“Mr. President I just need you to sign these war plans for attacking Syria and a couple more countries to be named later.”
“What countries?”
“You’d never heard of them,” Rumseld said irately, “Just sign the paper.”
“Uh-uh, Rummy. No more wars until you finish your first one. You still have to secure Tikrit, and I need some WMD’s to prove to everyone I’m right and they’re wrong.” Bush then turned the nearby monitor. “Isn’t that right, Dick.”
“Some clear evidence of weapons of mass destruction will really help our cause,” Cheney agreed.
“You will do as I tell you!” Rumsfeld shouted, “I’m the Secretary of War! Defy me and I’ll kill you both!”
Bush laughed. “You can’t kill us both, silly; Dick’s location is undisclosed.”
“That’s right. You kill Bush, I become president,” Cheney said.
“Of course, since I am the only one who knows where he is,” Bush muttered to himself, “If you killed me, he would eventually starve to death, so thus killing me would kill him indirectly.”
“What!” Cheney exclaimed, “You didn’t you tell anyone else where I am this time?”
“Undisclosed,” Bush told him calmly, “Anyway, you’re going to laugh and laugh when you find out where you are this time.”
“Quit jabbering and approve my war!” Rumsfeld shouted angrily.
“No, you finish your first war like a good Secretary of Defense and then we’ll talk.”
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled as he punched a large whole in the wall.
“Man,” Bush sighed, “That’s why I always hold these meetings in Daschle’s office.”
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld cried again as he picked up Daschle’s desk and threw it out the window.
“I think I hear music,” Cheney said, “Did you hide me at the carnival again?”
“No, way off,” Bush laughed, “Man, this one is so funny. The suspicious looking Middle-Eastern men I told it to thought it was funny as well.”
“Suspicious looking Middle-Eastern men!” Cheney exclaimed, “They could only be one thing: terrorists.”
Just then, Bush watched on screen as two terrorists wielding AK-47 entered the room with Cheney. “American infidel!” one shouted, “We will make you tell us nuclear secrets!”
“Not if I can help it!” Cheney declared, grabbing his chest and collapsing to the floor.
“We have to help Dick!” Bush cried.
“Where is he?” Rumsfeld asked.
“He’s at the mall in the boarded up store that says ‘Soon to be a Dunk’n Donuts’.”
“You almost hit me with my desk!” Daschle whined, entering his office.
“What are you going to do about it?” Bush asked, “Cry?”
“Yes!” Daschle yelled, starting to tear up.
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled, tossing Daschle out the window.
“That was funny!” Bush said, pointing and laughing. “Uh… now what were we doing?”
“You were signing my excessive war plans,” Rumsfeld told him, handing him the paper.
“Okey-dokey,” Bush said as he started to sign it. He then glanced at the monitor. “Man, those terrorists are doing some piss-poor CPR.”

“Man, do I still got to do all these press conferences,” White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer complained, “I thought I had all of you idiots embedded.”
“Hey, we have important questions and you should give us respect,” complained one reporter.
“Just start asking your questions before I decide to embed my foot up your ass.”
“Was the tank attack against the journalists in the Palestine hotel on purpose?”
“Of course not. What idiot would think that?”
“Well, there is the transcript of the communications in the tank:

VOICE1: Hey, there is that hotel full of journalists.
VOICE2: Let us fire at it and kill some.
VOICE1: What an excellent idea.
(sound of tank firing)
VOICE1: I bet that killed some.
VOICE2: Hooray!

”
“Whatever,” Fleischer responded, “Evidence never proves anything. The coalition forces do their best to no harm non-combatants. We even have come up with this laser guided concrete to avoid collateral damage. They just drop out of the sky, crushing the target with a huge piece of concrete and harming nothing else. It was adapted from the work of Prof. Wile E. Coyote who developed a laser guided anvil for the purpose of hunting a variety of quick moving desert bird.”
“Will we be able to hear from this Prof. Coyote?”
“Unfortunately, no. In extremely tragic and unfunny turn of events, Prof. Coyote was himself crushed by the anvil instead of the intended target. He left behind a wife and three kids.
