tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31258552.post-38599956908973930832008-02-25T07:44:00.001-08:002008-02-25T08:03:17.217-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_MXEWHRcUfC4/R8LihPvhixI/AAAAAAAAARU/8oBauEmvYk0/s1600-h/bushsdrum.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_MXEWHRcUfC4/R8LihPvhixI/AAAAAAAAARU/8oBauEmvYk0/s400/bushsdrum.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170944382964173586" border="0" /></a><span class="huge"></span><blockquote style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="huge">Insane sects grow with the same rhythm as big organizations.<br />It is the rhythm of total destruction.</span> <span class="bodybold">—Theodor Adorno</span></span></blockquote><span class="bodybold"></span><br /></div>Eschewing his usual monkey-face, President G.W. Bush instead chose to beat like a wild man on this poor Tanzanian’s drum. He also acted like a victim of St. Vitus’s dance as he jerked his way around a crowd of well coordinated black performers demonstrating their culture’s ceremonial choreography.<br /><br />“This reminds me of my happy days in kindergarten,” said a wistful Dubya. “Only they wouldn't ever let me play the drum. I always got stuck with the rhythm sticks or the triangle.”shishkabobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07379768990719555357noreply@blogger.com