http://www.whitehouse.org/news/2004/060604.asp
RONALD REAGAN DEAD AT 93: PRESIDENT'S STATEMENT ON THE DECADE-LATE DEATH
OF THAT DEPENDS®-WEARING HOLLYWOOD PHONY WHO EVERYONE LIKED WAY MORE
THAN THE BUSHES
Statement by the President
THE PRESIDENT: Today brings historic news that will for some reason
sadden certain Americans. Ronald Wilson Reagan, the 40th President of
the United States, has finally, at long last, succumbed to the terrible
disease with which the Good Lord, in all of His mysterious wisdom, chose
to slowly and methodically torture him for ten long years. That's right
my friends, having had a whole decade's worth of fun, Jesus has formally
decreed that it's "bedtime for Bonzo" – and today, the Gipper met the
Reaper.
(Dabs tear from eye.)
Yes, it is sad. We spent eighteen months planning my statesmanlike D-Day
photo-op in Omaha, France – only to have Nancy pull the plug on Ronnie
just in time to steal my thunder. Even in death, Ronald Reagan is
grabbing the spotlight from a Bush. But let us take some solace in the
knowledge that with His wonderful sense of irony, the Lord had President
Reagan succumb to the same thing that all those AIDS-stricken folks he
ignored throughout the 1980's did – pneumonia.
Yes, at the overly-ripe old age of 93, Ronald Reagan lived longer than
any other President in our nation's history, despite my family's
mutually supportive friendship with the Hinckleys. Often credited as
being the father of the modern conservative movement, "Dutch" casts a
long and impossible-to-escape shadow over every right-wing borrow-and-
spend trickle-downer like me who has come in his wake. With the passage
of time, he has become an icon. And even though people in the know can
tell you Reagan was really just an affably senile zombie propped up by a
Nixon-groomed cabal of brilliantly nefarious underlings, today I will do
nothing but sing his praises. Because what's that old expression?
Something about "people who live in grass houses shouldn't get stoned,"
right?
Anyway, I know Ronald Reagan had a lot of fans, and since this is an
election year, I want people to believe that I not only revered him, but
AM him – even though I'm not going to lollygag for seven decades to
begin to lose my ability to speak and think!
So let it be thought throughout the land that I always respected the
Gipper – even when he was my daddy's boss. Even every year from 1981-
1989, when Poppy would call Reagan a know-nothing California phony
between gulps of single-malt scotch, then hack our Thanksgiving turkey
to pieces with a cleaver while shrieking, "take THAT, you saggy-necked,
job-stealing old buzzard!" And also let people think that I always
respected President Reagan's pretty wife Nancy, too – even when mom
would scratch her eyes out of magazine photos and call her "that stuck-
up skin-and-bones rhymes-with-mucking-door." Sure, I may have joined Mom
and Doro in the Kennebunkport garage for the occasional spirited game of
"Club the Actress," but my heart was never really in it when I was
holding a Zippo to the hem or doing my mark-of-Zoro-thing with carpet
cutters on Mom's mannequin in the red Adolfo gown.
Indeed, I have always taken pains to appear to like the Reagans – if for
no other reason than I understand that my family name would have been a
steaming pile of political poo if it hadn't been for Dutch. Even after
he whooped my daddy's ass in the 1980 Republican primaries, Ronald
Reagan not only showed pity and let my daddy join him on the GOP ticket,
but then showed his confidence in Poppy's abilities by routinely letting
him be a stand-in at fancy funerals for famous dead folks. And as a
result, my father was able to keep our family's many bathrooms fully
stocked with only the finest soaps, lotions and towels from five-star
hotels all the world over. For that, I cannot help but be silently
grateful.
You know, I still remember the first time my father ever took me to
visit the Oval Office. The year was 1985. President Reagan was poring
over the newly-released "Garfield & Odie Adventures" treasury, and his
signature musk of Grecian Formula, Old Spice and sodden Depends® hung
heavy in the air. As my daddy approached the grand old desk to
diligently top off the President's Sanka, Reagan looked up. With that
famous twinkle in his eye, he beckoned me to his side, smiled that
charming crooked smile, then gestured to my father and asked, "Who's the
fairy serving coffee?" It was then, at that very moment, I knew that I
myself could and should aim much higher than just bankrupting a
succession of suspiciously financed Texas oil corporations. Yes, I could
aim for the very tip-tippity-top: the Presidency of the United States of
America!
And so today, with President Reagan's body still warm, I want all the
people who worshipped him to take note of the many non-superficial ways
in which I just coincidentally seem so mega-similar to him. From our
mutual fondness for dressing up as cowboys to hang out on our camera-
ready luxury "ranches," to our firm belief in 35-hour work weeks
punctuated with plenty of energy-restoring naps, President Reagan and I
are cut from the very same denim. Indeed, we both delegate all the
complicated stuff, can't be bothered with boring old facts, and scared
America into spending billions of dollars to fight an "Evil Empire." He
choose Russia, I went with Iraq – both based on solid intelligence that
they were already harmlessly crumbling from within. And that is why,
taken as a whole, I'd much rather have voters associate me with Uncle
Ronnie than with my own daddy, who is, I'm sorry to say, just a sissy
one-termer who nobody liked enough to re-elect.
In closing, as much as my fiercely competitive family may privately
resent and despise that spotlight-stealing B-actor for having hijacked
the throne of conservatism from its rightful Bush holders, we also know
better than anyone how best to exploit death and morbid sentimentality
for political gain. That is why I pledge today that the American public
can count on me to invoke Ronald Reagan's so-called achievements in
every speech from now until Election Day – typically within two to three
sentences of the first 9/11, "evildoer," or "lovers of FREEDOM®"
reference.
Ronald Reagan always told us that for America, the best was yet to come.
I know, I know – leave it to a fruity actor to find a life philosophy in
a Sinatra song, right? But let me tell you something – he was right.
Because after him came Bushes. And one day soon, after Poppy's term and
my two terms and Jebber's two terms and Marvin's two terms – and hell,
maybe even Noelle's terms – we'll rename that Reagan airport and
aircraft carrier after us, slap our family portrait on the zillion
dollar bill, and bulldoze that geriatric asswipe's legacy right off the
face of the public consciousness!
In closing, it is with a heavy heart that I recall that Ronnie was not a
born-again evangelical Christian like I say I am, but a divorced fair-
weather believer who tried, but never quite got the hang of using Jesus
for political gain. So as I told Nancy in my phone call to her from Air
Force One's mechanical bull, "It's always sad when the unsaved begin
their treacherous journey towards the gaping mouth of Hell's eternal
bar-b-que."
And so, let us bow our heads in recognition that Mr. Reagan has slipped
the girly bonds of Earth to kiss the face of Satan.
Thank you, and God Bless Bush America.
