“PARTY!” Bush screamed as he jumped around his office. Rumsfeld drank some whiskey while Cheney and Condi danced to a techno beat. “We did it! We handed over Iraq.”
An aide ran into the room. “A giant mutant squid is attacking Iraq at the behest of the Legion of Doom!”
“Not our problem anymore!” Bush shouted, “Now get out of here! We’re celebrating!”
Chomps ran into the room with Clinton’s portrait in his mouth and started angrily tearing it apart. “That’s some good celebrating!” Bush commented. “Who couldn’t be happy right now?”

“Jeeves!” Kerry yelled at his butler, “Has there been any bad news from Iraq yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Argh!” Kerry screamed, “I served in Vietnam!”
“Yes, I know, sir.”

“I would like to remind you,” Scott McClellan told Bush, “that there are still terrorists loose in Iraq, that Osama bin Laden is still at large, that…”
“Hey, Scott!” Bush shouted, “See if you can catch this paperweight with your head!” Bush threw the paperweight, hitting Scott in forehead and knocking him unconscious.
“He was supposed to give a press conference, you know,” Condi said.
“Whatever,” Bush answered, “I’ll just do it.”

“Melinda Hawkish from Fox News. So, Mr. President, does the hand off in power mean we’ll being getting ready for another war soon and thus have more cool war footage?”
“I hope so,” Bush answered, “It really is a great day for the Iraqi people and especially for me. I feel so good, I’m going to beat the crap out of a reporter.”
“I have a question about Abu Grahib,” said a reporter.
“Thank you for volunteering,” Bush said and then leapt on the reporter and started pummeling him. “Make sure you don’t misquote me! Heh heh!”
“Bush baaaad,” came a groan. Bush looked up to see horrible zombie creatures headed at him.
“Just when you’re having a great day,” Bush grumbled, “zombies attack.”
The zombies were almost onto Bush when Zatoichi jumped into the fray, cutting them all down with his cane sword.
Bush sighed in relief. “And to think of all the officials who said I shouldn’t hire a blind Yakuza gangster as a Secret Service agent.”
“I smelt evil, so I came. Now you pay me ten ryo.”
“But…”
In a blink of an eye, Ichi drew and resheathed his sword while Bush’s tie fell in two. “Fine,” Bush said as he handed over the gold coins. “Now we better go find out what this is about. To the batcave!”
“The what?”
“Uh… the war room, I mean.”

“Clancy, you’re my intelligence guy; what’s this about?” Bush asked.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Clancy said, “but these zombies are creatures known as Moore-ons – easily influenced liberals zombified by Michael Moore’s propaganda piece Fahrenheit 9/11.”
“Who the hell is Michael Moore?” Bush asked.
“An experiment gone bad,” Clancy said ominously, “The liberals were always trying to create their own Rush Limbaugh since Limbaugh first became a success. To this end, they got some Limbaugh DNA from a discarded cigar. The genes were incomplete, though, and they finished the chromosomes with genes from warthog, gorilla, and skunk DNA. Thus came about the hideous creation known as Michael Moore.”
“Where did you get all this information?”
“Off the internet from a bunch of sites that didn’t have sources. Anyway, we know that Michael Moore is currently on his sail barge flying over a desert in California while hosting a number of high-profile celebrities.”
“And I bet if we defeat him, he’ll lose his influence over the Moore-ons,” Bush concluded.
“Sure, why not,” Clancy said, “Anyway, it’s time for lunch.”
“What are you having?”
“That’s classified.” Clancy left the room.
“Rumsfeld, Ichi, Chomps – we’re all going to sneak onto that sail barge,” Bush stated.
“What about me?” Condi asked.
Bush patted her on the head. “You’re just a girl. Why don’t you stay here and bake us a pie for when we return.”
Condi growled.
“Oh, and if Scott comes out of his coma before I get back, you put on the ape mask to greet him as he wakes.”

