Can't sleep? Is your hair falling out in clumps? Are your evenings spent naked in the basement, jabbing yourself in the thigh with a plastic fork?
You are not alone. There isn't a self-respecting progressive in the world who hasn't suffered horribly the past few days, wracked with paroxysms of grief over the loss of our beloved Susan Sontag. The rainbow flags at Berkeley are flying at half mast. Elbow-patch university professors have been strangely silent at Manhattan wine and cheese parties. The entire nation of France is being flooded by a tsunami of tears. Yet that so-called "compassionate conservative" in the White House can't seem to pry himself off the golf course and comfort us in our time of sorrow.
It's typical for an administration that sends three measly cents to those hurricane victims in Taiwan - or wherever it is - and has a robot sign condolence letters to the families of dead troops, of all things! Bill Clinton was a caring, sensitive man who would go out of his way to send a personally autographed copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass to the wives, sisters, and daughters of every troop who died on his watch. He'd even invite the cuter ones back to the Oval Office for a private mono y mono, so he could really feel their pain up close. He was a hands-on kind of guy. Not the Shrub. We'll be lucky if he stops "clearing brush" long enough to even acknowledge our torment, let alone bite his lip and speak to us in the soft, dulcite tones of a nurturing mother.
And does he think he's fooling anyone with this whole "clearing brush in Crawford" charade, anyway? Every time an important world figure mysteriously dies, Dumbya is conventiently off "clearing brush". I don't know whether it's a clever alibi, or a euphemism for something else entirely.
"Georgie! You've been in the bathroom for two hours! What are you DOING in there?"
"I'm clearing brush, Ma!"
"Don't you lie to me! I saw you take a copy of that Susan Sontag book in with you!"
"Nuh uh...it was Camille Paglia!"
"YOU'LL GO BLIND!"
Oh well. Don't expect much from me for the next few days. If the Shrub can't at least pretend he cares about our pain and suffering in the wake of Boom Boom's death, I'm not coming out from under the sink until after New Years.