It’s not like he’s all that conservative, really. (He spends money like a democrat, and he added another major entitlement program.)
And it’s not like he’s done such a great job managing the war. (He’s invaded only two lousy Islamic countries and he has not even interned the antiwar radicals.)
But he does have one great quality: He is absolutely fabulous at upsetting and irritating the left. When the typical moonbat starts talking about George W. Bush, he turns positively purple with rage, and emits a fine spray of spit as the pace of his hysterical rant accelerates.
Mark Morford demonstrates the correct technique in today’s SF Chronicle:
It is like some sort of virus. It is like some sort of weird and painful rash on your face that makes you embarrassed to walk out the door and so you sit there day after day, waiting for it to go away, slathering on ointment and Bactine and scotch. And yet still it lingers.
Some days the pain is so searing and hot you want to cut off your own head with a nail file. Other days it is numb and pain-free and seemingly OK, to the point where you think it might finally be all gone and you allow yourself a hint of a whisper of a positive feeling, right up until you look in the mirror, and scream.
George W. Bush is just like that.
Everyone I know has had enough. Everyone I know is just about done. There is this threshold of happy deadened disgust, this point where the body simply resigns itself to the pain, a point where the disease, the poison has seeped so deeply into the bones that you just have to laugh and shrug it all off and go for a drink. Or 10.
You do have to love Bush.