The coward-bush, at the heart of his being, and underneath all his dressings and speechifications, is but a torture-room operator of the remote-control kind. The deadly dunce is fury spoiled; impotence defined. Every damned thing this pinche cabrón touches dies on the vine, and still the mincing, miming, murderous man doesn't get to hold destruction close, as he must so desire. For it is not a gradual malaise weakening the core of any enterprise he engages that thrills him. It is not a slow failing that gets him off, even if that is what trails his ever-eager fingers as he handles everything from baseball teams to our nation's diplomatic disasters. It is surges, and shocking and awesome bombings, and electrifications, and fleshy firecracker exclamations that tickle this petty goat's belly.

In 1998, Bush came under enormous political pressure to commute the death sentence of Karla Faye Tucker, a convicted murderer who had a well-publicized conversion to Christianity. But despite pleas from conservative evangelist Pat Robertson, Pope John Paul II and many others, Bush refused to save her life, and Tucker became the first woman executed in Texas since the Civil War.

—Newsweek online

We don't even need a visual to remember his pursed lips, right? Tucker Carlson made sure we got that little glimpse of the Compassionate Codpiece.

Surging troops to certain death, stacking up executions as Governor like they were rare baseball-cards, oh yeah spearheading a ginormous warcrime that has swallowed hundreds of thousands of lives...and I keep coming back to the simple image: tickled pink at the idea of a condemned human wanting to live, at the idea of a changed life, at the ideas of forgiveness and redemption. The tiny, tinpot tyrant mocking the deathrow pleas of the repentent soul. Happily unaffected by what he has wrought over this world.

I wish upon this frustrated freak his greatest unspoken wish. I want to see this serial killer get his hands dirty. I want to see the Bushmaniac get in a pit with someone, that's what I want. I want to see the sneering scion take some action, live out his demon shit in the real, in the flesh. To hell with these rich murderers who spout glorious holier-than-thou garbage, but get to use proxy arms to do their dirt. It's not working for him, as we can see. The sublimation prevents the needed traction. That's why bush needs more and more and more death. He can't stand the mittens. He can't feel flesh under his nails. Someone give the perv a fresh carcass or something. Someone shut him up and shut him down already. This idiot beast gussied up in American bunting. This quirking, jerking, pineknotty marble-less marionette that sports a rictus and oozes bile and blood all over the world stage.