Shoes that fit

A confession — or maybe it’s just to purge eight years of anger.

So many times I’ve wanted to hurl my own shoes — or outrage — at George W. Bush.

I have wanted to score a direct, symbolic hit, to shatter his privileged, preppy, Texas, self-righteous, Born-Again, cynical shell.

To protect us — both of us — I have prayed to the powers, "Don’t allow me in the same room with this man!" I fear what I would do. How would I contain my dark disdain for him?

How would I stifle my rage?

I doubt I would hurl mere shoes. I would choose heavy, deep-treaded, metal-toed, big-bore hiking boots. Clod-hoppers.

Danners from Oregon.

After Egyptian TV reporter Muntader al-Zaidi threw his shoes and unleashed his tirade, I wondered what would I yell as I hurled my own.

“Here’s for your lies!” I’d scream. “Take this for your hypocrisy, ignorance, incompetence, callousness, smugness, cronyism, cynicism, contempt and arrogance. Here's for the torture, the deaths, the destruction of the planet, the inhumanity.

Take this for Rumsfeld and Cheney. Take this for your collective evil!”

Don't get me wrong. I believe there is “that of God” in everyone. I really do. I believe in non-violence. I believe in these things, but when it comes to George W. Bush, I fear my beliefs would fail me; that I would fail my beliefs. I fear that my own darkness would prevail. That my boots would become unlaced.

No, the shoes thrown in Baghdad fit me all too well.

Like Muntader al-Zaidi, I wear size 10.