On the Bypass (2004)
Although today's image was made to suggest an impression of whizzing by and skirting the periphery of a city, the recent pictures of New Orleans' refugees huddling together on half-flooded overpasses creates an entirely new context. Most days, the scenery blurs at the edges of one's perception. The day ahead unspools in the mind's eye as the coffee bumps along in a cupholder. Or, the surroundings zip offstage in fast forward as one contemplates the evening's activities. But, after last weekend, On the Bypass slowed and froze into this --
-- a mote in the eye than cannot be quickly removed or driven swiftly past.
But that's what BushCo now wants -- to bypass all criticism and responsibility. The usual bullshit evasiveness is pulled out of mothballs -- the weather can't be controlled, not the time for "finger pointing," no one could have predicted the dikes would burst, presidential gee-tars had to be tuned. The Rovians are behind the curtain busily pumping up the Oz smoke and mirrors. And, now, how about a distracting and divisive SCOTUS nominee battle to divert eyes as more bodies are sucked toward the filtration pumps?
But, don't worry -- be happy. Bush has announced he'll oversee the investigation into all that went FUBAR in New Orleans. Trust me -- this revolution won't be televised. I'm sure he'll approach this inquiry with the same fervor he had for the 9/11 commission.
Calling All Congressional Democrats. How's that collective spine transplant going? Time to check out of your bobblehead torpor. How about insisting on some real hearings-- even if that means you have to go off-grid like Conyers did for the Downing Street Documents? A lowly blowjob brought out the cameras and witnesses -- and, refresh my memory, how many people died because of Clinton's dirty deed?
Now, look at the picture above -- and multiply it by thousands. The political favors in FEMA and the gutting of its mission? The shuffling of levee funds to shore up the Iraq War? Scrath that surface. Point fingers. Shout from the rooftops. Hand out pitchforks.
For five years, I've listened to nothing but excuse after excuse from the Bush Administration, it's hard work, that's not our responsibility, we really thought there were weapons, it's Clinton's fault, that was the result of something that started before we took office, the accountability moment has passed, their will be plenty of time to place blame later, we don't control the weather, everyone else thought that too, we need more information, it wasn't technically a crime, blah, blah, blah, fucking blah. So ok, I'll just go ahead and accept that you're always going to have an excuse for why absolutely nothing in the world is your fault, I'll even give you the benefit of the doubt and say that sometimes it might not be your fault. But what I'd like to know is, since you are the fucking President and all, at what point do you become accountable for anything? Because I'd really like for us all to start on the same page. When is it ok to criticize something that you have done? At some point, if I was in a position of power, I might expect to be held accountable for results, whether or not they were my fault in the first place.
So, let me propose a completely hypothetical situation, and let me know if you deserve any blame for it? Let's say that thousands of your people are suffering, and you have the power as well as the ultimate authority to do something about it. Let's also say that lack of planning on your part contributed to the extent of the people's suffering, and that your screwed up priorities also contributed to it. Now, how many of your people have to die in this situation before we are allowed to hold you accountable?
Or, maybe, are you just not responsible for anything that happens in this country? Because if that's the case, I'd rather you just be up front about it, and you could just spend the next three years on vacation, and we can take our chances with the rest of your incompetent staff running things.
If the "Keep Us Safe" Prezdent won't shoulder any responsibility for anything, then, fine, he can perch on Trent Lott's porch now -- and stay there permanently -- dreaming of brush clearin' and bike ridin' -- until the cows come...
...floating by...bloated...drifting in foul currents...back to the ranch...