Dubya Tells All – But Does Anybody Care?

This story tells us that President Highest Disapproval Rating In Gallup Poll History has a bit of a problem concerning the whole “legacy” thing…

In less than three months, President-elect Barack Obama will take office and the Bush administration will belong to history. With President George W. Bush reportedly interested in writing about his White House years, publishers have a suggestion:

Take your time.

“If I were advising President Bush, given how the public feels about him right now, I think patience would probably be something that I would encourage,” says Paul Bogaards, executive director of publicity for Alfred A. Knopf, which in 2004 released Bill Clinton’s million-selling “My Life.”

“Certainly the longer he waits, the better,” says Marji Ross, president and publisher of the conservative Regnery Publishing, which is more likely to take on anti-Obama books in the next few years than any praises of Bush.

Yep, it looks like Commander Codpiece has another issue on his hands, all right. Maybe he could contact Vantage Press or another Vanity publisher and try his luck with them.

In case that doesn’t pan out, then I believe Dubya will need a truly creative solution here, and I’d like to suggest tailoring his memoir to another type of trade publisher.

And while trying to sell his term in the White House as, say, a Harlequin Romance novel would pose peculiar challenges, maybe something like this could work…

He strode purposefully across the plush carpet of the West Wing as his aides scurried to keep up with him, shuffling papers and keying their Blackberries to determine which brief the President should examine first or which advisor he should consult to mitigate yet another looming global crisis.

And as George W. Bush approached the Oval Office, his steely glare beholding all before him, arms rested at his side and his chest forward, firmly presenting an air of confidence with a hint of defiance, his eyes met Laura’s, and the tiniest hint of passion stirred once more within her, continually amazed at how the carefree, jovial frat boy she once knew had ascended to become the most important head of state on earth.

Hey, did I say that it couldn’t be fiction?

Or how about this?

At once, he entered the chamber of his command, and as he quickly turned to survey the landscape, he noticed her, obediently seated by his desk, gazing raptly upon him, seemingly beholden to his every whim.

Condi.

Even her name conjured desires within him of the teasing thrill of the chase, the forbidden conquest, and the unspoken joy of her acquiescence, giving herself utterly to the leader of the free world under the spell of the aphrodisiac of presidential power. And her subtle pout as she awaited him wavered only slightly as her eyes shifted slightly away from his, glancing towards the sleek cut of his slacks, which stylishly tried to understate what she perceived to be the continual readiness of his manhood.

OK, I’d better stop.

So, as you can see, our preznit currently faces an obstacle to his place in literary history that shouldn’t be insurmountable, I believe.

And if all else fails, someone can put together a children’s pop-up book for him, showing Iraq’s non-existent WMD, the Constitution with the First, Fourth and Tenth amendments crossed out, and flies buzzing around dead Katrina victims in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans.