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THE CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN
By Howard Kurtz
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, July 11, 2002; Page C01
It is
approaching two years since the flawlessly clothed George W. Bush won his
historic landslide victory over that slovenly psychotic Al Gore. Today, as it
was during the campaign, the immortal Mr. Bush’s impeccable wardrobe serves as
a metaphor for his stunning accomplishments and incomparable leadership ability.
The inspirational greatness of our wonderfully attired president is clear to
see. Using the newsroom of the Post as an anecdotal case in point, Mr. Bush’s
awesome performance has inspired such devotion here that our zest for life
is dampened each time even the slightest criticism is directed against him. When
Post executive editor Leonard Downie heard that the Senate Democrats had
almost disagreed with President Bush a few weeks ago, Len sobbed uncontrollably
until he had to be forcibly restrained and heavily medicated (again).
The task of protecting our nation’s Savior can take its emotional toll.
Those of you who read Ten Days In September
know that the strain of courageously justifying everything POTUS does has
caused Bobby Woodward to begin drinking heavily again. When the Enron news
seemed at first to threaten the president’s political well being, the
venerable Dave Broder became so apoplectic that he almost appeared to be alive.
After Mr. Bush dropped a few points in the polls last month, my good
friend Ceci Connelly was more despondent than at any time I can remember since
her sex change operation.
That Mr. Bush can create such a sense of protectiveness on the part of hard-boiled
corporate journalists speaks to the spectacular wonder of the man. In the wake
of the terrorism of last September, the president has emerged by acclamation as
the greatest leader in the history of the world. His image of strength and
tactical brilliance has been greatly enhanced by his choice of garments, which
can only be described as masculine… yet alluring.
Unlike the hideously misshapen Mr. Gore, our president begins with the
advantage of being a natural born clotheshorse. His trim, brawny physique
features broad shoulders that taper down in a v-shape to a delightfully narrow
waist. His sturdy legs provide support to a buttocks that are, to coin a phrase,
to-die for. It is to this remarkable human canvas that the artist applies a mélange
of stunning suits, gorgeous ties, seductive belts, and gleaming footwear. In
combination, each thrilling outfit seems to scream, “Yes, Howard – you can
be my love slave!”
Let us begin, figuratively and literally, at the great man’s feet. During
normal business hours (which, contrary to the myth perpetrated by the lefties in
the media are long and grueling, let me assure you), Mr. Bush favors patent
leather shoes that are highly buffed, not altogether unlike like the hunk who
wears them. But it is in his leisure time that the president’s coquettish side
emerges. Whether manfully adorned in snakeskin boots or skipping merrily in
tasseled loafers, those tootsies are like the sirens beckoning the agonized
Odysseus to sally forth.
Mr. Bush generally wears Brooks Brothers suits, the same label that would
have been worn by Jesus Christ and Abraham Lincoln, had Brooks Brothers been in
business back then. He favors pinstripes and herringbone, in shades ranging from
baby blue (like those hypnotic eyes!) to, excuse the expression, earth tones.
However, unlike another tan-wearing public figure, Mr. Bush sports the hue with
such dynamism and sensuality that he never feels the need to embellish the truth
or childishly call attention to himself by growing a “beard”.
It is as though the suits are more than mere cloth; to many of us who deeply
love both America and its charismatic leader, this raiment is nothing less than
the symbol of capitalist purity in a wayward world that is racked with socialist
moral rot. When wearing a vest to complete the elegant three-piece ensemble, the
swashbuckling president is the living embodiment of the ancient Sumerian Triad
Of Wisdom: Contemplation, Decision, and Action.
Which leads us to his ties. Unlike the all-too-pastel neckwear of his
all-too-adulterous predecessor, Mr. Bush sagely chooses colors that stir the
soul and instill deep devotion. As with Ronald Reagan, he eschews shades that
imply political correctness, such as black, dark brown, or yellow. And, of
course, he would never dream of wearing purple, which is the politically charged
color of the pro-sodomy movement. The president instead demonstrates his
diversity of intellect and range of knowledge by selecting tasteful tie colors
that run the gamut from dorian gray to soylent green to elijah blue and – on
formal occasions – slappy white.
When it comes to accessories, this president is truly the King. His sparkling
cuff links, gold Rolex, and diamond tie clasp all convey the affluence and
prestige of the most powerful man in the whole wide world! And last, but never
least, is his huge silver belt buckle, which rests tantalizingly atop that
formidable manly bulge.
You’ll have to excuse me for a moment while I regain my composure.
Bill Clinton dressed like a man you could not trust. His ensemble reeked of
egalitarian ethical squalor. You looked at his clothing and said to yourself,
“Those of us in the mainstream media should help trump up charges against this
bastard and run his fat ass out of town.”
By contrast, viewing the classically outfitted Mr. Bush enables one to behold
moral enlightenment and physical perfection. I defy any normal person to look at
this man without adoring him. Combine that with the knowledge that my employers
at the Washington Post make huge profits from the sweetheart federal contract
that the president gave to our Kaplan education materials subsidiary, and I am
anxious to proclaim that he is the finest human being to ever draw a breath.
Anyone who says otherwise is an extremist who hates our land, and must be
shunted to the margins of society. George W. Bush is America, and vice versa,
and criticism of either is criticism of both. Any attempt to distinguish between
the two is hateful and divisive. The principle of free speech does not imply
that there is license to speak against this great country by criticizing the one
man who protects us from terrorist annihilation, for to do so is treason.
Fortunately, seventy five percent of Americans (the good, wholesome and
increasingly red seventy five percent) are not traitors, and therefore worship
the nattily attired Texan. The disheveled jackals in the press corps may pepper
him with their vulgar “inquiries” about things he could not possibly be
expected to know, like his own stock trades. But those of us who are true
Americans unquestioningly love the debonair Mr. Bush, platonically and
otherwise. We take great comfort from the fact that he is dressed for success,
comfortable in his own skin, and just one more terrorist attack away from
declaring martial law.
On that glorious day, the historical circle will be closed, and the United
States of America will finally have our own King George. It will then be my
great privilege to make a pilgrimage to the White House. I will proudly salute
our nation’s superbly dressed superhero, deferentially showing my respect for
his sartorial splendor by wearing nothing but a party hat and a come-hither
smile.
I hereby pledge that my first loyalty is always to you, Sir. I am at your
disposal, as I have been ever since you decided to claim your birthright to this
nation’s highest office. Rest assured, Mr. President, that you are one
commander-in-chief who will never have to settle for the services of some portly
intern.
Not as long as Howard Kurtz is on the job.
Mr. Kurtz is America’s premier media
critic and best selling author of the books,
Whitewater: The
American Holocaust (1996), and Head
Back To Tennessee, You Lying Sack Of Crap! (2000). His current tome
is titled Laura,
I Would Give Anything To Trade Places With You (Simon and Schuster,
$24.95).
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Please click here if you really believe that Howard Kurtz really wrote this piece.
