“Man, I was going to get in trouble for my Secret Service not being diverse enough,” President Bush told Donald Rumsfeld, “I was told I need to hire either a woman or someone with a handicap.”
“So did you hire a woman?” Condoleezza Rice asked, listening in.
Bush started laughing. “Yeah, I hired a woman,” he said mockingly, “She’ll be sitting there fixing her nails while I get mowed down by machine gun fire. Don’t you have some dishes to clean, Condi?”
“I was working on threat assessments for middle eastern countries,” Rice answered angrily.
“That’s cute, Condi; you keep doing that.”
Rice gave him an angry look and then stormed out of the office.
“I heard that, George!” Laura Bush exclaimed, “That was mean and sexist, and I think you should go and apologize to her.”
“Bah, woman and there feelings,” Bush answered, “They should be like us men and not have any.”
Laura just shook her head and walked away.
“So who did you hire?” Rumsfeld asked.
“Zatoichi, the blind samurai!” Bush answered.
Walking slowly into the room came Ichi, tapping ahead of him with his cane. Chomps walked up to him, watching him with reserved anger. “Nice doggie,” Ichi said, blindly reaching out to pet Chomps. Chomps snapped at him, but he had quickly retracted his hand.
“Wow! What reflexes!” Bush exclaimed, “And there’s a sword in his cane he can pull out and cut people with it. He’s so cool.”
“Giving sharp object to blind people seems like a bad idea to me,” Rumsfeld said.
“You should see him, though!” Bush answered, “A hippy bothered us on the way here, and, with one swing of his sword, Ichi cut the tie dye shirt right off the hippy without touching his skin.”
“So he completely missed the hippy,” Rumsfeld scoffed, “Sounds like a piss poor samurai to me. And how well is a sword going to help you nowadays? What happens if he comes up against a blind rifleman? He’s dead; that’s what.”
“Don’t listen to him, Ichi,” Bush said, “I know you’ll make a great secret service agent.” He then turned to Rumsfeld. “And he only cost 50 bu to hire.”
“What’s a bu?”
“I don’t know; I’m having an intern look into it. Anyway, I have to get going and give some speeches and stuff. Come on, Ichi.”

“Man, I don’t like talking to people,” Bush sulked, “They always laugh at me when I mess up my speakering. But I guess you don’t have to worry about things like that, Ichi, since you can’t hear them laughing.”
“You’re thinking of deaf,” Ichi said, following Bush.
“Whatever. Anyway, I just had this last addition added to my schedule. I’m supposed to meet some school children in this scary alleyway.”
As they walked further into the alleyway, Ichi grabbed Bush by the harm and then carefully listened around him. “I sense danger.”
“Oh no! Danger is bad!” Bush exclaimed.
“Stay close to me,” Ichi said, now holding his staff with both hands.
Five terrorists emerged holding scimitars. “We kill you, president Bush, because of our extreme Islamic view which dictates we want to destroy America or something,” said one of them.
“Oh no! Islamic extremists!” Bush exclaimed. “Be careful, Ichi; they’re extreme!”
The terrorists charged Bush, but, with lighting speed, Ichi drew is sword and cut all five down, the sword returning to its sheath with a click.
“That was so cool!” Bush said, “I need to get attacked by terrorists more often. That will learn them for sure! If they want to destroy America, they should do it through non-violent means such as helping the Howard Dean campaign.”
“I think this was a trap,” Ichi uttered.
“But who could have set it up?” Bush asked, “This was a last minute addition to my schedule added by Condoleezza Rice who currently has a grudge against me.” Bush thought for a moment. “It must be the Syrians!”
“Maybe it was this Condi in vengeance for those mean things you said,” Ichi suggested.
“You think?” Bush asked dubiously, “If that’s true, she’s going to get a talking to. Nobody tries to kill this President and gets spared a talking to!”

