My name is George, and I’m an alcoholic: “Nearing the 15th anniversary of the president’s sobriety, a fellow ex-drinker tells what he sees when he looks at George

W. Bush.”

A drunk hides nothing from another drunk. So when I look at Bush, I don’t see a conservative Republican, a flirter with the Christian right, a Texas oilman,

a son of political royalty. I see a guy like me who never wants to quit, who has an infinite thirst and an infinite appetite for whatever you’ve got and who, if

he could, would drink up the whole room and then tear it apart looking for more. I see a guy barely containing a murderous contempt for anyone who

doesn’t drink like he does; I see a guy who has to pause when answering questions not because there’s nothing in his head but because there’s too much in

his head and most of it is vile and the rest is obscene; no doubt the first thing that pops into his head when asked a question at a press conference is “You

have the face of a barnyard animal” or “I’d like to fuck you silly.” That apparent blankness, as though his brain is having a rolling blackout, is actually a

sign that he’s sorting, looking for an answer that’s both true and bland, something that won’t set off any alarms, something that will satisfy his need to tell the

truth yet not give in to the grandiose and contemptuous impulses so familiar to alcoholics far and wide.

Salon [thanks, David!]