Yesterday morning when President George W. Bush sputtered back into a state of semi-consciousness, he realized that he wasn't in his bedroom. What the hell am I doing here, he asked himself as he tried to assume a sitting position on his couch. As memories of the previous night came flooding back into his Zoloft-laden brain, he began to shiver. Boy, Laura could be a bitch if you didn't keep her happy, he said to himself.
The night before, the First Lady had demanded sex. I want it, and I want it now, she had screamed. Standing majestically atop Scott McClellan's gagged and bound body in her leather dominatrix outfit with whip in hand, she had flung Lincoln era artifacts hither and thither and thrown a category Five tantrum. Why can't you be more like Clinton, she had yelled at the cowering president. Fuck all the interns you want as long as you save some of that action for me, she had said.
But fear isn't the best aphrodisiac. And the president had been terrorized enough. Already, his favorite Mexican, hell the only Mexican he could stand, Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez, had been grilled by the Senate Judiciary Committee for his involvement in the secret NSA wire-tapping scandal. His refusal to answer any questions as well as his possible mendacity during the proceedings had resulted in an increase in the demand for the president's impeachment. And finally, at Coretta Scott King's funeral, he had been publicly humiliated by those darn niggers, that too on-camera. Fuck the emancipation, he had grimaced under his breath. President Bush was terrified and frustrated.
And on top of all that, Laura was horny. "What's wrong George", she had asked him mockingly after ripping off his trousers. She now lifted up his semi-limp member with her whip in the manner of a shopper inspecting a salmon fillet in the grocery store fish department. "Are you on sedatives again? Why's your flag fluttering at half mast?", she added, giving it a mock salute.
The president didn't know what to do. He wanted to pour his heart out to his wife. He wanted her to comfort him and then be whipped for being a bad president. The pain would make him forget everything else. God, he recalled the whipping she had given him after Katrina. The whipping had been necessary in order to cleanse his nightmares of all those floating bodies. So now, he crawled towards her spiked heels with pathos in his eyes, hoping that his grovelling would generate some pity inside that forbidding leather exterior. But her face continued to look grim. No deal, said the First Lady. Get it up or get out, she said. He got out.
Now as he sat up on the couch rubbing his eyes and wondering why he was wearing an Iron Maiden thong, 'cause, fuck, he had never really liked their music, it all came back to him now. Depression, like Dick Cheney's shadow, began to cast a pall upon him. What could he do? More than half of America already hated him. And now, so did his wife.
Just as he was about to release himself from the handcuffs he attached himself to every night 'cause of his sleepwalking habits, the phone rang. It was Karl Rove. "Karl, I need a massage, I need your hands on my body, I need something, just come here pronto", the president wailed.
"George, listen", said Rove's curt voice from the other end. "Shut the fuck up for a minute. We have more important issues. Brownie's gonna squeal", he added. "And they've found out about Him." (via RawStory)
The president's head began to hurt. He tried to think. Could he raise the terror alert level? No, he hadn't done that since his election victory. People would get suspicious. What could he do? He began to scribble furiously in the notebook he always kept close to his balls.
Another terror attack? No, terrifying people some more wouldn't work in this case. They were already scared to a breaking point. What about a Tsunami? No, you need an earthquake to get a Tsunami, he realized, recalling the geography lectures Rove had given him just before his 2000 presidential bid. Was it time to get the nukes out? But he realized that he was more scared of nukes than he was of approval ratings. What the fuck could he do?
Yes, he finally screamed in delight. He had thought of a brilliant plan. He would tell the public that he had averted a major terrorist attack. He had saved their lives. That would make them happy. That would make 'em love him again. It would push up his ratings. And fuck, once his ratings were back up, he would be able to perform in bed again. And that would make Laura happy.
Not only that, he could then also point to his NSA surveillance program and hint, just hint mind you, 'cause more than hinting could make him look like a liar, that the illegal surveillance had been the sole reason behind the terrorist attack being foiled. And just hinting that and allowing Fox News to do the rest would allow his "base" of gullible fools in America's heartland to put 2 and 2 together and come up with 5. Yeah, it was all coming together now. Life was gonna return to normal. Everything was gonna be alright.
The president got on the phone with Wolf Blitzer. "Wolfie, I have a situation here. This is what I need you to do.....".
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