Chomps stared at the control panel. It made him mad. “Grrrow!” he growled as he attacked it.
“Self destruct in 10… 9… 8…” said a pleasant computerized voice.
Rice ran over to the controls. “Self destruct deactivated,” said the computer.
“You have to control your dog,” Rice said to Rumsfeld angrily, “That’s the third time today he’s done that!”
“Hey, he doesn’t like buttons and switches,” Rumsfeld answered, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Hello, Condi,” Bush said angrily as he entered the war room, Ichi following close behind him.
“Oh, you’re alive,” Rice with disappointment.
“That’s right; it takes more than a couple terrorists to stop ‘ole Dubya. Now why did you try to kill me?” he asked, “Is it like your time of the month or something?”
“Rarr!” Rice exclaimed and then hit a button on a controller. A door opened up and in entered a number of giant robots. “These are my military death machines,” Rice explained, “With them I will achieve military victories you only dreamed of. Then I, Condoleezza Rice, will be known as the savior of America! All shall bow before me!”
Bush looked at robots warily. “We got trouble, Ichi.”
“Describe them to me.”
“They’re eight feet tall, have glowing red eyes, and gattling guns for each arm. Now pull out your sword and cut them up good. Chop, chop, Ichi. Ichi?” He looked around and couldn’t see Zatoichi anywhere. “For a blind man, he sure can run fast.”
The robots approached Bush. “Rumsfeld, do something!” Bush pleaded.
“Hey, I stay out of this politics stuff; this is between you and Dr. Rice.”
Bush noticed Chomps nearby chewing apart a metal folding chair. “Hey, Chomps, go bite these robots. Do it now! As your president, I command you!”
“Ordering Chomps around really makes him angry,” Rumsfeld warned.
Chomps started growling at Bush. “Uh oh.”

“In other news today, the President Bush has been declared incapacitated as he is currently pinned up in a tree on the White House lawn by Chomps, holder of the title of the world’s angriest dog by the Guinness Book of World Records.” A file photo of Chomps tearing the treads off a Russian tank appeared on screen. “Next in line for presidency would be Dick Cheney, but, his location being undisclosed, no one can find him to swear him in. Instead, National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice has declared herself Empress. This is an unprecedented move and highly unconstitutional…”
A large robot appeared behind the anchorman and pressed a gattling gun against his head. “…but you have to praise Empress Rice for her initiative. All hail Empress Rice. By the way, war has been declared on all countries that begin with the letter ‘s’. So, if your country begins with letter ‘s’, remember: resistance is futile. Now let’s all join in singing our new national anthem in praise of Empress Rice.”
TO BE CONTINUED…

Based on a true story.
Moscow, Soviet Union, 1949
Stalin’s mustache brimmed with Commie fury. “This John Wayne, he is an enemy to our people. His cowboy mentality, his knowledge of right and wrong… it goes against everything Communism stands for. He must die!”
“You want us to kill the Duke?” exclaimed one of Stalin’s advisors.
“You question me!” Stalin shouted, “Off to gulag!”
Stalin’s secret police grabbed the man and dragged him away.
“Our intelligence says that John Wayne is currently in a bar with another actor Ronald Reagan,” said another advisor.
“Send our agents to kill him now!” Stalin ordered.
“What about Ronald Reagan?”
“He is just a B-movie actor; he is no threat to the Soviet Union,” Stalin said dismissively. “We kill John Wayne and Communism will live forever!” Stalin stood up and held his arms high into the air. “I am Stalin! Fear my mustache!”

