I’ve just got to say to David Cox, one of the editorial cartoonists at the D-G: Dave, you’re living up to your name with that cartoon today, buddy.
I’ll describe: FDR sits in a lawnchair, smoking a cigarette in his trademark holder, Nearby, a woman holds a sign that says “Why did my son have to die at Normandy?”
Who Cox is alluding to, of course, is Cindy Sheehan, targeted by the Republican hate machine right now for having the audacity to camp outside the President’s swinging, golf-carts-only dude ranch in Asshole of the Universe, Texas, in hopes of trying to get an audience with Lord Voldedork. She wants to ask him why her son Casey was killed in Iraq.
First of all: Fox News’ bullshit aside, George W. Bush couldn’t hold FDR’s paralyzed JOCK. In the grand scheme of presidential ranking, so far W. falls somewhere between post-stroke Woodrow Wilson and that guy who died of pneumonia two weeks after taking office. FDR saved the world from HITLER after being crippled by fucking POLIO, okay? By my count, the only things of note that W. has done so far are to rush to assure the protection of Dickwater, Neb., during the worst national crisis since Pearl Harbor, piss on 225 years of U.S. military restraint and glory by launching America’s first preemptive war, and avoid being the only world leader ever killed by choking on a snack food.
Second: There is a difference between Normandy and Iraq, asshole. Normandy was a supreme and unavoidable sacrifice that helped free Europe from tyranny and break the back of Fascism. The Iraq War, meanwhile, was a neo-conservative circle jerk undertaken because Paul Wolfowitz, Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld didn’t get enough love from their mommies and because W. ditched school the day they showed that film in health class on not giving in to peer pressure.
Third, Coxmoker and all the rest of you Fox News-watching, lemming-brained mothers: No matter what warped, Swift-Boat-Vets-For-Truth, Bizarro-world version of patriotism and sacrifice you people subscribe to, Cindy Sheehan gave at the office. While chickenhawk ass-jockeys like you were scribbling funny pictures for the newspaper, she paid in blood. While W. was strapping on his stupid little helmet and going for another ride on the bitchin’ mountain bike Santa brought him for Christmas, Cindy Sheehan was making arrangements to have the child she carried inside her own body for nine months shipped home in a box. Maybe she’s a little nuts, but SO FUCKING WHAT? Personally, given what she saw reduced to ash on the altar of this country, I don’t care if she strips off buck naked, writes “Fuck America” on her forehead and burns a flag while taking a shit on the steps of Independence Hall — much less if she simply wants the satisfaction of having the president hold her hand and say: “Your son died while helping to make a difference, Mrs. Sheehan. He didn’t die in vain, Mrs. Sheehan. People are free today because of soldiers like him, Mrs. Sheehan.”
Don’t you get it, Coxtroke? Bill O’Reilly? Wall Street Fucking Journal? SHE PAID FOR THAT PRIVILEGE WITH THE LIFE OF HER CHILD. Instead, W. gets on his little bike and goes for another 70-mile ride, out there on the lone prairie where he can’t hear anything but the sound of the wind in his ears, like cheering.