“Anyhoo, the reason I am having the press conference out in this field is so I could demonstrate this concrete bomb. Just stare at the old building over yonder.”
“Because that’s where you are dropping the bomb?” inquired one reporter.
“Yeah… uh… because that is where I am dropping the bomb,” Fleischer said, trying to hold back a laugh. “Now make sure everyone watches it carefully and does not pay attention to what I am doing.” Fleischer now aimed a laser on the group of reporters.
“Hey, he’s targeting us!” one yelled. They all ran just in time for a large concrete bomb to drop in the center of them.
“You tried to kill us all!” accused one reported.
“No, as I explained to you, it’s an inert bomb. It would have just crushed those directly beneath it… hopefully one being Helen Thomas.” He saw her approaching with a question. “But no such luck.”
“Are you happy now that you’ve killed Iraqi children?” Thomas asked.
“We didn’t kill Iraqi children, you old bat. Actually, I have a drawing from a five-year-old Iraqi boy I want you to see.” He produced a crayon drawing. “See, here he drew you. And here he drew a bus that is running you over. Here he drew himself smiling while this happens. Iraqi children hate you, you old hag, just like I hate you.”
“You stole my pills again!” Thomas yelled, “Give me back my pills!”
“NEVER!”
Just then President Bush ran up. “That concrete bomb gave me a great idea!” he exclaimed, “Let’s go throw bricks through the windows at the Democrats; headquarters!”
“I’m there, dude!” Fleischer said, running off with Bush.
“But we have more questions!” yelled one reporter. “Wait a second… is he pointing another laser at us? Run!”

“So anymore questions about how brilliantly the war is going?” Rumsfeld asked the press.
“Why don’t you just tell us how great the war is going and you don’t hurt any of us?” suggested one reporter.
“I’ll tell you how well the war is going, but no promises on that second part. Operation Make Iraqis Dead and Take Their Oil is going great!”
Condoleezza Rice whispered into his ear. “I don’t care what’s it’s called as long as we get to kill evil foreigners!” Rumsfeld yelled. “Anyway, our forces are dominating the pathetic Iraqi resistance. We hardly even have to engage them anymore. Their vehicles explode on site of our tanks. Their troops spontaneously combust just thinking about having to fight us. We have completely surrounded Baghdad. Nothing can get past us now. Earlier, a monkey riding a camel tried to get past our blockade. I am proud to tell you that that monkey and that camel were so riddled with bullets so as to be unidentifiable.”
“Poor monkey,” said one of the reporters.
“There will be no sympathy for the enemy!” Rumsfeld shouted angrily.
“What about reports that coalition forces have begun renaming buildings in Iraq?” a reporter asked.
“Yes, we have more appropriately named some buildings. The Saddam Hussein Airport is now the Baghdad Airport. The Saddam Hussein Theater is now the Baghdad Theater. The Saddam Hussein Hospital is now the Saddam Hussein Memorial Hospital. Also, we renamed Basra Funkytown. And we started renaming the P.O.W.’s; too many were named Mohammed. Also, I kinda find it funny to see an Iraqi soldier named ‘Cody’.”
“You can’t just rename whomever you please!” said a shocked reporter.
“Yes I can! Your name is now Polly Prissypants,” Rumsfeld told the man. Rice then handed him his new social security card.
“I don’t want a new name!” the reporter complained.
“Quiet, Polly Prissypants!” Rumsfeld shouted.
“So are you sure that Saddam is dead?” asked another reporter.
“We are not. He has too many of those damn look-alikes. Actually, there has been some suggestions that the original Saddam was a kindly man who loved puppies and wanted nothing more than peace in the middle east, but then he was killed and replaced by an evil, warmongering look-alike. To make sure we stop him, we’re killing everyone who looks like Saddam.”
“You can’t just discriminately kill people like that!” declared a reporter.
“You know, with a bushy mustache and a beret, you might look like Saddam,” Rumsfeld said, reaching under his coat for his gun.
“Statement withdrawn!”
“There are reports that the smiling pictures of Saddam strewn throughout Iraq have been replaced with frowning pictures of you,” said one reporter, “This has caused many children there to have nightmares. Will you assure the Iraqi children you are not hiding under their beds or in their closets waiting to strangle them?”
