President Bush suddenly looked up from his desk to Condoleezza Rice. “Okay, I’ve decided to give the Israelis the go ahead to kill Yassin.”
“Uh, they already did that,” Condi answered, “and some people are pointing fingers at you saying you gave them permission.”
“But that’s a dirty lie!” Bush shouted, “Find whoever is saying that and have them killed; you have my permission.”
“We need to be more worried about Iraq right now,” Condi told him.
“That’s in secure hands,” Bush assured her.

“You’re trying to blow us up!” Buck the Marine accused the man.
“No I’m not.”
“That’s a bomb right there in your hands!”
“No it isn’t.”
“But it has lots of wires and stuff and a big part labeled ‘C4’,” Buck answered.
“Lot’s of things could be labeled C4.”
“And you’re wearing an al Qaeda t-shirt,” Buck yelled.
“It was on sale.”
Buck stared suspiciously at the man for a while. “I’m pretty sure you’re foreign, and I’m going to keep my eye on you!”

“And have you heard about Richard Clarke and all the things he has been saying about our administration?” Condi asked.
“Richard Clarke?” Bush said with confusion.
“He used to work for you,” Condi reminded him.
“Uh…”
“Had some advice on terrorism… Tried to get a talk with you on cyber terrorism…” Condi prompted.
“Oh!” Bush exclaimed, “Douche Bag! I remember him. How’s ‘ole Douche Bag doing?”
“He’s quit and he’s saying lies about us!” Condi exclaimed in frustration.
Bush thought about that for a moment. “If he quit, that means the nickname ‘Douche Bag’ is freed up.” He saw White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan walk buy. “Hey, Scott!” Bush called out, “You’re new nickname is ‘Douche Bag’!”
“Why?” Scott complained.
“Quit whining Douche Bag!” Bush answered as Scott stormed off.
“Shouldn’t we be focusing on what Clarke is saying about us?” Condi said impatiently.
Bush leaned back in his chair and sipped at some lemonade. “You need to relax Condi,” Bush told her, “This will all blow over.”
“So you aren’t worried about it affecting you’re reelection in November?” Condi asked.
Bush sprung out of his chair, dropping his lemonade. “That’s this year!” he shouted, “Holy st! I’m fked!” He scrambled to turn on the T.V. On screen was Richard Clarke giving another interview to Lesley Stahl.
“Remember, the best BS is CBS,” Stahl said, “and now we’re back with Richard Clarke. So, Clarke, the Bush administration completely bungled the War on Terror, right?”
“Yes they did,” Clarke answered, “by not following absolutely all the advice I gave them.”
“And you said their staff was incompetent?” Stahl asked.
“Correct. When I first mentioned al Qaeda to Condoleezza Rice, she appeared to not to even have heard of it.”
“How so?”
“Well,” Clarke said, thinking for a moment, “she just stared at me blankly for a few moments, a little drool came out her mouth, and then she tilted her head to the side while asking in a valley girl like voice, ‘Is al Qaeda like some sort of hair product?'”
Bush started laughing. “That sounded just like you.” He then looked at Condi who appeared ready to explode. “Uh oh.”

“Thank you for belittling the Bush administration,” Kerry said to Clarke, “You shall be rewarded in the future. For now, you will be in charge of the Heinz flying fortress which will bombard America with leaflets from above and shout my slogans through loudspeakers.”
“I am proud to serve you, my master,” Clarke answered. “To evil!” he then shouted.
“To evil!” Kerry answered. He then turned to his butler. “Jeeves, my face is sagging.”
“I’ll take care of it sir,” the Butler answered, injecting Botox into Kerry’s face.
“There, that will preserve my French-lookingness,” Kerry said with satisfaction, “Now I shall leave via helicopter.”
When Kerry turned around, he bumped into one of his Secret Service agents. “You stupid, f**king son of a bitch!” Kerry shouted.
“Geez,” the agent answered, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you take that tone of voice with me!” Kerry yelled, “Don’t you know who I am? My wife is rich! I served in Vietnam! My initials are the same as John Kennedy! You will show me respect!”
Kerry then stormed out of the room while the Secret Service gradually followed.
Clarke admired his flying fortress of evil and ketchup until he heard some explosions and the place began to become unstable. “What’s happening?” Clarke exclaimed.
In the room walked a ninja.
“Where are my guards?” Clarke asked.
An object skidded across the floor to Clarke’s feet. It was a Desert Eagle, the slide locked on an empty magazine.
“Who are you?” Clarke demanded.
The ninja pulled off her mask. It was Condoleezza Rice. “So this is what you have traded your soul for!” she said angrily, “Well I shall destroy it, as I shall destroy you for your calumny against me and the administration.”
Clarke laughed evilly. “You think you can take me on, little woman? There is but one jetpack to escape from here, so I guess we must settle this as all disputes between defense consultants are – by way of the samurai!” Clarke drew his katana.
“So be it,” Condi answered, drawing her sword.
They quickly clashed blades as the fortress exploded about them. Clarke was strong and had the greater reach and soon had Condi on the defensive. She kept blocking, but the sword was struck from her hand. Clarke reeled back for the killing blow, but, when he swung, Condi rolled out of the way. Clarke lost balance and tumbled towards a hole that had been blown open in the floor, he barely grabbed on to the edge keeping him from falling to the flames below.
Clarke looked up to see Condi standing above him. “Mercy!” he cried.
Condi tilted her head to the side. “Duh! What’s that?” she said before kicking him in the face.

