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With the encomia to the late First Lady Barbara Bush flying around the ether, the generous memorials from the Obamas and the boilerplate ones, wrongly dated, from the Current Occupant, the paeans to her “love story” with President George Herbert Walker Bush — here is the only extant love letter he wrote from the war, they murmur, the other ones were “lost,” and you know that means she threw them away — it is time for Wonkette to take her unsentimentality, her brusqueness, her plain old witch-hearted cussedness as our avatar, and follow in her ways. “That woman,” said President Richard Nixon — not unadmiringly! — “knows how to hate.”

At the end of her life, she hated one person — Donald Trump, who had humiliated her most beloved son in his sad, low-energy bid for the Oval Office. You know that old biddy voted for Hillary Clinton — she announced as much — and, like Cindy McCain, probably wore Suffragette White to the polls.

But before redeeming herself a tiny with a good feminism, a small decency, and some wan noblesse oblige, she had been a fairly terrible lady throughout her life.

After Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, and her famously tone-deaf statement welcoming refugees to Houston — they “were underprivileged anyway,” she said of people who were living in a sports stadium, “so this is working out very well for them” — she made a large donation to a Hurricane Katrina relief fund … with the stipulation that the moneys be diverted to the firm of her griftiest and grossest son, Neil Bush, who had already taken slightly more than his share of taxpayer dollars when the federal government bailed out his Silverado Savings and Loan, coincidentally while his father was president of the United States!

Also, she raised George W. Bush, so she didn’t have that going for her either.

There are many, many more examples of her being really an ice monster and a mean, mean woman, and I have them all highlighted in my copy of Kitty Kelley’s The Family — which is excellent, and you should buy it here so we can get a cut, and which I used as a class text when I taught “Political Scandals” at UC Irvine and accidentally called Barbara Bush a “cunt” to my undergrads. (A word and sentiment for which I’ll never apologize; by all means, fire up your boycott machines, everyone, Wonkette runs solely on reader donations.) But the book is in Old Dad’s room, and he sleeps in. Let’s let him rest the rest of the wicked and aged, like Barbara Bush but not dead yet.

We no longer have a proper Hate-On for Barbara Bush — it’s hard to hate the very old, for one thing, as hatred softens with time, and she supported Planned Parenthood and liked the Obamas; really, nobody (besides half the Trump cabinet, and Erik Prince certainly excepted) is totally evil. But we can sit and make McKayla Maroney “unimpressed” faces while the media does its usual Old Dead Lady slobber.

Also fuck all y’all blathering on about her drive for and commitment to “literacy.” The only book in her house was The Fart Book.

Pfffft.

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