed his masculine face just at the thought. How dare the man desecrate this room at the expense of the people and—

Tap, tap, tap. George knew the sound immediately. It was the soft signal of the mistress with whom he would share a rendezvous on this night. George had taken great pains to let everyone know of his late work schedule tonight. It was a convenient excuse to get away from the woman that had irrevocably ensnared his heart—the one they called Afghanistan.

George had been betrothed to the fair Afghanistan just over two years earlier, after a steamy encounter in which she penetrated his twin towers. While that day had left behind in him an odd burning sensation, it also breathed in him a renewed purpose. A reason to continue living. She had been so good to him, giving him all that he needed to carry on.

There had been times, of course, when George’s temptation had been tested. Nothing that Afghanistan did could tear George away from his first and foremost lover, the one who had made him a man so many years before. The two salacious syllables of her name blew like a gentle breeze on his heaving tongue.

Iraq.

“Come on in, Iraq, my fair maiden,” George spoke softly, “I shall let nothing get in the way of my conquest of your burning lust.”

“Oh, Mr. Bush,” she cooed, “I know you will stop at nothing to liberate me with desire.”

George smiled as he gently stroked her sandy complexion. “No matter who or what feels the need to take up my time, I will always return to you, fair Iraq,” he said. A rugged Texas oil man, George knew his way around his derrick. The couple shared a soft kiss and a sweet embrace in the D.C. moonlight, ready to embark on a war of a different kind—the war on amour.

George was clearly the aggressor in the relationship; he ripped off his lady’s clothes and was eager to pillage her goods. If it made her feel good, he thought, all the better. But he was really looking out for number one.

Knock, knock.

“Who is that?” George cried, breaking the mood.

“It’s Richard Clarke! Open up! I know you’re in there!”

Busted.

(Read the rest in Chapter 28, “Clarke’s Bar,” or watch the news. Same thing.)

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