Right now — in fact, starting a bare minimum of 53 days ago — this nation needs a therapist-in-chief. We need someone with the stature to calm the fears of the global financial industry. We need someone with the moral (not to leave out “legal”) authority to set new ground rules, and quickly, so that the panic ends and lending can begin again. And we need a president with the staff to help him get these things done.
Instead? Instead we have a president who’s taking the Spaghetti Approach to staffing his Treasury Department — throwing stuff up against the wall and seeing what sticks. And instead of using his moral authority to soothe the markets, Obama has thrown it away, in the opinion of Dick Morris, as “his every remark and the constant preoccupation of his Cabinet is to heighten the sense of crisis and to escalate the predictions of doom.”
Imagine for a moment you suffer from clinical depression. You go to see your shrink, and instead of giving you Prozac and his home phone number, he hands you a straight razor and a terse, “don’t call the office, there won’t be anyone there.” That’s what Dr. Obama has done for the nation.
So instead, listen to Dr. Steve who says, “Take a strong martini and, whatever you do, don’t sneak any peeks at your 401(k) statement.”
Dr. Steve is not an actual doctor, does not play one on TV, has little moral authority and even less legal authority. But he’s probably done more good for the financial sector with this silly little column than President Obama has done in the last eight weeks of failed nominations and scary speeches. Closed course, professional driver, batteries not included, parental discretion is advised.
What Dr. Colorado has not told me is whether I’m suffering from tension, dehydration, or caffeine withdrawal. It makes a difference in terms of the vodka-tomato juice-Tylenol proportions, you know.
At least I’ve given up orange juice as a mixer: all that sugar was unhealthful.
And, yes: I did, finally, meet Dr. Vodka at that lovely single-malt party in Washington, D.C. a few weeks ago. Thankfully, I was able to lay to rest all the doubts of those who who saw his portrait at Pajama Media and panicked over the light-brown highlights: Green is a brunette. A dark-brown brunette. He might be an Ashkenazi; I don’t know; but his hair?—Sephardic all the way.
And spectacular.
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Just the right medicine for you: Vodka, orange juice and milk of magnesia – a phillips screwdriver.
Honey, don’t mix the vodka and tylenol. Your liver will thank you.