"H.R.H. George IV" originally appeared here. 

for the week ending 3/24/07:

[W]e will not go along with a partisan fishing expedition aimed at honorable public servants. . . .

Listen, first of all, these U.S. attorneys serve at the pleasure of the President. I named them all. . . . They serve at our pleasure. . . . And I repeat, we would like people to hear the truth.

— G.W. Bush, 3/20/07

What happens when the grandiose fantasies of a megalomaniacal, emotionally palsied fraud finally come crashing through the plate glass window of reality? Well, for one thing, that "good ol' boy you'd wanna have a beer with" facade drops faster than a schoolgirl's knickers at a Justin Timberlake concert. After watching the clips of Bush's performances last week, I was reminded of a line from Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "Ooh, a king?  Well, I didn't vote for you!"

What we saw last week was the real Bush: imperious, contemptuous, rigid with thin-lipped anger, one straightjacket lace shy of a full-blown meltdown on national television after Congress personally affronted him (not once, but TWICE!) by announcing that they were no longer playing by his arbitrary, self-serving rules. The AUDACITY! For the first time in six years, Bush ran up against a Congress no longer manhandled by his unctuous toadies and not-so-petty criminals, but instead by men and women determined to rescucitate the legislative and judicial processes. The nerve of Pat Leahy, John Conyers, and Linda Sanchez, demanding the heads of his Rasputin and Schlegelberger!  (Sorry, Harriet, you needed more mascara to even qualify as Tammy Faye Bakker).

To put it mildly, Bush handled the confrontation with the grace of a coddled, furious two year-old who's just learned that the word "no" works in two directions. The "generous" compromise offered by the White House sounds like it came directly from the mind of a child in thrall to a tantrum, with its "heads I win, tails you lose" language. But I have to keep reminding myself that this is an administration that does all that it can to keep Bush the Lesser insulated from the the outside world, like overprotective but criminally lazy parents.

Because TBogg always says it better than I could ever hope to:

As bad a president as George W. Bush has been (and lets face it, not only is he the worst ever, he's actively lobbying to be considered worse than at least the next five, possibly six presidents…) he is a worse person and it shows whenever he is under pressure; he melts down into a greasy little puddle of glares and smirks and incipient panic. But tonight was special. Tonights performance lays to rest any notion other than the fact that he's not a very bright man who has nothing but contempt for a world that refuses to dumb down for him.

—

With weeks as juicy as this one was, it was extreeeemely difficult to pare down the list of links, because schadenfreude makes for some funny shite.  So I'm breaking this pile o' pith into subsections.

Part I: Political Theater? 

Damn you, Adam Felber!  Do you know how hard it is to get toasted english muffin crumbs out of this keyboard?  Fanatical Apathy has a transcript of Karl Rove's testimony before the House Judiciary Committee. 

D r i f t g l a s s has fond recollections of some other instances of "political theater"…

Kerry at 100 Monkeys Typing wishes George "The 'W' Stands for 'Waaaaaah!'" Bush a happy anniversary.

The wickedly funny Athenae at First Draft raises a legitimate point:  Who the fuck is responsible for handing out the White House email accounts?

Poor, deluded James Inhofe. According to Sir Oolius at She Flies With Her Own Wings, even after Inhofe made an utter fool of himself in front of the entire committee and audience and got publicly spanked by Barbara Boxer, he still thinks he ran circles 'round Gore logically (to continue with the Python references). 

Hissy fits?  You want hissy fits?  The Good General J.C. Christian knows from hissy fits. 

Hey, If I Ran The Zoo's Tom Hilton — what are you trying to say?

Part II: In Which Our Heroes Scratch Their Heads and Say, "Quoi?":  

World O' Crap's Scott feels left out because he wasn't invited to the DOS party celebrating the Gathering of Smeagols last week. And so he taunts them…

Poor Doughbob Loadpants has writer's block and can't quite get that book, Liberal Fascism, done.  d at Lawyers, Guns, and Money has boundless amounts of sympathy for him.  No, seriously .  . . *snicker*  Hammer of the Blogs' Heywood J. takes the opportunity to poke Jonah with a well-oiled stick. And James Wolcott piles on.  (I should note that every single one of Wolcott's posts last week is a gem…)

Speaking of door stops, I suspect Atlas Jugg . . . I mean, Pammycakes will get an advance copy of John Bolton's new book, titled Surrender Is Not an Option, according to Steve over at No More Mister Nice Blog. BTW, I have it on good authority that Ms. Juggs will make a reappearance in the not-too-distant future.

GOP family values – they're not just for breakfast anymore! C'mon, everybody, sing along with Attaturk at Rising Hegemon.  (No kidding; apparently, Mitch Miller's my fourth cousin.)

Part III, in Which Today's Worldly Weirdness is Brought to You by the Letter "N" and the Number "5": 

Whiskey Fire's man about town and poet in residence, Thers, reminds me why I'm glad I don't have kids. Then again, what with Abu Gonzales "looking out for the children," I'm afraid for everyone else's.

Salvage at Hairy Fish Nuts, who still won't forgive me for misidentifying the rank of the military trout dude from "Return of the Jedi", notes that once again, Jesus has been found, this time in a rather . . . ironic . . . place. 

Harry Hutton, resident non sequitur at Chase Me Ladies, I'm in the Cavalry, provides your weekly moment of WTF?

And now, the video portion of today's entertainment:

I'd like to thank NTodd over at Dohiyi Mir for GIVING ME RECURRING NIGHTMARES FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!

On the other hand, StudioDave at Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Nachos made me giggle for, like, the entire day with this one. I see that it's been around for a while; that's what I get for not watching television.