Yes, George, I mean you. I know I didn't call you "President Bush," and I'm not going to. As I wrote you before, I don't accept that you're really our president. Without your brother Jeb and Katherine Harris, Florida's electoral votes would have gone to Gore and we'd have a legitimate president.
What's that? No, I'm not going to call you "sir" either. But you may call me that. I'm older, after all—left Yale the year before you arrived...Yes, that's right. Ashcroft was in my class. And that other friend of yours, Joe Lieberman, the one you planted the Judas kiss on.
Look, I don't really want to be spending time with you either. But we need to do this. A friend of mine suggested that I ought to imagine that you and I got shipwrecked together on an island so we were forced to spend some time together. So, why don't we both pretend? No one else to talk to—
Yes, that's right. No military guys to waterboard me, no Alberto Gonzales to provide a rationale for them to do it, no Dick Cheenie to scowl at me and try to scare the bejesus out of me, no McLean lobbyists with seven-figure salaries to surround you with adoring campaign contributors, no Laura to protect you if I take a swipe at you. Just you and me.
Hey, stand back! Don't touch me, George. I saw what you were about to do. Throw your arm around my shoulder and call me Turd something or other. That's why I didn't invite you over for my Fourth of July barbecue. I knew if I did you'd try to seduce me into liking you. It wouldn't work, George. It would just make me throw up. You don't want me to vomit on you, do you?
I don't know about you, but I've already spent enough time with you today. Let's continue this tomorrow.
What's that? No, I'm not going to call you "sir" either. But you may call me that. I'm older, after all—left Yale the year before you arrived...Yes, that's right. Ashcroft was in my class. And that other friend of yours, Joe Lieberman, the one you planted the Judas kiss on.
Look, I don't really want to be spending time with you either. But we need to do this. A friend of mine suggested that I ought to imagine that you and I got shipwrecked together on an island so we were forced to spend some time together. So, why don't we both pretend? No one else to talk to—
Yes, that's right. No military guys to waterboard me, no Alberto Gonzales to provide a rationale for them to do it, no Dick Cheenie to scowl at me and try to scare the bejesus out of me, no McLean lobbyists with seven-figure salaries to surround you with adoring campaign contributors, no Laura to protect you if I take a swipe at you. Just you and me.
Hey, stand back! Don't touch me, George. I saw what you were about to do. Throw your arm around my shoulder and call me Turd something or other. That's why I didn't invite you over for my Fourth of July barbecue. I knew if I did you'd try to seduce me into liking you. It wouldn't work, George. It would just make me throw up. You don't want me to vomit on you, do you?
I don't know about you, but I've already spent enough time with you today. Let's continue this tomorrow.
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