Chomps walked over to Rumsfeld and started gagging.
“What?” Rumsfeld asked with annoyance, “Are you too pansy-ass to swallow something?”
Chomps wanted to growl, but just gagged some more.
“I guess I better help you before you get mad at your own throat and tear it out,” Rumsfeld said as he walked over to Chomps and gave him the Heimlich maneuver. Chomps then coughed up what looked like a hairball.
The hairball then began to move. Then it made a noise. “Yipe! Yipe!”
Laura Bush ran over yelling in relief, “There’s Barney!” She then picked up the quivering little Scotty dog. She looked to Rumsfeld and shouted, “Your dog tried to swallow Barney again! I need him for my hilarious Christmas movies!”
“It’s not my Chomps’s fault your dog is so damn small and nearly swallowable,” Rumsfeld answered.
“Bad dog!” Laura yelled at Chomps and then hit him on the nose. “Bad bad dog!” She stormed away.
“You gonna take that from her?” Rumsfeld asked Chomps.
Chomps just snorted and lay down for the world’s angriest nap.

“We need to do something about Fallujah,” Bush said to Condi, “but we have to make sure we don’t kill any innocent Iraqis.”
“I have the perfect thing,” Condi stated as she turned on a projector, “It’s the ‘Kill Only Bad People’ bomb.”
“That’s exactly what we need!” Bush exclaimed, but then looked at the image more suspiciously. “Hey! That’s just a nuclear bomb with the words ‘Kills Only Bad People’ crudely written on the side. You’re trying to trick me into using nukes again! I’m ashamed of you, Condi; you used to try a lot harder to trick me than this.”
“I have that 9/11 commission to prepare for,” Condi said defensively.
Rumsfeld then walked in the Oval Office. “What do you think we should do about Fallujah, Rummy?” Bush asked.
“Nuke ’em!”
“As part of compassionate conservatism,” Bush stated, “I make sure my carnage is focused. I’m leaving it to the Marines to go in there and get just the bad people.”

“How do we tell the good Iraqis from the bad Iraqis, Buck?” Gomez asked.
“The bad ones will be foreign,” Buck the Marine answered.
“Buck, that ain’t PC,” Gomez said, “We’re supposed to call them ‘nationally challenged’.”
“Whatever you call ’em, I sure don’t like it how they killed those people and mutilated their corpses,” Johnson stated angrily.
“I don’t like it either,” Buck said, “If people dragged my burnt corpse around, I’d kill ’em!”
“But you’d be dead,” Gomez pointed out.
“That don’t matter; a Marine will find a way to kill even if he’s dead. Did I ever tell you about how my Grandpappy, Jebediah the Marine, killed three Germans after he died?”
“We all heard the story about the shipping mishap after your grandfather died while vacationing in Berlin,” Johnson answered.
Buck nodded proudly. “All sons of Nazis.”

“Let’s turn on the news and see how the Marines are doing,” Bush stated.
“Don’t you have someone to brief on that?” Condi asked.
“Yeah, but he ain’t talking to me after I played a practical joke on him.”
“How long was he in the hospital?”
“Never mind that,” Bush snapped, and then turned on the T.V. “Dammit! It’s one of those John Kerry commercials!”
Black and white images of crying children were shown as a voice over said, “Bush has lost millions of jobs, botched the war on terror, and is too god-durn chicken to meet El Murdero for a stand off at high noon in a town at the Texas-Mexican border.”
Next came John Kerry’s voice. “I’m John Kerry, and I approved this message… for now.”
“You hear that!” Bush exclaimed, “I’ve been challenged! If I don’t meet it, everyone will think I’m a coward. I might even lose the Texan vote!”
“Who’s El Murdero?” Condi asked.
“Some bandito I signed off the death sentence for while governor of Texas,” Bush explained, “He escaped to Mexico and always vowed revenge.”
“So now John Kerry has hired him to taunt you into a trap,” Condi said.
“And it will work because I’m dumb,” Bush said as he put on his cowboy hat and duster. “You two get ready.”
“Why would we help you?” Rumsfeld asked while Condi nodded.
“Uh… well El Murdero said you’re a pansy, Rummy,” Bush told him as he put on his gun belt.
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled as he punched a hole in the wall.
“And he said Condi is fat,” Bush added.
“Dead man walking!” Condi declared, “I’ll get my M-16 with the grenade launched.”
“Condi… Condi… Condi…,” Bush chuckled as he shook his head, “This is a Wild West shoot-out, you silly goose. You walk into it with an M-16, and everyone will just laugh at you. Make sure any rifle you bring is either lever-action or pump-action.”
Laura then looked through the doorway. “Are you getting ready for a shootout, George?”
“If I’m not killed, I’ll be back by this evening, dear,” Bush answered.
“Well, no twirling your gun; that’s dangerous.”
“Yes, dear,” Bush said, rolling his eyes.
“And what kind of gun are you bringing?”
“A single action army, dear.”
“You make sure to only load five bullets in it and have the hammer resting on an empty chamber.”
“Okay, dear.”
“You should really think about buying a gun with a transfer-bar safety,” Laura said sternly.
“But then it wouldn’t be an authentic Old West gun,” Bush whined.
“We’ll see how much you care about that after you’ve blown your foot off,” Laura stated and then walked off.
“Wuss,” Rumsfeld grunted.
“Let’s get going,” Bush said.
“Wait,” Condi interrupted, “Is this place in Texas or Mexico?”
Bush shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly, his desk fell apart. There, with pieces of the desk in his mouth, was Chomps wearing his blue U.N. peacekeeper helmet.
“Chomps is right,” Rumsfeld said, “He should come along as a U.N. observer so we don’t get nagged.”
“Fine,” Bush declared, “Now it’s time for people to die… hopefully other people.”

