Somewhere in the former Soviet province of Communych, super-secret agent Joe Wilson’s wife is suspended by wires over pressure sensitive tiles in the database of this evil country’s headquarters. Unbeknownst to her, the phone rings in the other room.
“This is Karl Rove,” said a mysterious voice on the other line, “Joe Wilson’s wife is a CIA agent.”
“Why does this concern us?” demanded the captain of the guards who answered the phone.
“I don’t know,” answered the voice with a chuckle, “Just telling everyone.” Then the line went dead at the other end.
“One of the cameras is out,” said a guard, “Is that a glitch?”
“No, I think I know why we got that phone call,” said the guard captain, “We are being attacked by the mysterious agent known only as ‘Joe Wilson’s Wife.'”
“I thought she was just an urban legend,” another guard, “I mean… other than that she posed in Vanity Fair.”
The guard captain watched as more cameras went out. “I wish that were so.”
“Well, we finally know her identity!” shouted a guard, “She’s the wife of Joe Wilson! What do we do?”
The power suddenly went out.
Unseen in the darkness, the captain took a sip a vodka. “Wait for death.”

“Karl Rove risked my wife’s life by outing her as a CIA agent!” Joe Wilson yelled at President Bush.
“I understand your anger,” Bush said, “but still…” Bush took out a bat and hit Joe Wilson in the stomach, causing him to fall to the ground and curl up in a ball. “…you’re a partisan hack — you only got to come talk to me because your wife recommended it – and, when I meet a partisan hack face-to-face, I hit him with a bat. That’s my policy, Joey. Now crawl out of here before you vomit on the Oval Office carpet!”
Once Joe Wilson was outside, Bush called out, “Rover, did you really rat on Joe Wilson’s wife?”
The hooded figure of Karl Rove emerged from the shadows. “My ways are mysterious.”
“You rascal,” Bush chuckled, “Well, hopefully there won’t be any political fallout.”
Scott McClellan ran into the Oval Office. “The press keep hounding me about Rove! I don’t know what to do! It’s just question after question after question…”
Scott was silenced by a baseball bat to his gut which caused him to fall to the floor and curl up in a ball.
Dick Cheney entered the office and stepped over Scott. “This is trouble. We need get the press off of this subject.”
“Maybe I could fire Karl Rove,” Bush suggested.
Rove pointed at Bush and there was a low rumbling noise. Bush then started choking.
“On… ack… second thought… ergh… that’s a bad idea.”
Rove lowered his hand and Bush rubbed his sore throat. “I know!” he finally exclaimed, “I’ll eat and eat and eat until I become the World’s Fattest Man! That will push this all out of the headlines.” Bush ran from the room.
Cheney looked to Rove. “We never did give him the actual nuclear launch codes, right?”

“Mmm… ice cream!” Bush said between shoveling ice cream into his mouth.
“George!” Laura exclaimed as she entered the kitchen, “What are you doing eating so much ice cream?” She then turned suspicious. “Are you trying to become the World’s Fattest Man again to distract from a political scandal?”
“No; are you?” he shot back.
Once Bush picked himself up the floor, he said more calmly, “How about I compromise and just become the fattest President. I forget; would I be aiming to become fatter than Taft or Bill Clinton?”
“You should go out and talk to the press like a real president,” Laura said as she rubbed her knuckles.
“Aww… all right.”

“So, go ahead and ask your dumb questions you stupids,” Bush told the press.
“I’m from the New York Times and…” A bat to the reporter’s stomach caused him to fall to the ground and curl up in a ball. Everyone looked on in shock.
“What?” Bush demanded, setting back down the bat, “Didn’t I explain to you all what happens when I meet a partisan hack face-to-face?”