“My agent says I should do some movies with monkeys in them,” Reagan said, “Comedies might be good for my career.”
“Only thing a monkey is good for is target practice,” the Duke answered, and took a drink of whiskey.
“Ever thought of doing a comedy?” Reagan asked.
“Nothing funny these days with Reds about.”
“Anyway, this is a nice bar.”
“It’s outta the way,” the Duke answered, “Keeps me from getting bothered.”
“Jeepers! It’s John Wayne!” exclaimed a kid, running up to the table.
“Dammit,” the Duke uttered.
“And I’m Ronald Reagan,” Reagan told the kid with a smile.
“Who?”
“Nevermind,” Reagan answered, turning back to his drink.
“Golly gosh, Mr. Wayne,” the kids said excitedly, “I’m your bestest fan. I want to be a cowboy just like you.”
“Well, it will never happen, so scram, kid,” the Duke answered.
“Aww, Mister, why’d you have to crush my dreams like that,” the kid said mournfully.
“You could be a little nicer,” Reagan told the Duke.
“You’re starting to annoy me, too,” the Duke growled.
“I’m sorry, but…”
“Quiet,” the Duke ordered and observed the air carefully. “I smell Reds,” he whispered.
Two men in suits approached. “I am FBI agent Yuri and this is FBI agent Ivan,” said one in a thick Ruskie accent. “You must come with us, Mr. Wayne.”
“Sure,” the Duke said, standing up slowly. He then whipped out his peacemaker and shot them both.
“Jeepers!” the kid exclaimed, “You killed them!”
“Commies,” Wayne answered, “and it ain’t over.” The Duke knocked over the table for cover and more gunfire came their way. The Duke fired back until his gun went empty. He tossed it to the kid along with some ammo. “Make yourself useful and reload that for me.”
“Golly. But I don’t know anything about guns, mister.”
“Well figure it out,” the Duke demanded. He then looked to Reagan who huddled behind the table. “Dutch, you have a gun?”
“I am an American,” Reagan said as he took out a 1911.
“Cover me as I kill these Reds,” the Duke said as he then emerged from behind the table. He saw four evil Commies, and he and Reagan shot them dead as the Duke kept moving, finally taking some new cover behind the bar.
“That was six shots, yankee scum,” said an evil Commie the Duke hadn’t seen who now stood over him.
“Here you go,” the kid yelled, tossing a gun to the Duke. He caught it, and rolled out of the way of the Commie’s shots, finally returning fire with one bullet through the man’s evil Commie brain.
The Duke stood up and observed the room. “That’s all of them.”
“Should we call the police?” Reagan asked.
“Nothing left except for a clean up crew,” the Duke answered.
“Golly, I thought you were done for, Mr. Wayne,” the kid said.
“Thanks for your help,” the Duke answered, and then handed the kid the peacemaker. “Here, keep this gun.”
“Wow! Thanks!”
“So what’s your name, kid?”
“Clinton Eastwood, sir.”
“That’s the gayest name I’ve ever heard,” the Duke said, “I’ll call you Clint.”
“Clint it is,” the kid answered, “Thanks again, Mister. Your the bestest!”
Reagan looked at the dead Commies. “One day I’ll see the Soviet Union destroyed,” Reagan vowed, “but first I need to do that comedy with a monkey in it.”
“I have some business to finish myself,” the Duke said, reloading a gun.

Moscow, Soviet Union, 1953
“Time to retire to bed and plot more Commie evil in the morning,” Stalin said, brushing his mustache with his fingers. He looked around and noticed he couldn’t see any guards in his country home. “Guards!” he called out, “Where are you?”
He made his way to his bedroom. Inside, he noticed a cowboy hat sitting on his nightstand. As he slowly approached it, he heard the bedroom door close behind him. He turned to see the Duke standing there, a peacemaker pointed right at Stalin.
“Say hi to Lenin for me in Commie hell, Joe,” the Duke said, and then unloaded his gun into Stalin’s chest. The Duke then slowly walked over and picked up his hat. He put it back on and strolled out of the room.
Soon some guards arrived and found Stalin lying there on the ground bleeding. “Oh no!” exclaimed one of them, “We let John Wayne kill Stalin. We’ll be in big trouble for this. We better think of some other story to explain his death.”
“I’m not dead,” Stalin uttered weakly.
“First let’s drink some vodka,” said the other guard, “Vodka helps us think.”
“Great, comrade,” said the other guard, “We’ll drink vodka and then come up with a story for Stalin’s death.”
“I’m not dead,” Stalin pleaded, “and can I have some vodka too?”
“Here, have a pillow,” the guard said, and then took a pillow off Stalin’s bed and pressed it over Stalin’s face.
Another guard entered the room. “Hey! You guys are killing Stalin!” he exclaimed, “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that!”
“John Wayne shot him,” another guard answered, “We’re just helping Stalin along.”
“He’s taking forever to smother,” said the guard with the pillow, “Let’s just go raid the liquor cabinet.”
“Hey, after we get the vodka, we can go watch the movie Bedtime for Bonzo in Stalin’s private screening room,” said one of the guards, “It’s supposed to be funny!”