Monday, August 13, 2007

Turdblossom: the couch years

Because it can't be called "retirement" until you're at least 60, and he's got a ways to go.

I can only imagine how Mrs. Turdblossom is dreading August 31st, her last day of freedom. For years, Rove has worked non-stop at his diabolical plots against the people of America (sort of like Osama bin Laden) -- he probably only rarely sees his old lady. As of September 1st, he'll be Home For Good: that grave and gathering threat must loom like a death sentence.

Turdy's first week of unemployment will be The Week of Good Intentions: he'll throw on some sweats with the goal of using all that newfound unlimited free time to start working off some of his flab with a little jogging, and flop out on the couch for a rest afterwards. This'll work for a day or two, but pretty soon the run-to-rest ratio will be inverted and the daily exercise routine will consist of jogging from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen for cheetos, and then a sprint to the finish line: the couch.

At that point, it's only a matter of time before the sweats are replaced by a bathrobe -- why get dressed if you're not going anywhere -- the healthy water bottle by a beer, and the cheetos... well, they stay... and things go rapidly downhill from there. Soon it's as horrific a visage as you're ever likely to see: Rove, middle of the day, couch, TV, cheetos, beer, open bathrobe, maybe flogging the dog a little when he sees a John Edwards campaign commercial... you get the idea. Once in awhile he might call up his pal Wolfowitz, who's been lounging on his own couch for a couple of months, and they'll laugh about Scooter, the war in Iraq, and discuss good couch-lounging strategies. They may even occasionally get together on one or the other's couch to do that thang they do in unison.

How long until Mrs. Turdblossom bails, like so many tormented women before her?