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November 08, 2010

The Bush memoirs as ghostwritten by PG Wodehouse

1st Two Excerpts From:

My Struggle

The Memoirs of George Wilbeforce Bush

43rd President of The United States

edited by 

Joseph Dunn

with apologies to


The President On Authorship

    Pages 1 - 2

“Rove,’ I said, “may I speak frankly?  Shoot straight with you as it were.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“What I have to say may hurt you.”

“Not at all, sir”

“Well, then - “

No - wait.  Hold your horses a minute.  I’ve ridden off the trail.

    Now I don’t know if this has happened to you, maybe it has, maybe it hasn’t, but the hiccup I always come up against when I’m trying to tell a story is this danged difficult problem of where to start it.  It’s a thing a two-term President can’t afford to pull a boner on, because one false step and you’re finished.  Saddam Hussein learned that the hard way.  And when you’re talking about famous fellows in the public eye and all, your work’s cut out for you.  I mean, just how much explanation to throw in at the outset is something you’ve got to consider from every which way but Sunday.  In the present case, if I take for granted that my readers know all about old Turdblossom and just charge ahead, then those folks who weren’t paying the closest attention the past ten years or so, God bless them, are likely to get lost.  Whereas, if I type out ten pages of the man’s life and times, those folks who were reading the papers and watching the news and typing in the google all that time will start reaching for their shoes and shouting, “Next!”

    So, if you fool about too much at the start, trying to establish ambiance and all that other flapdoodle, you fail to rivet and your readers just stay away from the polls.

      Burst out of the gate, on the other hand, like a rampant lion, and your public is at a loss.  They just scratch their heads for ten minutes waiting for someone to tell them what to do.  And in opening my story of the complex case of Rummy Rumsfeld, Angela Merkel, Rove, my Mother Barbara, young Gonzo Gonzalez, and the miniature pinscher Bruno, with the above spot of dialogue, I see that I have pulled the second of these two boners.

    I’m going to have to backs things up a bit.  And taking it for all and all, and weighing this against that, I suppose the affair may be said to have had its inception, if inception is the word I want, with that visit of mine to Germany.  If I hadn’t gone to Germany, I wouldn’t have met the Merkel or bought that white mess jacket, and Rummy wouldn’t have met his Doberman, and Mother wouldn’t have played the horses.

    Yes, most decidedly, Germany was the inception.  If that’s the word.  Right ho then.  Let me marshall my facts.  Which would be a heck of a lot easier if everyone you called to verify your memories on certain points or on certain sensitive matters had more to say than, “I can’t recall,” or, “sorry, drawing a blank there.”  Notes should be kept people.  Careful notes. Carefully kept...


The President goes on at some length to describe the “perils and pitfulls” [sic] of authorship. 

The President On Friendship

Pages 18 - 21

Now touching on all these stories about my man Rove.  A lot of folks think I’m way too dependent on him.  Some people, including my mother, have gone so far as to call him my brain.  Well, all I’ll say to that is, why not?  The man’s a genius.    From the chins up Rove stands alone.  I’m a bit short on the grey matter myself; the old bean would appear to have been constructed more for ornament than for use, but give me a few days to rehearse a thing with Rove and I’m game to discuss anything with anyone.

Many mornings during my years in the White House, as I sat in bed watching him flit about the room laying out my clothes for the day, I wondered what the heck I’d do if the fellow ever left me. It's not so bad now I'm retired, but in the White House the anxiety was horrible. There used to be all sorts of attempts by all sorts of people to steal him away from me. Prince Al Waleed bin Talal to my certain knowledge offered him quadruple what I was giving him.  That’s a slam dunk.   And Old Barnacle Ben Netanyahu, who's got an aide who had been known to press his yarmulkes sideways so that they stood up like fortune cookies, used to look at him with a kind of glittering, hungry eye which disturbed me greatly. Pirates!

The thing, you see, is that Rove is so danged competent. You can spot it the second you see him and from a mile off.  Like on that day when he first came to me.  This was way back in November of 73.  It was the morning on which I had to trudge down to my daddy’s office at the RNC to pick up the keys to the Gremlin that mama had confiscated the night before.  It’s sort of a long story, but the gist of it being that I’d run into some old Deke brothers from my college days and what with the bonds of brotherhood still warmly pulsing in my heart and all, I had had them over to the rumpus room for a nightcap or two.  And it was at some point after I had been dancing the alligator but before Chip got the cigarette burns and knocked over Grandma’s urn that said confiscation took place.  

We were just passing the hat around for another Rheingold run when, like some horrible specter out of science-fiction, the looming shadow of my mother materialized in the doorway as if the architect had known they’d be wearing doorways tight around the hips that year.  Her face was bright red, and what with that shock of white hair and the room spinning steadily from the Southeast she looked like an angry barber’s pole come to collect a debt.

The aged relative has a distinct personality, you see, and finds no difficulty, when displeased, in reducing the object of her displeasure to a quivering mass of jelly within seconds. I suppose there are fellows in the world, men of blood and iron and all that sort of thing, who she couldn't intimidate; but if you're a fellow like me, fond of a quiet life, you simply curl into a ball when you see her coming, and hope for the best.

“Hello Mama,” I began hopefully, “

“Goodbye everyone,” she replied.  I spotted her mistake right away.

“Don’t you mean hello, mama?” 

“No.  I mean goodbye you piefaced little excrescence.

“Hush mama, these are all friends of mine.”

“What did you say?”

I said, “hush.”

“Say it again and I’ll bean you with a rolling pin.  We put up with enough out of you already you half-witted pestilence without being hushed at.”

“I see that.”

“Any hushing that’s required I’ll see to myself.

“Of course.”

“Well, if that’s agreed on, then, out!  The lot of you!”

And with that the night’s festivities were, with a general trampling of feet and overturning of furniture, brought to a hasty end - as if a bootlegger had just burst in yelling, “raid!”

So as I walked through the doors of Republican National Headquarters that morning, I don’t mind confessing that the heart was singularly heavy.  We Bushes are men of iron, but beneath my intrepid exterior at that moment there lurked a nameless dread.  There were furrows in the old brow, and I had a kind of foreboding feeling.  So you can imagine my relief when, instead of seeing my mother emerge from the elevator, there emerged instead a short, stout pudgy looking fellow who seemed to beam intelligence and good will, as if he knew what it was to see the sunrise with the boys.

“I was sent by your mother, Sir,” he said, “I was given to understand that you required the keys to the Gremlin......."