“Powell, you look different,” Bush said, “More determined, fiercer, much scarier… and you’re wearing a skirt. I like it.”
“It’s me, Condoleezza Rice,” Condi stated, “I’ve replaced Colin Powell as Secretary of State, remember?”
“No, not all. And, since I forget what that is, I don’t care. So do you have some department to run or something? This is my pencil sharpening day and I don’t like to be bothered.”
“I run the State Department and handle diplomacy!” Condi shouted indignantly.
“Diplomacy,” Bush chuckled as he sharpened a pencil, “Well, have fun talking and writing memos and stuff, goober.”
“I’m going to take things in another direction,” Condi declared.
“Shh! Can’t hear the sharpening!”
Condi left the Oval Office and saw Donald Rumsfeld outside. “Now I’m a cabinet member like you,” she said cheerily.
“Bah!” Rumsfeld grumbled, “You’re Secretary of State. You have to talk to people and forge relations – women’s work! Why don’t you get to that and knitting while I plot the destruction of nations’ infrastructures.”
Condi growled and stomped off.

“Great,” Condi grumbled to herself, “My memo on the State Department’s new direction got blocked because our e-mail filter’s out vulgarity. I guess I’ll just have to set the new tone by burning something prominent and then announce our new mission statement: ‘Death to our enemies!'”
The phone rang at her desk. “What?” Condi demanded.
“It’s your auto mechanic, Dr. Rice. It’s going to take longer to get out those dents than I thought. What exactly did you hit?”
“A California Senator. What of it?”
“Well, there’s dents in the front and back…”
“And there is a little thing called the reverse gear. Now get it done!”

“This is your first diplomatic meeting,” Condi said to herself, “Now don’t get nervous.” She then walked into the office.
Jacques Chirac approached her with his hand extended. “I would like to say…”
A sharp punch sent Chirac to the floor gripping his bloody nose. “You have nothing to say that interests me,” Condi spat at him.
“You warmongering fool!” Chirac shouted as he got to his feet, “What are you doing?”
“Just getting off on the right foot!” Condi said as she kicked Chirac in the crotch.
“Aieee!” Chirac screeched, “You kicked me so hard, my testicles have swollen to the size of grapes!”
“Don’t bore me with your hyperbole,” Condi stated. “So, am I going to have problems with you?”
“Here; I surrender!” Chirac tossed some keys and a disk to Condi. “Here are the keys to our buildings and all our codes!”
Condi tossed them back at him. “You country is useless to me. Now stay out of the U.S.’s way.”
Chirac curled into a fetal position. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Off to a great start,” Condi smiled as she walked off.

“So, now I think you can understand how the Iraqi elections are a new turning point for the Middle East,” Condi said. She then turned to the Germans behind her. “Do you think he can hear me through the drywall?”
“Maybe you could remove his head from it?” suggested one German.
“I’ll take his head out of the wall when I want his head out of the wall!” Condi shouted.

“Condi!” Bush yelled, stopping her in the hallway, “While I was emptying out my pencil shavings, I heard that you’ve been beating up foreign diplomats and a news report that you’re the first Secretary of State to use a sock full of nickels in negotiations.”
“I’m making my own style,” Condi declared.
“I dunno…”
“I read it all in a book somewhere,” Condi assured.
“Well, as long as it’s from a book,” Bush said dubiously. “Still, how you put Abbas in the hospital for a week is going to slow down negotiations in Israel. On the other hand, I really wanted to spend that weekend playing videogames anyway, so good work.”
“Thanks.” Condi walked off.
Alberto Gonzales ran to Bush. “When do I get to be Attorney General?” Alberto demanded, “I want to torture terrorists!”
“I know; we all do,” Bush answered sympathetically, “but you have to wait until after your confirmation hearing during which the Democrats will all yell at you.”
“I’ll lock them up and torture them too!” Alberto swore.
“All in good time, my Mexican friend. All in good time.”