“Is it true that the Bush administration has sunk Kerry’s flying fortress into the sea?” a reporter asked.
“It’s a presidential campaign,” Scott answered, “and sometime flying fortresses get sunk into the sea. If Kerry wasn’t prepared for that, he shouldn’t have sought the nomination.”
“Was the attack in vengeance over Richard Clarke’s remarks?” another reporter inquired.
“Clarke had said a number of things that weren’t quite true,” Scott said, “and it could only be expected that we respond with overwhelming violence.”
Melinda Hawkish of Fox News then stood up. “Now, Douche Bag…”
“You don’t have to use Bush’s nickname for me,” Scott interrupted with annoyance.
Melinda looked confused. “Bush calls you that?”

Yassin looked all about him at the splendor of Heaven. “Those joooos may have killed me, but now I am a martyr in Paradise!” he exclaimed. “And I can walk again! Praise Allah!” He then danced about.
There before him stood God. Yassin approached saying, “Allah, I…”
“Call me ‘sir'”, God said curtly.
“Sir, I have come for my rewards as a martyr.”
“Yeah, I like you martyrs,” God chuckled, “You guys are easy to handle.” God reached behind his podium and then produced a bowl which he handed to Yassin. “Here are your raisins.”
“Raisins?” Yassin said with confusion, “I thought I got virgins!”
“Nope, common misinterpretation,” God said, “The deal is 72 raisins for martyrdom– and you actually have 68 since I ate a few of them while you were dilly-dallying. You don’t mind sharing with the Creator of the universe, right?”
“No… I guess not.”
“Now, see that corner over there?” God asked as he pointed to a dark, dank corner nearby, “That’s where you go. I like to keep all the “martyrs” separate so you don’t talk all the time and pass notes.”
“Well, at least I can walk again,” Yassin said.
“No, you sit,” God commanded, “over in that corner and quietly eat your raisins… and try to nurse them a bit because you need to make them last all eternity.”
“What happens when they’re gone?” Yassin asked, now looking a little worried.
“You can do anything you want,” God told him, “as long as you stay in your corner, be quiet, and don’t move much.”
Dejected, Yassin walked over to his corner and sat down, staring a bit angrily at God. He then noticed a little hand pull away from his bowl of raisins.
“Ooh! Ooh!” said a monkey as it scampered off with a handful of Yassin’s raisins.
“That monkey stole some of my raisins!” Yassin shouted.
“That’s crazy talk,” God answered, “There are no monkeys in Heaven. You’re just trying to trick me into giving you more raisins. Well, the deal is 72, and that’s all you get. Now be quiet; I have someone else coming for his rewards in Heaven.”
An Israeli walked up to God. “Man, I just got blown up by a suicide bomber,” he complained.
“Sorry about that,” God said, “Those Palestinians sure love their raisins. Frankly, I spent a long time making grapes nice and tasty, and I have no idea why they want them shriveled up into little raisins. Anyway, I’ll make up your getting blown up with your rewards in Heaven.” God reached into a box. “What size t-shirt do you want.”
“I’ll take a large.”
“Here you go,” God said, handing over a t-shirt, “It says ‘Heaven: It’s a fun place to be.’ – I didn’t come up with the slogan – and that’s just the start of your rewards. Here’s a Rolex.”
The Israeli accepted the gold watch. “Wow! That’s a great watch!”
“Of course it is,” God said, “It’s a Rolex. Also, you get to pick a prize from one of the mystery boxes on that table over there.”
There was a table with three boxes marked with question marks labeled 1, 2, and 3. The Israeli studied them for a moment. “I’ll take box number three.”
God walked behind the box and carefully titled it up so he could see under. “Sorry, but there is nothing under this box… EXCEPT FOR THE KEYS TO A NEW SPORTS CAR!”
“Kickass!” the Israeli exclaimed as he took the keys, “I’m glad I picked that box!”
“Actually, they all had keys to sports cars under them,” God chuckled, “I just like doing that. Anyway, have a drive around Heaven and check out all the hotspots. Parking is free everywhere, by the way. And, if you need anything, just ask me; I’m omnipresent and you never should feel like you’re bothering me.”
“Thanks God!” the Israeli said with glee, “You’re the greatest!”
“I know,” God answered as he watched the Israeli run off.
Yassin sat in his corner and looked on the scene with anger. “That joooo got a t-shirt, a Rolex, and a sports car, and all I got was this lousy bowl of raisins.” A thought then struck Yassin. He raised his fist in the air while shouting, “Allah is a joooooo…”
A bumper slammed into Yassin, cutting him off mid “jooooooo!” “My back is broke!” Yassin screamed, “I’m a quadriplegic again!”
“Dude, I’m so sorry,” the Israeli exclaimed out the window of his sports car, “This is my first time using a stick-shift.”