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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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