Clown Prince First 5 Pages

Clown Prince Who Elected That Dude Anyway?

The Imaginative Memoir of George W. Bush’s Unlikely Rise To Power* *To You, The Reader: The author, a witness to, and participant in, some of the real or imagined scenes in this book, calls the work fact-based fiction. Though you may recognize many of the players and locations, the storyline – authentic in some cases contains mostly created dialogue.

Chapters: I. Mommy Nearest II. Gimme That III. Bad Jeans IV. Endless Slummer V. Fresh Man At Yell University VI. Fart Rat VII. Bachelor Of Farts

VIII. Touch Your Nose IX. Tee Or Me X. I Swear Solemnly

Chapter I - Mommy Nearest “George, will you give that kid a smack?” a hysterical Barbara Bush yelled to her husband, who was tying flies in his Kennebunkport shed. “I can’t take his whining and screaming anymore.” Welcome to life with the Bushies, circa 1946. Barbara is a lonely, harried, dutiful housewife with a 4-month-old baby, her first, while her husband’s biggest problem is trying to figure out how to catch more fish in the bay off their Maine summer compound. She begged for kids.

George Walker Bush, the first kid born to blue-blood Brahmin George Herbert Walker Bush and Barbara Pierce Bush, came into the world on July 6, 1946. The old man greeted his son in to the world and then quickly sprinted out the front door of the ivy-covered brick New Haven (Connecticut) Medical Center,

which had a wing named for his family. He was late - for a golf date. It was midsummer, great golfing weather, and Preppy Poppy, as his parents had called him, didn’t want to miss out on a golf game and a few cocktails in the clubhouse. He had a new baby boy, his first child, but George Herbert Walker Bush also had another priority - improving his golf game. He drove over to Yale Country Club and parked his 1944 Lincoln in the gravel, tree-lined lot. He headed for the pro shop, where he kept one of his sets of clubs. The staff at YCC kept members’ clubs for them and cleaned them after each game. In Bush’s case, it was simply an extension of his spoiled childhood, during which it was his mother who cleaned up after him. “Hi Mr. Bush,” said Billy Plouffe, who ran the club room in the back of the pro shop. “What’s new?” “I’m a father,” Bush replied gleefully but almost dismissively. “Is my tee time still good? 1 o’clock?” “Yeah, you’re good to go,” Plouffe replied. “I’ll have your clubs waiting for you on the first tee. Congratulations on your baby. That’s pretty cool. What’s his name, or is it a girl?” “Nope, it’s a boy alright!” old man Bush shot back. “George. George Walker Bush. 7 pounds, 9 ounces. A chip off the old block.” “Wow!” Plouffe said. “That’s so cool. How is Mrs. Bush doing?” “OK,” Bush said. “She’ll get through it one way or another. Hey, Billy, I’ll

talk to you later.” Bush scampered into the white clapboard 1890 clubhouse, making his way to the locker room to change into his golf spikes. He also shed his street clothes for a pair of green Bobby Jones golfing slacks and a white Izod knit golf shirt. The tall Bush looked the part. All Greenwich, all the time. Bush played the first nine holes with a local stockbroker, Bill Spencer, a millionaire who, like everyone else at the Yale Country Club, just loved hobnobbing with the upper crust. As Spencer and Bush headed for the tenth tee, Plouffe ran out to meet them at the turn. “Hey, Mr. Bush,” he shouted. “The hospital called. Your wife is ready to be picked up to go home with your new baby!” “Oh?” Bush replied. “Hmmm. OK. Say, Billy, can you ring them back and let them know I’ve got 9 more holes to play and I’ll be up after that?” “OK, will do,” Plouffe replied. Nothing like a kid and a wife to get in the way of a good golf day. At least that’s how Poppy saw the whole thing. When Georgie was born, his father was just a youngster himself, though he had been to war and even gotten shot down. Debate still rages over whether Bush, the youngest-ever Navy pilot, did enough to try to save the plane - and the lives of his crewmen. But he insists he tried to save the plane - and bailed out only as a last resort. His fellow crewmen all died in the crash at sea, but Bush was rescued by an aircraft carrier. Bush was a student at Yale when his first child was

born. He was captain of the Yale baseball team at the time, so, as he wrote in his book, “All The Best,” he had little time for anything else - let alone a new baby at the time Georgie was born. Once the couple had gotten home with their new baby, it was all over but the shouting. His father was a busy college student and Mrs. Bush had all she could do to handle this new burden, her first child. But she was in love with George Herbert Walker Bush, who she once said was the “handsomest thing I ever saw in my life.” In October 1946, 4-month-old “Georgie” came down with inflamed tonsils and his father wrote later in “All The Best, My Life in Letters,” that the kid awoke one night and “vomited absolutely everything.” And he hadn’t even been drinking. (Not yet, anyway, or at least not that anyone knew about yet.) Georgie was a handful from Day One. His mother got sick and tired of mothering this little crying brat, who was born with a silver shot glass in his mouth. When the young couple would go to their Kennebunkport seaside mansion for the summer, all the fun was ruined by this crying, puking, spoiled excuse for a kid. “Hey, Bar,” the rich old man said one night to his bride at the dinner table after he had had a few glasses of Chardonnay. “Wanna fool around?” He had already refused his wife’s earlier pleas to change Georgie’s diaper. Old man Bush had told her, “I’m the son of Prescott Bush. Men don’t do diapers in my family.” After getting married, the Bushes knew they wanted children. Or thought they wanted children. In November 1945 Poppy’s priorities were fishing and golf.

One day he’d been out looking for bluefish off Biddeford Pool, Maine and got back to the house with nothing to show for his efforts but a scorching sunburn and headache. He opened the refrigerator and took out a Miller. One led to two, two to three, and by the time the sun was down the old man had downed a six-pack. So what if he was a man on the fast track, the son of a U.S. senator and had come from a spoiled, rich family who didn’t know what it meant to work for a living. He liked his booze and liked to fish.

As Bar and Poppy tried to get used to having a little crying, vomiting baby around the house, their marriage began showing strains. Rumors began that the old man was having one-night stands with chicks who worked down at Allison’s, a popular nightspot in Kennebunkport. Bar had a vicious temper, but was devoted to her husband. She hated sex but gave in to the old man to keep him from straying. And she figured she wanted some kids. Only way to do it was to hop in the sack once in a while. She’d deaden the pain, so to speak, by having a couple of drinks herself, usually gin and tonic. Bar also came from money, her father having been president and chairman of the board of McCall’s Publishing. She was as spoiled as her old man. As a young woman, Barbara was a babe. While she always showed a good face in public, she was tormented by an upbringing in the hands of domineering, rich parents. She was never good enough for them. And the man she married was

never good enough for his rich, autocratic mother and cold, insensitive father.