Opinion » Heck

Heck is the Coach of George W. Bush's T-Ball Team

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The recent rent-a-commie-crown routine that took place between the Castro boys has got me thinking about family dynasties. What I'm stewing over is just a frivolous hypothetical question, but one that's fun to ask, with Dick Cheney's stop in Boise just a week: If I were, through some miraculous combination of fantasy baseball and steroids, crowned commissioner of the entire country, would I trade George W. Bush for his brother Jeb if I could? The answer is, "Yes. Oh golly yes. Oh mighty Jebus on a crostini, yessiree mister would I ever."

The response I've received thus far to this conclusion has been disbelief. Usually, people say the same thing I was hearing about Castro's brother a few days ago: "But dumbass, he's just like the other guy, only he's this much smarter, so he's even MEANER!"

I say, fine. Let him in. I'd gladly flip the current executive mannequin for someone who espouses the same philosophies, taps the same dour cabinet and occupies the same third-world over yonder, but who can explain why he's doing it in a slightly clearer, louder voice. In this case, I'm not necessarily pining for someone smarter or of a different political persuasion, as much as someone who's a better broadcaster.

Among the short list of podcasts to which I subscribe (right after Ask a Ninja and Baseball Prospectus Radio) is George W. Bush's weekly radio address. Each Saturday, I await this three- or four-minute snoozer with the same sad resignation. I always hope he'll read his little script like he wrote it just for me, just like Bill and FDR and even George Herbert Walker did, but instead, he always haltingly drones on like he's reading someone else's power bill and doesn't care one way or another if I happen to overhear it.

It's sad, and it's doubly sad when you consider that a weekly radio address is like the T-ball of presidential duties. All he has to do is talk--no questions, not even a dress code, and he's allowed to do it from home. The difference is that in T-Ball, if you smack the bat into the middle of the tee enough times, eventually some concerned parent will come out and say, "That's enough, son." But we've had to listen to this recalcitrant Teddy Ruxpin mumble like his batteries are running out through every speaking engagement for six years now.

Just once, can we please invade someplace where he can get elocution lessons? On the off chance that BW isn't able to get a press pass to Cheney's stop next week, I beg that someone show him this article. A sad little boy in Boise needs his help.

--Nicholas Collias

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