Dear George Bush,

I get it. I finally get it.

You're a performance artist. There's no other explanation. I've gone through everything I could possibly think of, and this is the last thing on the list. The last thing that's even remotely in reality, that is... after this the explanations open up to aliens, alternative universes, and Thor.

This is all one, huge, post-modern joke, isn't it? You've made a point. You've made a huge, hilarious, disturbing point. You've shown us how stupid we are. You've shown us that we can elect fools. You've shown us that if you chop off one of our hands, we'll just exalt you with the other.

You're actually John H. Fineterbint, multi-media and performance artist. You used to focus on art that you could touch with your hands, but then you had this idea. This idea for the greatest performance art piece ever conceived. It would be sharp and interesting and political, and people would remember you for centuries.

And so you created a persona, and you ran for president. And you got elected twice.

But this isn't an individual effort! No, no, one man can't do an art project at this level on his own. You need other artists as crazy as you. You need pundits, cabinet members. You need "Republicans" to make your persona believable. You brought them with you.

And how do I know this?

Because I cannot possibly conceive how you and your cronies - with consciences, with the slightest shred of human decency, and with a GOD THEY THINK IS LOOKING AFTER THEM - can continually

shit
all over
the American people
including
our children.

I hope you never sleep again, you horrid, horrid excuse for a human being. I hope that every night you are haunted by dreams of children who are violently ill and unable to AFFORD TO SEEK MEDICAL CARE and then die. I hope that when you walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water to calm yourself down, blood pours out of the faucet. And when you drop the glass in fear and turn around, a small boy is standing there in footie pajamas. He'll wiggle his finger in an innocent "come here" kind of way, and when you take a step toward him he'll turn around and there will be a gaping hole in the back of his head, where an abscess has destroyed his brain and killed him, and when you scream in terror you see Laura standing in the doorway asking you what's wrong, and you rush past her and out into the dew-soaked lawn, shaking violently. And then you'll run into the street. And then I hope you get hit by a truck. Not bad enough to kill you, of course, just enough so that you wake up in the hospital and a nurse whose child is chronically ill because of the shitty health care system is the one who puts in your IV. I hope she has lots of trouble finding that vein.