Bill Maher column

My friend Shauna just sent this to me, and I thought y’all might like

New rule
You can’t be a Washington outsider if you’re already president.

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By Bill Maher

March 13, 2004 | Hearing President Bush these days constantly complain
about “the politicians” and John Kerry being part of a “Washington
mind-set,” and saying things like “I got news for the Washington crowd” is
like hearing Courtney Love bitch about junkies.

“Washington insider” is by definition a function of one’s proximity to the
president. That’s you, Mr. Bush. You’re ground zero. Ever wonder, sir, why
everyone stands and they play music when you enter a room? When you’re given
check-writing privileges by the Federal Reserve, you just might be a
Washington insider.

Lemme try to explain it to you in a different way: You’re not “Mr. Smith
goes to Washington” — you’re the Washington part. We need a Mr. Smith to
mess with you. You’re not on a mission you reluctantly accepted, like the
old farts in “Space Cowboys.” You campaigned for this job, and now you’re
doing it again.

And having been the Grand Poobah for three years, it’s a little late to be
selling yourself as some fish-out-of-water cowboy visiting the big city on
assignment. You’re not McCloud, you’re the grandson of a senator and the son
of a president and CIA director. For 15 of the last 22 years you’ve had a
key to the White House. The last thing that happened in Washington without
the Bushes getting a piece of it was Marion Barry’s crack habit. “The
Exorcist” happened in Georgetown, but Satan had to run it by Jim Baker

So knock off the regular-guy act — and by the way, that also goes for John
Forbes Kerry, the other white meat. Two Skull and Bones preppies, these guys
are, from Nantucket and Kennebunkport, who use the word “summer” as a verb
and probably had monogrammed beer bongs in college.

Please, John Kerry: Stop rolling up your sleeves at campaign rallies like
you’re about to man a register at Costco. You’re a Boston Brahmin who
married not one but two eccentric heiresses — you’re not Joe Sixpack,
you’re Claus von Bulow. I think your current wife is great, but hello, she
inherited the Heinz fortune! She’s the ketchup lady! — which explains why
sometimes he’s gotta smack her on the bottom to get her to come.

Look, fellas, we’ve got almost eight months till the election. That’s a long
time to hold in your gut. To pretend you’re something you’re not. Let’s just
be real and admit that finally, and unfortunately, true class warfare has
come to America.

Yale class of ’66 vs. Yale class of ’68.

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