“Well, place looks just like I remember her,” Bush Sr. said, taking a look around while he entered the White House.
“I remember it being tidier,” Barbara Bush said and then looked to Laura, “You need to keep it clean in here to give a good impression to the tourists.”
“It’s is clean,” Laura asserted angrily, “and they haven’t had tours of the Whitehouse because of 9-11.”
“Maybe they just told you it was because of 9-11,” Barbara said, “but I bet it really was because people were getting embarrassed of the appearance of the White House.”
Laura looked to her husband to do something. “Mom and Dad, it’s great to see you two!” Dubya exclaimed, “I gotta show you the new HDTV; they didn’t have that during your term.”
“Very nice. We can watch a football game,” Bush Sr. said.
“And that will give me time to show you how to properly decorate,” Barbara told Laura.
Laura just steamed silently.
“We need to talk,” Scott McClellan said, approaching Dubya.
“Who’s this dork?” Bush Sr. asked.
“That’s my new White House Press Secretary,” Dubya told him, “I sure miss Ari, because he’s such a dweeb.”
“I’m standing right here,” Scott said angrily.
“I know,” Dubya answered, rolling his eyes, “What do you want?”
“There are allegations that you’ve been funneling money away from lunches for underprivileged school children to help fund baby seal clubbing.”
“Man, I was hoping that story wouldn’t break for a couple more months,” Dubya said, “Just give the press the standard line.”
“Standard line?” Scott repeated, confused.
“Yeah, the standard line.”
“What’s that?”
Bush groaned. He then fetched a handgun from a nearby drawer. “If the press keep on asking questions, threatening to murder them all.”
“Threaten to murder them all?” Scott said with surprise as he took the gun.
“There you got it,” Dubya declared, and then handed Scott another clip, “Here, you’ll need more ammo to back up your threat.”
“I’m not actually supposed to kill them, am I?”
“Do I have to explain everything to you?” Dubya asked angrily, “Now shoo! I’m talking to my parents.”
“I don’t think that throw rug goes with the room,” Barbara told Laura.
“Thanks for your opinion,” Laura said, holding back her anger. She then looked to Dubya. “Can we talk for a moment, honey?”
“Sure, dear,” Dubya answered, the two of them moving out of earshot of his parents.
“You’re mother won’t stop criticizing me,” Laura said sternly.
“Well, maybe she has a point about you not being a very good wife,” Dubya offered.
Laura thought about that for a moment and then responded.
“Ahh! My groin! I need that from time to time!” Dubya yelled as he collapsed to the ground. He then recovered and stood back up. “Come on, Laura; I know you’re smart enough to know not to ask me for advice.”
“I don’t want your advice; I want you to try and do something about it.”
“Okay,” Dubya said, and walked back toward his parents.
“So where are my grandkids?” Barbara asked.
“Hell if I know,” Dubya answered, shrugging his shoulders.
“They’re at college right now,” Laura said.
Condoleezza Rice now approached. “Something important has come up.”
“Is this your maid,” Bush Sr. asked.
“No, she’s my National Security Advisor,” Dubya told him, “She’s really smart.”
“Having a black woman on your staff – that’s very forward thinking of you son,” Bush Sr. praised Dubya.
“You never told me you were black,” Dubya said to Condi with surprise.
“Don’t worry; I know how to talk to her, son,” Bush Sr. remarked. He then turned to Condi. “So what’s the dealio, sistah-girl?”
Condi took a deep breath and unclenched her fist. “Crazed General Wesley Clark is causing trouble on the West Coast,” she said, “As part of his campaign, he’s attacking everyone with his army of cybernetic, ninja monkeys.”
They turned on a T.V. There stood Clark, riding atop a tank. “Muh ha ha ha!” he laughed as destruction reigned about him. “Soon I will have the nomination. Then the White House will be mine! And then the world! Muh ha ha ha!”
“I don’t think that cape is standard military issue,” Dubya remarked.
“Should we do something?” Condi asked.
“Bah; the West Coast is like hundreds of miles away,” Dubya said.
“It’s just standard Democrat primary antics,” Bush Sr. commented, “It’ll all stop when it’s sure who’s got the nomination.” He then looked to son. “Could we talk privately for a moment?”
