Beneath the public veneer of the grandmother in pearls – the humble, ever-smiling visage of a cautious, sweet-tempered lady of dignity and grace – exists a woman so vile, so nasty, and so repugnant to innocence and virtue that no language yet exists to contain her twisted, savage nature. Combining the sex appeal of Gertrude Stein after a five-mile jog, the maternal instinct of Magda Goebbels, and the weight and heft of the Steel Curtain member of your choosing, she has also achieved the unique distinction of the worst human being currently breathing free air. As the balls behind the throne of the inexplicable Bush dynasty, she rules with an un-calloused, but defiantly masculine fist so unassailable that no one has dared challenge her authority. Despite never having worked a day in her life, she tirelessly pushes each and every Bush male through the “Babs Gauntlet”, whereby slightly effete, unfocused, pampered blue bloods are transformed into hardened, cock-swinging evangelists of power and greed. Trading in the yacht, the polo pony, and the tennis whites, these newly refurbished Bush men – having tasted, drank, and bathed in Barbara’s unholy, yet transformative stank – are ready to take their place at the table of destiny; that much-deserved, divinely-ordained seat at the right hand of wealth and privilege. No one could do it but old Babs; the matriarch, yes, but also the most muscular, carnivorous demon ever to claim a set of ovaries.

At bottom, the former First Lady and current Cunt for All Seasons is a heartless crone with so little understanding of race, poverty, and simple effort that she feels perfectly at ease judging the exploits of folks who are, in her demented world, usually happy as clams to be scrubbing her boat or emptying her trash. At this very moment – and it has always been thus –
Babs has absolutely no use for anyone of color who is not shuffling before her, eyes down and utterly subservient. In her world, curiously absent any real conflict not bourne of mental illness, drug addiction, and rampant alcohol abuse, any job that might risk the exposure to a bead of sweat about the brow not golf or sailing related, is to be thrown, much as one would a crumb, to anyone not fortunate enough to inherit vast sums of money. While Babs is ever cautious – never resorting to racial epithets, at least in public – her tone, while genteel and Connecticut snob, screams “nigger” and “fucking Jew” with every slash and snort of her forked tongue. As she was too immersed in sandblasting away the last vestiges of her never-too-prominent femininity to notice a Civil Rights movement or the push of feminism, she could believe, even as late as 2005, that poor blacks simply sprouted from the Louisiana soil; born into a crushing poverty that surely their kind always expected and desired. It’s not so much the case that she hates non-whites; it’s simply that she never gives them a moment’s thought unless they happen to drop a liquor bottle on the way out to the dumpster. They simply do not exist as human beings; they are as invisible to her as ethics, morality, and a sense of social responsibility.

Take the latest outrage against all sense of decency. Her contribution to hurricane relief, outside of donning the robe of Marie Antoinette and beating back the rabble who dared charge the gated communities of Houston’s well-to-do, was to send a tax deductible donation not to the Red Cross, or any number of viable charities that might actually impact the lives of the
forgotten, but rather her criminal son’s educational software company, which itself is little more than a rehabilitation effort after his billion-dollar bilking of the American taxpayer. It should surprise no one that not a single Bush gives a fuck about education that cannot be stripped of its nobility, privatized, and sold anew, and the Big Momma is no exception. Yes, the only way that this egomaniacal man-eater can express an ounce of contrived generosity is to further enrich the fruit of her steely, heinously odorous
loins. If she must part with a few coins no doubt secured by her husband’s CIA exploits involving murdering Latin American leaders or enslaving Africans for the diamonds that sit atop her withered digits, it must include strict orders that not a cent make its way into the pockets of darkies, coons, spearchuckers, or any other pet name finding all-too-common usage on
the Bush compound. For Barbara, blacks are poor because they waste every cent they get on drugs and the numbers racket, and since they don’t want to work, she’s not about to subsidize sloth. It is but the latest outrage in a life best described as fundamentally opposed to the last shred of humanity left to us. In fact, she’s declared war on that final piece, reserving the remaining years left to her as reminders of why she has the much-deserved reputation as the meanest woman ever to walk upright.

So what’s to be done with this pampered ogre; the most suitable example yet for resurrecting the Reign of Terror? It would be easy to prescribe physical pain, of course, such as being stripped naked by a team of wide-eyed, doped-up lunatics, armed only with razor wire and sacks of jagged rocks, dipped in butter, flour, and a light dusting of cinnamon, only to be fed
feet first into a oven set at no less than 1500 degrees. It would be even easier to suggest that after an experienced surgeon sliced open her back fat with a box cutter, covered her head to toe in excrement and the tenderized kidneys of forcibly removed infants no older than 24 weeks, and used a bloody hammer to pound her once immutable bones to ash and cinder, she would be set aflame, raped repeatedly by tire irons, and set adrift in the Gulf of Mexico, clad only in a pox-ridden buckskin tube top decorated with the skin of her grandchildren. And hell, I could also imagine her being left spread eagle on a cold railroad track while rabid dogs reduced her nether regions to the gnarled approximation of ground chuck. After being given a moment to reflect on the unavoidable fact that yes, she was in fact going to die alone, afraid, and in excruciating agony, two frenzied youths would creep from behind and use their shovels to break the bitch’s back, dig out her spine, and carve out the “beautiful mind” that couldn’t bear to contemplate the murderous reign undertaken by her semi-retarded son.

No, let’s make it far worse for the elder Bush, for a violent, unthinkable death would be letting her escape with only a moment’s humiliation. I’d rather see her shine shoes, work a register at Church’s Chicken, or scrub the toilets at Penn Station. Better yet, force the old cunt into a life of prostitution, where every second she isn’t being beaten senseless by a brass-knuckle sporting pimp, she would be taking gallons of jizz onto her back, sagging tits, white hair, and vein-laden, milky white thighs. Make her
take it up the ass while seeing cold steel jammed in her face, or hear the most appalling language possible while licking the fuzz and blue collar sweat from the sacks of the working man. Let her try to fuck up a john, insist on using a condom, and feel the rush of disease enter her gushing sphincter as a righteous boot kicks out what remains of her now yellowing, rotten teeth. Hear the cries for redemption, for forgiveness, for salvation, as a wrong turn into an alley becomes a gang-rape of such unprecedented brutality that for years to come, veteran streetwalkers and novice hos will whisper in hushed
tones about the time “that Babs done got fucked the fuck up fo’ sure.” She may even be found one warm July evening, faded skirt hiked over her head, a crumpled twenty stuffed into one of the many folds of her stomach, identifiable only by a sliver of white hair; once the proud mane of a woman of means, now tragically forgotten, and left in a disregarded heap,
like the children of Big Easy.