The Iraq war is entirely my doing.

In 1974 I learned how to drive. From that day forward I have squandered the futures of all peoples on the planet. I pissed away their inheritance. Screw ‘em.

I’d like to thank all the US presidents since the Titusville, Pennsylvania oil wells of 1859 for making plans to keep me happy right up till the bitter end.

I’m still paying a mere 15 cents per cup of gasoline, in spite of declining production in three-quarters of oil producing nations; in spite of the gurgling sounds issuing from the tired, giant fields of the U. S. of A.; in spite of the mounting debt of war.

Somebody must be doing something right.

I went from stealing my dad’s car keys in 1977 and picking up my friends with his huge station wagon and driving, literally, from gas station to gas station because we had nothing else to do; to living in a magnificent vinyl-and-chipboard “home” with two SUVs, one for each spouse–and my son has his own car. No need to steal dad’s keys anymore. God bless America.

George Bush is one forward-looking dude. The deep reserves of petroleum that Jehovah planted for God-fearing American freewheelers are no longer over here but over there. It was a brilliant advertising campaign that promised “yellowcake,” “aluminum tubes,” and Saddam bin Laden, but that managed to deliver in excess of a hundred thousand barrels of sweet light crude per flag-draped coffin we put up as investment. A real killing, that.

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