by Peter Freyne
America's dishonest and dangerous national leader, President George "WMD" Bush, spent all of three hours on the ground in Minneapolis on Saturday demonstrating to the nation that, even though he's not running for reelection, he can still do a photo-op!
Unfortunately, America's renegade regime leader is not the most articulate president we've had. In fact, he's the least articulate of my lifetime, making Ronald Reagan appear borderline brilliant. Said George our Liar-in-Chief:
On behalf of the citizens of America, I bring prayers from the American people to those who suffered loss of life as a result of the collapse of the 35W bridge here in the Twin Cities. I bring the prayers of those who wonder about whether they'll ever see a loved one again.
So now the man who presided over the deceitful and dishonest scheme to start a war he can neither win nor end has dubbed himself a prayer-carrier?
Bush told the cameras he had met with the police chief and sheriff and, "people who represent men and women who are working as hard as they possibly can to save life and to find life; to go under these murky waters to find the facts."
Facts? Facts? Everybody knows after five years of an illegal war in Iraq that facts are this bloody tyrant's #1 enemy, ferchrissakes.
The Minnesota trip was to cover his PR butt after blowing it on Hurricane Katrina. Those Cable TV News Babes really do count, right Mr. Rove?
His remarks, all 500 words, lasted four minutes. Our president did not take any questions from the press.
He doesn't have to, does he?
Way to go Mr. President!
Meanwhile his visit, picked up live on the cable news channels, took me back to the next vehicle-span downriver on the Mighty Mississippi - the Washington Avenue Bridge. It's a two-decker, pedestrians on top (with a heated, enclosed inner section for winter), and motor vehicles on the bottom. It cuts right through the middle of the University of Minnesota campus, the largest in the country at that time. A little memory lane here.
Autumn 1971. A quiet, early-in-the-week kind of night. The bar was called Caesar's. I was 22. She was 27. He was some old wasted academic-type on a stool in the dark corner. She'd been talking to the old fart, then apparently had her fill and asked the young guy - me - if I wanted to shoot a little pool.
You never say "no," right? Not at 22, anyway. After three games we went back to her place. The old drunk, 57, was in the same spot the next few times I dropped in. Usually quite hammered. Someone said he was a famous poet. Never got much of a conversation going, he was usually pretty sloshed.
A few months later in January he waved to whoever was nearby and jumped off the Washington Avenue Bridge. Death by suicide.
It was UM Professor/Poet John Berryman, winner of the 1964 Pulitzer Prize.
From Berryman's 77 Dream Songs:
I'm too alone. I see no end. If we could all
run, even that would be better. I am hungry.
The sun is not hot.
It's not a good position I am in.
If I had to do the whole thing over again