“I will not take any options off the table in this war,” Rumsfeld declared, “Next question.”
“Are you afraid of the door to door fighting as you try to further take control of Baghdad?”
“No, because for that operation we have a secret ninja task force I can’t tell you anything about.”
“What can you tell us about this secret ninja task force you can’t tell us anything about?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey, I think I see movement up in rafters!” said one reporter, pointing upwards, “It’s the secret ninjas!”
Rumsfeld turned to Rice. “Quick, do something before they find out about our secret ninjas!”
Rice held up a device that flashed in multiple colors and made strange noises. “This is a new invention of mine,” she told the press, “Its purpose is to distract and then blind reporters.”
“Wow! That is distracting!” exclaimed a reporter as he and everyone else stared at the device.
Suddenly a bright flash came from the device. “I’m blind!” yelled a number of reporters.
One reporter in the back raised his hand. “I’m still just distracted.”
“Damn, it needs more adjustments,” Rice uttered.

“Nuke them!”
“We’re not nuking Iraq, Rummy,” Bush answered firmly.
“No, not Iraq – the annoying reporters. Trick them into thinking that we’re having a press conference in the middle of a desert, then we nuke them all.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Ari Fleischer remarked, “Reporters suck. I hate them.”
“I will remind you,” Condoleezza Rice told Bush, “that we could spare some nuclear weapons. We have enough nukes to blow the world up eight times, but our computer simulations show that even in the worst case scenario we’d never need to blow up the world more than six times.”
“We can’t nuke the reporters,” Bush said, “Everyone will get mad at me.”
“How will anyone find out?” Fleischer said, “All the reporters will be dead.”
“Someone might write something about it on the internet,” Bush suggested.
“The only people who use the internet are pedophiles and crack-addicts,” Rumsfeld scoffed, “No one will care what they say.”
“Nuking seems a bit harsh,” Colin Powell said, “Can’t we just injure some reporters and maybe threaten their families?”
“You weak-willed liberal!” Rumsfeld screamed, “Why don’t you just sell us all out to the Communists. I’ll kill you!!” He sprung towards Powell, but was held in place by some chains.
“Will those chains hold him?” Powell asked, worried.
“The Secret Service assured me they would,” Bush answered and then looked to Rumsfeld. “You have to control that temper, Rummy.”
“I’ll murder you for telling me to control my temper!” Rumsfeld shouted as he tried to reach for Bush’s neck.
“There will be no murdering of the press,” Karl Rove announced, his dark eyes meeting individually all those seated at the table, “The prophesized destruction of the Democrats grows near, and we must tread lightly. We simply must manipulate the foolish press into their own demise.”
“Sounds good, Karl,” Bush answered, “Now let’s get to our main business: the war. I have Dick via satellite from his undisclosed location so he can give his opinions as well.” A monitor turned on showing Dick Cheney. “What’s up Dick?”
“Yeah, Bush, I’m not doing so well. Have you gotten any closer to finding out where I am?”
“Sorry, Dick, not really a priority with the war going on, but, as soon as we figure out where we filed that, we’ll send a helicopter to come get you.”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t have just told me where I was staying.”
“We didn’t tell you so that if you were tortured by terrorists they wouldn’t be able to find out where you are.”
“But they would already have found me to be able to torture me!” Cheney shouted.
Bush thought about that. “Well, hindsight is 20/20, Dick; what do you want me to tell you.”
“Are you sure you can’t remember where I am?”
“Honestly, I was watching an episode of The Simpsons when I was told, so I didn’t really catch much of it.” A thought then struck him. “Do you feel weightless, Dick? Like you could float through the air?”
“No,” Cheney answered with annoyance.
“Then scratch that idea.”
“I think I hear water flowing nearby,” Cheney offered hopefully, “Does that help?”
“Maybe. Anyway, we got to get back to talking about war.”
“At least tell me how my family is doing!” Cheney pleaded.
“Uh… who’s your family again, Dick?”
“The Cheneys!” he answered angrily.
“Oh… they’re cool. Now just chill out, Dick; this is no big emergency. You have a years worth of food their and almost a week’s worth of air.” Bush looked to rest of the people seated at the table. “Now let’s get back to discussing this war.”
