"Buffalo Bill's defunct." — e.e. cummings

Shortly after the Supreme Court deputized George W. Bush as America's sheriff, the White House press corps circled the wagons. Sitting around the campfire, eatin' beans, drinkin' rotgut whisky and stomach-churnin' coffee — the Clinton coyotes still howlin' in the distance — the Fourth Estate got it collectively in their heads that this new swaggerin' Texan was one tough hombre. This perception was based on no facts and no proof of anything even remotely connected to his life, his family and their collective dark past.

More likely, it was based on a national myth that began with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, which, after the Indians had been vanquished, filled circus tents back East with reenacted battles between war-painted, yelping "savages" (including Sitting Bull, the great Sioux chieftain who'd punched the cocky Custer's clock at Little Bighorn) and their swaggering white-clad conquerors. In 1883, William "Buffalo Bill" Cody even took this show to London, where it was a huge hit and perhaps muddied the genetic bloodlines of Tony Blair's family. What else would explain Blair's instant bonding with Bush? Or Thatcher's weird infatuation with Ronald "20 Mule Team" Reagan?

As corporate whore Andre Agassi put it back in the Reagan years, image is everything, and that sick adage still holds true. GW Bush's image was projected by his Halloween costume of jeans, pointy-toe line-dancin' boots, 10-gallon hats, and ranch. It could not have been based on any sagebrush skills or rodeo repertoire. Hell, the Kennebunkport Kowpoke can't even ride a horse — I done heared he's afeared of um! It could not have been based on his bravery, either. When he was in uniform during the Vietnam War, he went AWOL, and when terrorists struck the nation on 9/11, he sat in a chair reading My Pet Goat and then flew, as he put it, "out of harm's way."

And yet, the White House press corps loved this cowboy schtick. The boot-licking began with a Time cover story for Bush's inauguration written by the pathologically sycophantic Howard Fineman. He compared Bush to Gary Cooper and John Wayne and put a 10-gallon white hat on his head; he all but licked Bush's leather chaps. This latter job was left for New York Times' reporter Frank Bruni, whom Bush nicknamed "Pancho." Pancho shuffled so dutifully at Sheriff Bush's boot-heels — he was Chester to Bush's Matt Dillon — that he was allowed to write the authorized hagiography, the insipid Ambling Into History. Deputy Bob "Got a Woody for W" Woodward followed that up with the equally grotesque Bush At War, which contained not a single mention of the dubious run-up to the Iraq war.

With all that badass bravado and spur-janglin' spin, it's a wonder the press hasn't bestowed a bigger-than-life nickname on their boy. Here we are five years later, and he's still play-acting the cowboy role and the White House press corps is still licking his spurs. And, just when everything seemed to be slipping away — with Bush's approval rating falling as fast as outlaws in a shootout with Gary Cooper — their favorite sheriff draws from his holster the one weapon that never fails him: his middle finger. Whenever there is an opportunity to reach out to people around the world and offer a hint of statesmanship, Bush pulls his middle finger from the holster.

This time, on the tip of that middle finger, is the face of the Human Whisk-Broom, John Bolton, better known to international varmints and scalawags as Wild Bill Bolton. Bolton, by hook or crook (mostly the latter), was going to be inserted as our nation's representative at the United Nations. Appointing Bolton — bypassing the Senate, which refused to vote on his appointment until the White House provided some allegedly damning documents — is the ideal choice. He is the human equivalent of the middle finger. He is, thus, the appropriate face for America to show to the world.

With his appointment, Bush has provided the impetus for his new nickname: the F.U. Kid. His middle finger extended to the U.N., the F.U. Kid goes on vacation. This, by the way, is his 49th vacation and, at five weeks, it's the longest presidential vacation in 36 years — this despite the fact that the nation is at war and has just suffered through one of our bloodiest weeks in Iraq. Today, Aug. 11, will be the 327th day that the F.U. Kid has vacationed on our dime. That's nearly one year out of the five he's been sheriff.

Isn't it about time we deputized someone else?