I’ve always been with George W.

I was there when he put firecrackers in frogs’ butts to get Daddy’s attention.

But when he tasted his first drink, I really began to show my strength.

I immediately went into high gear to get him to down his next drink by increasing his cravings.

Don’t fool yourself, though — I’m no terrorist.

I’m worse because I’m real.

I’m a disease — an allergy, to be exact.

I am George W.’s alcoholism.

And I will make him progressively worse, never better, given his invitation.

In fact, I take delight in destroying his mind and body.

I love it when he turns to alcohol to escape his feelings, especially around Christmastime.

I also enjoy it when George W. blames others for his mistakes, shortcomings, and other random events.

I encourage him to numb his soul every chance I get.

To be quite honest, my greatest joy is helping him deny the "miracles" that inundate his life.

Yes, it’s true that angels exist, but I never reveal them to him.

If anything, I let him think he’s the life of the party.

Hell, if George W. wants to believe that he’s President of the United States of America, that’s fine by me, too.

For all I care, he can think he’s "the decider."

You know, I want him to believe he has the free will to judge not only his fate but also that of the world.

He knows he is ultimately powerless, yet he still allows others to choose his path for him.

George W. has no idea why he does what he does, even when he pathetically attempts to control himself.

I hate his meetings, especially the ones that suggest "12 steps" to recovery.

They help him build his hope.

I hate his friends, especially the ones who run around in nonalcoholic circles.

They help him become comfortable under his own skin.

I hate his Higher Power more than anything.

It helps him cope with being imperfect.

Here’s a little secret: George W.’s ego is the biggest threat to his peace of mind, followed by his fears.

And he gladly dishes them out to everyone, much to my satisfaction.

Without alcohol, he must learn to take responsibility for his own actions.

With alcohol, he will never admit defeat — ever!

Neither he, nor you, can remove me from him.

You cannot change him, not even through guilt trips, bargaining, protests, or candlelight vigils.

If you are not careful, my ilk will come after you, too.

So I hope you don’t take me too seriously.

How ironic that you take his friend’s heart condition more seriously than me!

I hope you continue to criticize, humiliate, and make fun of George W.

Doing so only serves to lead him back to me again and again.

So, here is my wish:

May you grant yourselves suffering, misery, and death.

Choose my kin, and our missions will be accomplished.

That’s all we’ve ever asked for.

In the meantime, bottoms up!