“Our precise bomb attacks have decimated Iraq’s military with minimal civilian casualties,” Rice stated proudly.
“This war is almost too clean,” Rumsfeld said with disgust. “Our troops thirst for blood and decimation. Their morale will go down if they don’t see misery inflicted upon others.”
“Actually, I think our soldiers enjoy seeing Iraqis cheer them on,” Powell said.
“Rarrr!” Rumsfeld shouted, trying to break his chains.
“I’ll have to make your new nickname Mr. Angry,” Bush said chuckling.
“I’ll rip your guts out for giving me a nickname!” Rumsfeld yelled, again reaching for Bush’s neck.
“We have to be careful of public opinion, though,” Rove warned, “Some people are thinking we weren’t prepared for this level of resistance.”
“Then people will die!” Rumsfeld shouted, trying once again to break his chains.
“You have to respect Rummy’s enthusiasm,” Bush commented, “So are we all set on our main goal: getting that oil?”
“Actually, the purpose of the war is to rid Iraq of its weapons of mass destruction and liberate the Iraqi people,” Powell corrected him.
“You’re just falling for the protesters’ propaganda,” Bush answered, “They’re trying to convince everyone that this war is about liberating Iraqis and destroying WMD’s even though we keep telling them it’s about getting oil.”
“You got that backwards,” Powell asserted.
Bush looked confused. “We’re giving them oil?”
“Forget Iraq,” Rumsfeld said, “That just our first stop on eliminating America’s enemies. Did you get my list of other nation I think we should attack next?”
“Yeah,” Bush answered, looking at a piece of paper, “It just says ‘Non English speaking countries.'”
“I don’t trust countries that don’t speak English,” Rumsfeld remarked, “Can’t tell what they’re saying. For all we know, they’re constantly plotting against America.”
“We can’t get too mired in war,” Rove warned, “We need a significant military victory to correspond with an economic upturn as a final blow to the Democrats, causing them to whither and die as maggots feast upon them.”
“I will not have politics ruin something as good and pure as killing people and blowing stuff up!” Rumsfeld declared angrily.
“People, we have to remember what war is all about in the end,” Bush said, “It’s about people’s sacrifice. Our military is composed of many great Americans who have sacrificed their time, some of their rights, and maybe their lives all so they can kill evil foreigners. There is no more beautiful expression of the American spirit than the deaths of smelly, unshaven people who mean us harm.”
“My left arm is tingling,” Cheney said.
“I’m glad my speech touched you like that,” Bush said happily.
Just then Laura Bush walked in the room. “I have rice crispie treats and kool aid!” she announced as she began to hand them out.
“Kick ass!” Fleischer exclaimed.
“Help me, Laura!” Cheney yelled, “I’m lost and I’m having a heart attack!”
Laura turned off the monitor. “You’re not going to get any work done if you’re watching TV while you do it.”
“Thanks for the rice crispie treats, Mrs. Bush,” Powell said as Laura headed out of the room.
“Powell got a larger piece than me,” Rumsfeld complained, “I’ll kill you all!”
Just then the phone rang. “Damn; it’s Daschle,” Bush exclaimed, answering the call, “What the hell do you want?”
“I just opened the door to my office to find a wall of solid concrete,” Daschle whined.
“Why should I care?”
“I know you had something to do with it! You’re always out to get me!”
“That’s because you’re a weasel and I hate you.”
“It also sounds like someone is pounding on the wall from the inside.”
“Who cares?” Bush answered, but then saw Fleischer motioning him.
“I think I remember where we hid Cheney,” Fleischer said laughing.
“Oh yeah, now I remember!” Bush exclaimed, “We turned that asshole’s office into an undisclosed location.”
“Don’t tell him!” Fleischer urged.
Bush put the phone to his ear. “I’m pretty sure I remember your office door always opening to a concrete wall.”
“That’s not true and you know it!”
“All I guess I can say is that you failed so miserably at not being a dickweed that we were forced to fill your office with concrete.” Bush then slammed the phone down. “Dumbass,” he laughed as he took a bite of his rice crispie treat. He then noticed an empty chair covered in broken chains. “Ahh crap.”