George Bush Has Fucked Me Again

So today Mr. Shakes and I went into Chicago to a friend’s for Oscar night. My 10-year winning streak is over. (Mr. Shakes is a cheat—he just made all his selections based on the Vegas odds, and edged me in categories like best short documentary. No fair. Pout pout.)

After we arrived in early afternoon, Mr. Shakes and our pal trucked off to a local comic store, leaving me to take a much-needed nap, after I drove myself nutty writing like a maniac this weekend. Fast forward to the end of the evening, when Mr. Shakes and I get into the car (which was left in a parking space directly outside our pal’s flat—George Costanza would have been bragging about this space for a decade), and immediately my nose, mouth, and eyes fill with this horrific odor/taste which can only be described as cat piss meets Brut.

“What the fuck is that?!” I exclaim, and Mr. Shakes starts laughing and gestures to the rearview mirror, from which is hanging a cut-out of George Bush’s head.

“It’s a car freshener,” he tells me. “I bought it at the comic shop for a laugh. It’s Presidential cologne.”

“Freshener my ass—that thing fucking reeks!”

We threw it out the window, but the damage had been done. Our car stank of a cheap salesman’s collar at the end of a hard day, and the taste of the thing had penetrated my very teeth—no amount of Pepsi and cigarettes could rid the insidious tang from my mouth.

So in the cold rain, we drove home with the windows open, cursing the very existence of George Bush, even though I’m fairly sure he didn’t give permission for his likeness to be associated with the most offensive aroma this side of Calcutta.

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