George Bush, Dark Prince of Love: A Presidential Romance

George Bush Dark Prince of Love cover
George Bush, Dark Prince of Love is the saga of Rosemary, queen of the trailer park, who becomes obsessed with George Herbert Walker Bush when he ascends to the Oval Office and stalks him for the four years that follow.

 

Praise and Reviews

“Set against the backdrop of the George Bush presidential years, Lydia Millet’s George Bush, Dark Prince of Love is the most sardonic and laugh-out-loud funny satire I’ve read in years.”
–Denver Rocky Mountain News

“Part fable, part farce, “Dark Prince” is one of the freshest books I’ve read on modern politics.”
–The News and Observer (Raleigh, NC)

“‘George Bush, Dark Prince of Love’ is often hilarious and sure to make its mark in this election year.”
–St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“Buy this funny book now.”
–The Houston Chronicle

 

Excerpt

 

Prologue

Some women like muscle. Brute strength, or the illusion of it. Their idea of an attractive man is a craggy meatpacker with a squirrel brain, who likes to crush vermin with his bare fist. I call these women Reaganites.

Now, the Reagan-loving women are not weak. That’s a popular misconception of what I like to call the Liberal Bourgeoisie. Oh, they may like cooking and value their Tupperware; they may often be Episcopalians; they may gather together in white A-frame houses to fashion Liberty quilts on the first Sunday of each month. But they’re the ones working at little needlepoints of the flag while the local maniacs burn crosses on the neighbor’s lawn, and smiling quietly. They tend to be long on purpose, but short on delicacy.

Personally, I’ve always preferred the underdog. I was the plain girl with buck teeth and pigeon toes in the corner of the schoolyard, offering her recess snacks to the skinny boy with glasses and a stutter. There was something about him–call it gentility or call it a pathetic quality–that caught me and held me.

And that’s what sets me apart from all my Reagan-loving sisters. Sets me apart, and sets me free.

For the language of true love is not carnivorous. It’s not florid. It is not words like “plunder,” “pillage,” “kill the Communists.” It is a kinder, gentler language, of nostalgic longing; it speaks of a more subtle mastery. And yet it harkens back, at the same time, to our long history of savagery. Without which we’d be nothing but hippies. It is a language that tells us what to think, like lords with serfs in olden days, but asks for our indulgence too. It hints that we can visit savagery as if we were tourists.

It is a language, I contend, like “Read my lips.”

I see that you doubt me.

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