“Now remember,” Bush said as they entered the sail barge, “I’m Rick Iron, movie action star. Rumsfeld, you Israel Goldstein, Jewish producer. Chomps, you’re Crazy Jaw, Native American punk rocker. Oh, and Zatoichi, for your part you’ll have to pretend to be deaf.”
“You’re an idiot,” Ichi said.
“Now let’s all keep our cool. Something else to mention: the psychobabble liberal speak has evolved into its own language known as Liberalese which many here speak. Luckily, I’m multi-language-al.”
A man with white skin and what looked like two tentacles on his head walked towards the four of them. “Die Wanna Wanga!” he demanded.
“We’ve come to see Michael Moore,” Bush answered, “We’ve brought gifts of fatty foods.”
“Nee Moore no badda. Me chaade su goodie.” The servant reached for the foods.
“Hey, grabby, we’re only giving them to Moore in person!” Bush yelled.
The man looked angry, but then motioned for them to follow. “Nudd Chaa.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ichi uttered.
“I just have to say that Moore fans sure are weird looking,” Bush whispered back.
They soon came to the main room where a number of celebrities were partying and saying how much they hated Bush. At the end of the room was a large platform on which the corpulent Michael Moore rested his bulk. Seated on the platform near his feet was a deranged looking Al Franken laughing hysterically. Moore reached into a bowl near him and pulled out a creature that looked like a frog and swallowed it whole, slime trailing down his mouth.
“Just act calm,” Bush said, “First we’ll…”
“I’ll strangle you, you fat bastard! Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled as he leapt at Michael Moore. “Neck… too fat… to get… hands around…”
“Try using a chain!” Bush suggested.
“I only strangle with my hands!” Rumsfeld answered.
Chomps ran to help, but a large metal cage trapped him. He gnawed at the bars but it was no use.
“Ho ho ho,” Moore laughed as Rumsfeld gave up his useless strangling attempt, “Kaa bazza kundee hodrudda.”
Green pig guards with axes surrounded Bush, Rumsfeld, and Ichi. “These are either weird pig mutants,” Bush said, “or teamsters.”
“Sometimes I’m glad I can’t see,” Ichi commented.
“Hee hee hee,” Al Franken giggled.
“Chone manya weesh asha beecho,” Moore laughed.
“So what did he just say?” Rumsfeld asked.
“Uh… something about car rentals… I think.”
“We live through this, I’m strangling you!”

Bush, Ichi, and Rumsfeld had their hands bound and were on a skiff floating near the barge. In front of them was a plank extended over South Central L.A. Below, they could see gang bangers just waiting to bust a cap in their asses.
“You do have to say, it was an interesting presidency,” Bush said.
“Wherever you end up in the afterlife,” Rumsfeld answered, “I will find you and hurt you. And poor Chomps; he’s locked in the storage on the barge where it’s too dark for him to see anything to be angry at. That will make him angry.”
Drugged hippy guards started ushering them with spears to jump off the plank. Suddenly a gunshot was heard, and Ichi’s bonds were gone. His cane sword was then tossed to him, and he immediately cut down the hippies and freed Bush and Rumsfeld with a couple quick strokes.
On top of the barge stood Condi with a rifle. “Condi!” Bush exclaimed, “Did you bring the pie?”
“I’m here to save your asses, idiot!”
“Well, we’re fine now,” Bush answered, “We’re perfectly in con…” Bush slipped and fell off the barge, Rumsfeld barely grabbing him in time. Bush then saw Terry McAuliffe sneaking up behind Zatoichi.
“Terry McAuliffe!” Bush shouted.
“Terry McAuliffe?! Terry McAuliffe?! Where?” Ichi then swung back and accidentally hit McAuliffe with his cane, knocking him off the skiff to the streets below.
Condi took the large mounted gun on top of the barge, pointed it to the deck, and kicked it to start it firing. She then swung over to the skiff just as Rumsfeld pulled Bush up. “Let’s get out of here!” Bush yelled as he sent the skiff flying away from the exploding barge.
“Nooooooo!!!” Moore shouted as the barge went crashing into the ground.
“Yay!” Bush yelled, “We blew up Moore and countless other celebrities. Now let’s stop at supermarket because I really had my heart set on a pie.”

“I survived!” Moore exclaimed as he lay in the smoldering ruins of the barge. “Too bad I’m too fat to upright myself. Wait, there’s a Native American punk rocker coming this way; maybe he’ll help me. He looks angry, though… very angry…
AHHH! NOT AGAIN!!!”