An image persists. America is in one of those jerking jalopies in an old silent movie with speeded-up film, heading for a cliff.
In the driver’s seat, George Bush is smiling confidently, waving at passersby. Next to him, hair on end, Congress is frantically trying to make him stop, gesticulating wildly, trying to grab the steering wheel and yank his leg off the gas pedal.
The approach to the cliff seems endless, but it isn’t. We’re all in the back seat, holding our breath, but the vehicle keeps bouncing toward the edge.
Won’t somebody stop the projector and turn up the lights? Nobody is laughing.
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