Too bad she died.
Yeah. Karl was almost inconsolable when she passed. He kept looking for a replacement. Karen Hughes called it his "vegetable hunt." He'd call long lists of registered Democrats, asking if they had a brain-dead wife they wanted to pull the plug on.
About five months later, Hurricane Katrina hit. With all due respect, Mr. President, what went wrong?
Yeah, that was a bad scene. As you know, the storm coincided with a vacation I had planned. The first leg of it wasn't really a vacation — I had to go to Arizona to stroke John McCain on his birthday. Then I had to do some hug-the-old-lady deals in Arizona and California for some Medicare thing we were pushing. After that, I turn in for the night. Nobody says anything to me.
Next day, I'm working a crowd at the Coronado Naval Base with a famous country-and-western singer — I won't say who. As we're coming off stage he says to me, "So, Mr. President, what are you going to do about all those niggers in the Superdome?" And I'm like, "You mean the Saints?" And he says, "No, Mr. President. New Orleans got hit by this huge hurricane, and now there's, like, 3 million of them people camped out in the Superdome, braining each other with aluminum bats." I just figured it was some crazy-ass hillbilly nightmare he was spewing.
It wasn't until the next morning, when I was back at Crawford chain-sawing some brush trees, that Karl comes running out in his suit at full speed. He's moving so fast, his tits are nearly knocking his eyes out. He's like, "You've got to go on TV in 10 minutes. There's been a terrible disaster in New Orleans. The whole city is underwater." So that's the first indication I had from my own people that anything really serious had happened.
Tell me how Michael Brown ended up in charge of that situation.
I knew we had a problem about three weeks before Katrina, when I visited him at his home in Oklahoma. Brownie has stables, because he used to run some kind of association for Arabian horses before he worked for us. Anyway, he's showing me some of his animals, and he comes to this big stallion that he's named after himself. I mean, the stallion's name is "Mike Brown." He's talking to it in little baby talk, too, like, "Oh, what a good boy you are, Mike Brown! You're such a good boy!" Then he leans over, grabs the horse by the schlong — the horse is hung literally to the barn floor — and says to me, "Just look at the cock on this one, Mr. President. You can touch it if you want."
And I'm like, "Uh, no, that's OK, Brownie, I can see it from here." And he's like, "Yeah, I know you can see it from there. You could probably see it from Tulsa."
So I tell Andy and Karl to get rid of the guy. I mean, guy names a horse after himself and fondles its balls — who needs that? Rummy promises to stick him in Gitmo, let him read the Koran and shit through a hole in the floor for a few dozen years.
But then how did you end up saying . . .
I'm getting to that. When I fly to Mobile after Katrina to give a speech, I walk into this big airplane hangar where the whole emergency management team is waiting. There are cameras everywhere, and who's standing right in front but — Mike Brown! I'm thinking, "What is this guy doing still alive? I thought we fixed this problem!" It turns out that we forgot to disappear him. Karl thought Andy was doing it, Andy thought Karl was doing it. I panicked. That's when the whole "Heckuva job, Brownie" thing came out.
We're now in the middle of the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. Do you feel any responsibility for what's happening?
Hey, markets is markets. Whatever happens in a market is what's supposed to happen. You're not supposed to interfere. That's why they call the market the hidden hand. If I can see your hands, it's communism.
Are you saying that what's happening is good?
I'm saying if you hand a retard a pistol and he shoots himself, that's the market. And markets are good.
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