“Hey, democracy is fun and cool,” Buck the Marine said as he approached an Iraqi and handed out a pamphlet.
“What’s this say?” asked the Iraqi.
“I dunno; ain’t my job to read things,” Buck answered indignantly, “Come to think of it, ain’t my job to hand out pamphlets, but here I am. Anyway, why don’t you consider voting? You know, we’ve been here a while trying to set this up, and it ain’t exactly been a picnic.”
“Stop badgering people into voting!” said a U.N. official behind Buck, “It’s their choice whether to risk their lives for your failed experiment of democracy.”
“Hey, we worked hard on this – getting all shot and blown up – and we just want to help everyone vote without them getting hurt or nothing,” Buck answered, “Now you get out of here before you make a Marine mad!”
“Ha! You’re not allowed to harm me!” the U.N. official laughed.
Buck bowed his head. “Yeah, I was explicitly ordered not to harm the U.N.” When he looked up again, the U.N. official lay dead. “What happened?”
“What happened about what?” Rumsfeld asked as he put away his strangling gloves.
“Hey, it’s the Secretary of the Defense!” Buck exclaimed.
“Yeah, I decided to come here since this election is important,” Rumsfeld said, “If it goes well, Bush will let me start another war.” Rumsfeld walked to the Iraqi. “So are you going to vote?”
“Well, I’m afraid the Zarqawi’s people will…”
“Be afraid of me!” Rumsfeld shouted, “I will kill you if you don’t vote! Rarr!”
“Okay!” the Iraqi cried, cowering, “Who do you want me to vote for?”
“You’re supposed to choose him yourself!” Rumsfeld shouted, “Don’t you understand and appreciate democracy? Rarr!”
The Iraqi ran away in fear.
“Maybe you should just try handing out these pamphlets,” Buck suggested.
A little Iraqi boy tugged at Rumsfeld’s suit coat. “Can I vote?” he asked.
“No, you’re too young.”
“Can I vote when I’m older?” he asked hopefully.
“Only if your parents don’t screw things up. Now stop bothering me.”
“Here, I have something even better than voting,” Buck said, approaching the child, “Candy!” He gave the kid a Jolly Rancher.
“Yay!” the child exclaimed as he ran off, “I love Americans!”
“Doesn’t that give you a warm feeling inside?” Buck asked, smiling.
“Only whiskey does that,” Rumsfeld answered, “Let’s get to work now. I know there are terrorists trying to scare people from voting, so let’s scare them back. And by scare, I mean kill. We just have to wrap some towels around our heads and pretend to be terrorists to infiltrate their group.”
“But right now I’m assigned to…”
“I’m the Secretary of War! You will do as I say!”
“Yes sir!”

“Hi, I’m Rumhommed,” Rumsfeld said as he entered an Iraqi establishment, “and this is my friend, Buckmed the Marine. We want to help stop the vote.”
“Good!” said the terrorist, “We Islamic fundamentalists hate democracy, sunshine, rainbows, happiness, and puppy dogs and wish to stop them all. Follow me.”
The terrorist led them to another room. “Here are our three snipers. They will be very important in scaring people from voting. Thus we… Hey! They’ve all been strangled to death!”
“It happens,” Rumsfeld said putting away his strangling gloves, “So what else do you have here?”
“Well, luckily we have our bomb expert, Omar, standing over here,” the terrorist continued, “With just his efforts alone we will be able to… Ah! He’s been strangled as well!”
“Darn inconvenient, isn’t it?” Rumsfeld said, putting away his strangling gloves.
“I bet someone in our organization is working against us from the inside!” the terrorist declared, “Luckily, over here is the wise Ahkmed who will be able to ferret out the perpetrator. Now, Ahkmed… Aieee! He is now dead from strangling!”
“He’ll be missed,” Rumsfeld said, putting away his strangling gloves.
“Now all I have is our mascot, Chippers the monkey, to cheer me up,” the terrorist said in a depressed tone, “Why don’t you dance for us, Chippers… Oh no! He has been strangled dead now too! Who would strangle a monkey?”
“Someone in arms length, most likely,” Rumsfeld said, putting away his strangling gloves.
“That only leaves the three of us,” the terrorist said suspiciously, “and I know I didn’t strangle anyone. Thus, it’s one of you two! Now, Buckmed the Marine seems to have an honest face, but, as for you, Rumhommed… ack… erk.”
“There, everyone is dead,” Rumsfeld said, putting away his strangling gloves.
“But there are more terrorist groups,” Buck stated.
“If these Iraqis want independence, they have to learn to strangle people themselves,” Rumsfeld said as he walked out the building.
Buck looked over the town as the sun set. “This could be a great place if they get freedom along with some good ‘ole American know-how.”
“Whatever,” Rumsfeld growled, “Now let’s go to a bar and get as drunk as a Kennedy.”
“We aren’t allowed alcohol here,” Buck said.
“Then let’s smuggle in some booze like the Kennedys of old.”
“Ooh-rah!”
TO BE CONTINUED OVER THE WEEKEND AT AN IRAQ NEAR YOU, GOD WILLING