A tumbleweed rolled by them as the three came to a sign saying, “Welcome to Texaco.”
“Right on the border,” Bush said. He looked to the town’s clock. “Not quite noon. Let’s stop in the saloon and try to get some information.”
When they entered the saloon, the bartender called out, “Hey. Three gringos! Would you like some tequila?”
“I’m a recovering alcoholic,” Bush answered as he sat down, “Just a beer, please.”
Chomps growled.
“He’ll have the tequila,” Rumsfeld told the bartender, “and bring the whole bottle if you like your limbs.”
“Si senor.”
“Your dog better not be an angry drunk,” Bush said and scanned the crowd who stared at him menacingly. “Looks like a nice community.” He then just barely ducked in time to miss being cut with a knife. Bush turned to see his attacker and exclaimed, “Hey! It’s my old friend, the Mexican! Remember when you were VP?”
“And remember when I told you if I saw you again, I’d cut you?”
Bush shook his head.
“Stupid gringo!” the Mexican yelled, “Because of you, this town is ruined! First, this snotty Frenchman who kept mentioning how he was a waiter in Vietnam comes by…”
“John Kerry!” Bush, Condi, and Rumsfeld all exclaimed.
“Yeah, that was his name,” the Mexican continued, “and then he hires El Murdero and a bunch of banditos to kill you. Now, with all the banditos in town, we’re losing tourist dollars!”
“Don’t worry my nationally challenged friend,” Bush stated, “We’re here to rid the town of those banditos.”
“Probably get your own head blown off,” the Mexican laughed, “Then I’ll dance around my sombrero.”
“You shouldn’t put your hat on the ground,” Bush said, “It’s dirty.” The town clocked then chimed. “It’s time,” Bush announced as he stood up, “We’ll finish this conversation later, Mexican.”
“I’m not thinking so.”
Bush, Condi, Rumsfeld, and Chomps wandered into the street. “What’s the plan?” Condi asked.
“We stand out in the open, and then, when the banditos shoot at us, we’ll know where they are and can shoot them back.”
“What if they hit us when they first shoot?” Condi asked angrily.
Bush thought about that one a bit. “I don’t think that’s allowed.”
Rumsfeld fired his double-barreled shotgun. “I saw something move, so I shot it. That’s my policy.”
Gunfire erupted everywhere, and Rumsfeld ran for cover as he shot his shotgun and reloaded. Condi kept moving while firing her lever-action rifle. Bush stayed walking through the center of town, firing at whoever appeared. “Take that you evil bandito!” Bush yelled as he fired his gun. It clicked empty. “Dammit! I forgot I only loaded five!” he yelled as jumped for cover. “Stupid thing is so damn hard to reload,” Bush said as he emptied the casings out of his peacemaker as bullets hit all around him. He saw Chomps sitting nearby, wearing his blue helmet and wagging his tail. “Aren’t you going to help?” Bush asked him.
Chomps growled angrily.
“Fine!” Bush exclaimed, rolling his eyes, “You’re just here to observe,”
The firing at Bush stopped. “Come out, Mr. Bush!” called the unmistakable voice of El Murdero.
“Time to carry out your sentence,” Bush said as he stood up.
“It’s just you and me, Mr. Bush,” El Murdero said as his right handle dangled over the handle of his holstered gun, “You’re friends are pinned down.”
“Then I guess it’s a standoff,” Bush said, his hand hovering over his holster.
They stared each other in the eyes, and then El Murdero went for his gun. Before he touched it, a gunshot sounded from off to Bush’s side, and El Murdero fell dead. Walking out into the open was the Mexican carrying a shotgun.
“I could have taken him myself!” Bush yelled.
“Look at your holster, you stupid gringo,” the Mexican answered.
Bush looked down to see that his holster was empty. “Whoopsie-doodle,” he said with a grin as he walked back over to the barrel to pick up his gun.
Rumsfeld and Condi then came towards him. “We’re done kill’n,” Rumsfeld announced, “In this town, at least.”
“Good, then you can leave,” the Mexican said, “All this shooting had scared away the tourists. Now I want to open one of those coffee shops with the couches and the ambiance and s**t that you stupid gringos like.”
“Good luck with that,” Bush said to him, “I’ll see you around.”
“If that happens, I CUT YOU!”

“The 308,000 jobs created in March, the number of terrorists killed and captured, and the more than a dozen dead banditos in Texaco prove that everything in John Kerry’s ad is a falsehood,” White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan announced.
“With what happened in Fallujah,” said one reporter, “will you now say that Iraq is a quagmire.”
Scott sighed loudly. “No, we will not say it is now a ‘quagmire’. Any other questions?”
There was a silence for about ten seconds, and then the same reporter asked, “How about now?”
“Okay. I’m outta here.”