Ah, May! Spring trumpets the renew'd earth, and sunlight abounds upon the glad land!

The new season swells the hearts of all of us at Chez W and brings a joy that could not be made more complete even if all of you stopped trying to destroy America.
 
The single cloud that mars our otherwise cerulean sky is our gathering realization that the majority of you are ingrates. It seems we can never do enough for you. Here everyone from Jeb bush to John Scalia has done his and her level best to make sure you got exactly the President you deserve. And what do you do? Almost as soon as he's installed you pry open his mouth and start counting his cavities.
 
We're not ordinarily given to public paranoia--for one thing it might tell the bastards their plans against us are working--but there are in recent events compelling signs indicative of a far-reaching conspiracy directed against the President. As the infamous Daily Show recently noted, even the facts seem to have an anti-Bush agenda.
 
Take for example--please--9/11. The turncoat Richard Clarke maintains that the August 6th memo should have spurred the President to action that might or might not have averted the attack ("Wishy-Washy Rick" we used to call him), a claim so silly it makes us laugh, ha ha!
 
The message, cryptically entitled "Bin Ladin Determined To Strike in U.S.," was a maddeningly imprecise collection of historical data, reports of U.S-based Al Quaeda operatives intending to hijack airplanes and blow up big buildings in New York, and a postcard addressed to the President, picturing the World Trade Towers with an encircled window beside the inscription "Wish you were here!"
 
The President is not a fool--well, he's not! Had the memo contained the addresses and zip codes of the targeted structures, had there been specific dates and times of the planned attacks, and the memo writer provided the terrorists' identities and mothers' maiden names, the President would immediately have launched counter-measures, because he doesn't hold with that sort of thing. Let us underscore that: if you and your family and your dog were obliterated by an act of terrorism, the President would be very, very upset.
 
And he feels the same about those controversial Weapons of Mass Disappearance--which, we swear to God, are still there somewhere. Of late the Pentagon has been seized by the notion that the elusive infernal engines are hiding in plain sight, perhaps disguised as minarets--tending to explain why so many mosques have been blown up lately. But even this insight has failed to produce results.
 
The fact is the President has never had actionable intelligence.
 
Nor has he had good help. The President is surrounded by incompetence like a hole in a bagel.
A year ago, at great risk to himself and the United States Navy, the President bounced onto the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln in a heavily-insured S-3B Viking, with the intent of making an important address to the American public and the much relieved crew.
 
He'd originally intended to announce that after intensive study and consultation he'd concluded that the war in Iraq was a meaningless and un-winnable exercise in lethal futility, and that he would terminate the entire effort forthwith. But as he mounted the podium he was horrified to see a banner that read "Mission Accomplished!" rather than, as he'd intended, "Mission abolished!"
 
This is the only possible explanation for our involvement there.
 
Which inevitably begs the question, how long are we to remain? As the President has almost explained countless times, we will be in Iraq only as long as necessary (damn it), and not one minute longer! But this clarity is wasted like scattered pearls before you: "Get out! Get out now!" you whine, just as if we were listening. Completely overlooked is the fact of that unhappy nation's nightmarish past. Disregarded are the days when the average Iraqi lacked food and basic amenities, when hundreds were daily killed for no discernible reason. When innocent citizens were secretly tortured for imaginary offenses. You want to go back to those days? Huh?
Well excuse us, we don't thinnnnk so! For God's sake, America, come to your senses!
 
And while doing so, try to get your social priorities in order. We swear we don't know what's happening in this country anymore. It seems that Mr. and Mrs. America (a God-sanctioned union--none of that "Partner" crap here) have been pushed aside by the strident voice of unnatural evolution (a bit of an oxymoron, if you ask us). In scarcely three weeks we will witness the dissolution of the American family, as thousands of so-called "same sex marriages" are performed in--wouldn't you know it--Massachusetts. Once that kind of thing catches on, where is the incentive for a Britney Spears to remarry?
 
And, speaking of Nubile Young things, we were recently saddened beyond the telling by the March for Women's Lives. On a lark we borrowed a black helicopter from friends at Bechtel, and set about surveying the expected paltry crowd, using a digital camera, a very fast laptop, and two Captain Marvel walkie-talkies. With these sophisticated devices in hand, we determined that the marchers stretched from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial, across the width of the Mall, and up and down Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia (the states, we mean, not the avenues) and that their numbers seemed to swell by the minute--a crowd, we calculated, that might well have run to more than 500 people.
 
Throughout the weeks leading up to the march nearly all electronic and print media had assured us that young women had turned away from the pro-choice movement. This cheerful analysis came up short as we realized that nearly half of the marchers seemed to be teen and twenty-something females. The surging mass was replete with young women marching with resolute joy down the wide avenues, clad in tee shirts of deep purple, sky blue and shocking pinko--their perky slogans bouncing before them.
 
Along the way we spied an opposing placard branding them "Rebellious Jezebels," which seemed apt, if a bit mild--we might have chosen Lilith or Medea--in either case it seemed the signs and portents all pointed to the imminent approach of the apocalypse.
 
Well might you ask: whither America? Where did we go amiss? What of family values and womanly virtue? We mean, what the heck is happening here?
 
Some days we feel deserted by reality--as though we are helpless passengers on a train where the next stop is Willoughby. With dawning horror we hear the conductor announce: "room for one more, honey."
 
We tell you, It's almost enough to make you lose faith in America.