Dubya led his father to the Oval Office. “I’m glad you followed in your father’s footsteps, boy,” Bush Sr. said, “but I hoped things would have been easier for you. Instead, you got all this terrorism to deal with.”
“I’m handling it,” Dubya assured, “I have a good staff.”
“Great. You know, a father always wants things to be better for his son. What I’m saying is that I want you to be a two-termer and not make the same mistakes as your old man. So, are you going to get Saddam?”
“He’s out of power, and we’re hunting him down.”
“And are you also taking care of the economy?”
“We’ve cut taxes and things are improving.”
“That’s a good boy,” Bush Sr. said, patting Dubya on the head.
“Thanks for explaining to me how everything I do is wrong,” Laura said with a forced smile as she entered the room along with Barbara.
Suddenly Condi came running in the room followed by Zatoichi. “The White House is under attack by terrorists!” she exclaimed.
“Awww!” Bush moaned, “and when my parents are visiting.”
“Who’s that guy?” Bush Sr. asked, looking at Ichi.
“He’s a blind samurai we hired as a Secret Service agent because of the People with Disabilities Act.”
“Back when I was president, we had enough money to hire better protection than a blind Chinaman,” Bush Sr. remarked.
“I’m Japanese,” Ichi shot back harshly.
“He’s really good,” Dubya assured his father, “but I think we’ll need more help for this.” Dubya picked up the phone. “Agent Smith, we’re under attack. Get the Secret Service to handle it.”
“I’m afraid right now it’s are union mandated fifteen minute break,” Agent Smith answered, “If we do work while it’s supposed to be break time, we’ll get in big trouble with the union.”
“Why did the Secret Service have to unionize?” Dubya grumbled as he slammed down the phone. “Ichi-san, will you help us?”
“Five ryo,” he answered.
“But you took all my ryo yesterday in that dice game!” Dubya exclaimed.
“I have some Spanish doubloons in my purse if that helps,” Barbara said.
“Offer accepted,” Ichi remarked, drawing the sword from his cane.
“Instead of just relying on a blind swordsman, I also stored some automatic rifles in here for just such an incident,” Laura said, opening a closet that was full of weaponry.
“Wow! You even have a spare cowboy hat,” Dubya said, taking the hat and putting it on.
Barbara took a rifle. “You really should have coated these in oil a bit more before you stored them.”
“That’s important for gun care,” Condi remarked.
“Don’t you get on my case too!” Laura shouted angrily as she chambered a round in her M-16.
Zatoichi listened carefully. “The terrorists are almost on us.”
Father and son stood next to each other holding rifles. “Bring it on.”

“What an eventful past couple hours,” Bush Sr. remarked.
“Quite a battle it was,” Dubya said, “One for the record books.”
“I’ll need to get my sword sharpened,” Ichi commented.
“And it sure was a surprise to find out who was behind the terrorist attack all along,” Barbara said.
“That was surprising,” Condi remarked.
“And it’s interesting how events came together to bring a better understanding between Barbara and me so now that we’re best friends,” Laura said.
“That was quite interesting,” Dubya commented.
“And I didn’t know you could disco dance like that, son,” Bush Sr. said to Dubya.
“When the honor of Outer-Mongolia is at stake, there is little I can’t do,” Dubya stated firmly.
“I’m also glad how all this taught me the true meaning of International Talk Like a Pirate Day,” Condi said, “To think I had been so obsessed with just the commercialism of that holiday.”
“I think we all learned many important things from those highly eventfully past couple hours,” Bush declared, “More than we can just casually remark about right now.”
Scott came running up towards them, covered in blood. “Well, I killed all the press.”
“What!” Dubya exclaimed in horror, “You were just supposed to threaten them!”
Scott started laughing. “I’m just covered in paint. I’d thought I’d play a joke on you like you do on me so we’d be like friends and all.”
“I’LL MURDER YOU FOR TRICKING ME!” Dubya screamed, grabbing Scott by the throat and shaking him, “I’M THE @%*& PRESIDENT! YOU DON’T DO THIS TO ME!”
Bush Sr. chuckled. “That’s my boy!”