"When you start to feel for the man," said Clem, adjusting his tie, "that's when you know it's tidal...that's when you know there's a turning that's pendulous, swinging tight and fine, like a fiddler's bitch."
Clem loathes Shepherd's Pie. Understand that first. Understand his loathing for the Pie is everlasting, deep as shipwrecks. Now understand this: he loathes President Bush even more. Wrap your head around that one, pilgrims.
"So what're you saying, Clem?"
"I'm saying Bush is done, and that as much as I loathe him, I feel for the bastard. Slightly."
"You're kidding. You are kidding me."
"I'm not."
"You feel for Bush?"
He adjusted his tie again. I don't know why, it looked fine to me.
"Yeah, I do."
Was this surprising? Would a pig shitting daisies be surprising?
"Clem, I don't get it. What's the catch?"
"Ain't no catch, Nathan. Bush is history in the making. Look - even his own party, major figures like Hagel, they are unequivocally flipping him the bird. The romance is over. And I feel for the party of the second part on the business end of a failed romance...can't help it, I just do."
"Even if it's a mortal enemy, a 'sick, betwitted wretch,' as you put it, like, a few days ago?"
"Yes, Nathan. The man has veins and a beating heart, right? He's ostensibly - ostensibly, mind you - got love coming his way from daughters and a wife. From a dog, too. Loyal beasts, dogs."
I noticed my fly was down.
"What the -"
Clem snickered.
"I saw it and didn't tell you. Thought you was measuring the tide."
He laughed. I didn't.