The good news is Gonzales is gone. The bad news is Gonzales is gone. I’m going to miss Alberto. Call me a sentimental old fool, but I had hoped he would hang from Bush’s neck for the next 511 days, putrefying slowly in the nostrils of all mankind.
And in fact there is strong literary precedent for such just such a punishment. Let us turn, then, to Samuel Taylor Coleridge:
Sympathetic pundits cry in chorus:
“God save thee, Court-crowned president!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus! —
Why look’st thou so?” —’With my crossbow
I shot the Albertross…”
Relieved, the pundits opine thusly:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.
But the hot and copper sky returns apace, causing the Ship of State to stick, nor breath nor motion, as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. The pundit chorus turns like so many lapdogs on its now-disgraced emperor, who laments:
Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albertross
About my neck was hung.
Anon, remembering the fallen Rumsfeld, Rove and good old Brownie with sorrow, yet relieved that Cheney and so many other brave hearts still survive, the Impostor Prince sings this bittersweet tribute:
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
Until, after an interminable wait made bearable only by Jenna’s story-book wedding to a Karl Rove aide, Inaugural Day at long last dawns. The father of the bride sings:
…And from my neck so free
The Albertross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.