Here's the best article yet, at least that I've seen, on the subject of Bush-as-likeable-guy:
I know, I know. The beer's a metaphor. It stands for blue jeans and brush-clearing, NASCAR and barbecue, and all that other He-Manly stuff that goes on down in Crawford. (Please, God: Let there be a leather bar just a short piece down the road!) Well, in this little corner of the world, we don't have any patience with metaphorical beers. Metaphorical beers leave you thirsty, even though there are far fewer glasses to wash. Metaphorical beers are what you end up with when the guy who's supposed to buy the round excuses himself to the gents' and then slips out the backdoor.
Which leaves us with the real thing: Who in God's name would want to have an actual beer with George W. Bush?
First of all, he'd be the guy who starts throwing peanuts at the young ladies at the next table. And then, when confronted by, say, the defensive tackle who is engaged to one of them, tells them that you did it. Then he sends a gag gift to you in the hospital.
He's the guy who makes up (at top volume) the stupid nicknames for everybody else at the table and then, in the cold light of an angry dawn, you discover that yours is the only one that stuck.
He's the guy who never drives. Or chips in for gas. He might be the guy who booted in the back seat, but he'll never admit it without DNA evidence.
He's the guy who you find on your couch in the morning, using your mint copy of Blonde On Blonde as a coaster and the afghan your grandmother smuggled out from under the Cossacks as a bib.
Sounds about right, though I'd add that in addition to Bush as freeloading jerkass, there's also Bush as bad drunk: self-righteous, self-pitying, rude, even borderline cruel. That's the guy America saw in last week's debate, though I doubt he'll be in evidence tonight.