You Have to Wonder...

...exactly what is wrong with the people in charge of Baby Doc. In between burping the little fucker and giving him horsey rides around the ranchlette, you'd think at least one of those obsequious courtiers of his would have enough balls to tell the retarded little shit this:

Mister President, you interrupted your vacation for the brain-dead Terry Shiavo, flying all the way back to DC on that ridiculously-expensive-to-operate-for-even-an-hour airplane of yours. It looks bad, sir. The American people want to know that their leader has good sense. Horse sense, if you will. They are not seeing it in you.

You need to meet with the Gold Star Mothers who are camped near here. You've let this go on too long, you've let it turn into a media circus, and most importantly, you've lost the momentum. The longer this goes on, the worse you are going to look in the eyes of the American people. You used to own the media. Now they are turning on you, and that's the worst thing that can happen to you.

Sir, this is not an empire. It is a republic. You can lose control of the reins of government in a heartbeat. Even members of your own party are trying to tell you that enough is enough. They are facing re-election next year, and they do not want the albatross of your presidency weighing them down.

Please, sir. Meet with the mothers, meet with Cindy Sheehan, and this whole thing will be over. Then you can get on with your life.

Yeah, fantasy is a wonderful thing, isn't it? I might as well fantasize about winning a $500 million Powerball Lottery, going to Mars, and on the way having a threesome with Halle Berry and Karolina Kurkova in the weightlessness of space. That has a better chance of coming true than, god forbid, one of those pussified handlers of his would actually stand up to the little moron and tell him that he has no clothes.