Over time, BDS enters a terminal phase, complete with suicidal ideations.

Some days the pain is so searing and hot you want to cut off your own head with a nail file. Other days it is numb and pain free and seemingly OK, to the point where you think it might finally be all gone and you allow yourself a whisper of a positive feeling, right up until you look in the mirror, and scream.

George W. Bush is just like that.

Everyone I know has had enough. Everyone I know is just about done. There is this threshold of deadened disgust, this point where the body simply resigns itself to the pain, where the disease, the poison, has seeped so deeply into the bones that you just have to laugh and shrug it all off and go for a drink. Or 10.

Let's help Mark Morford out -- send him a nail file or two.

Mark Morford
San Francisco Chronicle
901 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94103

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