Boozer Bush

It doesn’t explain everything, but it explains a lot: George Bush, our president, is hitting the bottle again. The drinking rumors have been making the rounds for months, and even before that people speculated that Bush’s “accidents”—choking on a pretzel, dropping his dog, crashing his bicycle—were “alcohol-related.” For someone who makes such a point of flaunting his physical prowess, his habitual clumsiness is somewhat suspicious.
But the recent revelations about Bush slugging down Southern Comfort as Iraq goes down the tubes and New Orleans goes down the drain calls into question whether he actually gave up booze and gave his life to Jesus in the first place. That Bush continued to hit the sauce after taking the pledge explains a good deal of his weird behavior, one minute scared s—tless, the next, after a secret swig of Early Times, inflated with Texas swagger.
One minute Bush goes limp with fright when desperate aides inform him that planes have crashed in the World Trade Center; the next minute, stiff with bravado, he boasts of his resolve to get Osama “dead or alive.” One minute, when he hears Hurricane Katrina howling, he cringes like a scaredy-cat behind his Mama; after a few pops of Old Granddad, he’s full of phony bluster, telling his feckless FEMA chief, “Brownie, you’re doin’ a heckuva job.”