"Hi. My name's George. I'm a moron. Please help me?"
You know it's a tough week in Dubya's World when the least embarrasing thing you've done is utter a profanity for everyone to hear. I mean, between sitting there prattling away like a two-year old with food falling out of his mouth, and the bizarre groping backrub of the German Chancelor, about all George Bush needs to do now in order land the trifecta of perfect political stupidity is to go and disconnect Ariel Sharon's feeding tube in an attempt to score a free lunch.
I know. I'm a hypocrite. I was one of those people who complained about this idiot taking too many vacations when there's lots of work to be done. I was wrong, America. I'm not afraid to admit that. I would much rather have him playing in the mud in Crawford than spanning the globe making a complete fool of himself.
Please. The G-8 Summit is not a Yale University kegger. Bush doesn't need the protection of the Secret Service. He needs supervision. Surround him with single mothers. After all, I think single mothers are the only people on the planet qualified to put up with his boorish antics without smacking him silly. "No no, George. Be a good boy, sit up straight and don't talk with your mouth full. Now, go apologize to the nice lady, or I'm sending you to your time-out chair."