Go east, young comrade, go east
Dmitry Medvedev, the new Russian president (and Vladimir Putin’s handpicked successor), has taken his first official trip, and just two weeks being sworn in on May 7. No, he didn’t land back in the USSR. Medvedev, showing the world who really matters, headed east and went to Beijing for a little face time with Chinese Big Boss, Hu Jintao.
You don’t need to be Condoleezza Rice, the “expert” in Soviet affairs, to see Putin’s hand in all this. Putin, who’s made himself prime minister (and leader for life, the way he’s managing things), has once again spit in ol’ Dubya’s eye, proving just how irrelevant our own Fearless Non-Golfing Leader is, and how, thanks to eight years of dumb & dumber policy, global power is shifting east.
But the not-soon-enough-ex-tenant of the White House is nothing if not stubborn and indifferent to reality, so he’s yet to accept his lack of status in the world. Now he sits by the phone and waits for his calls to be returned …
(Dubya paces in the Oval Office, a putter over his shoulder. The phone rings. He dives on it.)
DUBYA: Dmitry? … Oh, it’s you, Dick … no, I didn’t mean it like that … no, I’m not sulking over him goin’ to China … yes, I told him I’d make Daddy’s tacos … I dunno, maybe he likes that duck they make over there … look, I gotta get off the line in case he calls … we do? What is that, like call waitin’? … I gotta go anyway, in case he calls.
(Dubya hang ups and walks over to a putting green in Oval Office. He starts to line up a putt, then stops.)
DUBYA: No, I can’t break my word to the American people. Man, this war is killin’ my short game. (The phone rings.) Dmitry? … Oh, hey Condi … no, I’m not sulking over him goin’ to China … yes, I told him about Daddy’s tacos … look, Condi, I’m waitin’ on a call, I gotta get off the line … we do? So I’ll hear a beep or somethin’? … I dunno … yeah, tuna sounds good, but I don’t want any of those damn green onions in it … OK, I gotta go, he might be callin’.
(Dubya goes to his golf bag in the corner of the office. He puts the putter in and takes out a wedge.)
DUBYA: But I could chip for victory. What if we got one Islamo-fascist for every chip I sink? Chippin’ is much harder than puttin’, so it would show the American people I was willin’ to do somethin’ hard to win this war. (The phone rings.) Dmitry? … Oh, hey, Laura … I’m not sulkin’ … what? … I don’t care, just not tacos again … huh? On the rug and everywhere? … Oh, yeah, right. I stepped in it when I was walkin’ Barney … why would I take my shoes off and leave ‘em outside? … All right, all right, I’m sure someone will clean it up … look, honey, I gotta go, Dmitry might be callin’ … we do? … Well, how am I gonna talk to Dmitry if someone else is on the line telling Dmitry’s on the line? That just doesn’t make any sense. I gotta go, he might be callin.’
(Dubya crosses back to corner and slams his wedge into his bag. He then mopes to his desk and sits in the chair that has always been much too big for him. He puts his chin on the desk, and stares at the phone.)
DUBYA: Com’on, baby, call … call … call …
W.R. Marshall is a regular contributor to The Augusta Free Press.