President Bush was in sitting in the Oval Office in his PJs, posting on his blog…
“And… that’s… why… all… lib’ruls… suck… Save!”
Just then, a very pleased Karl Rove emerged from the shadows.
“Sir, the prophecy that once predicted your dooom now has a brighter future in store for you. Your polls are up.”
“Karl? I thought that you were indicted and stuff. I even turned your office into a playroom for Barney!”
“Yes, I know; I discovered an early Christmas gift in my inbox this morning.”
“You can’t say that!” the President gasped. “It’s not politically correct!”
“Oh, God…”
“You can’t say that, either!”
Just then, Bush’s face was met by a swift back-hand.
“George, what did I tell you about political correctness?” inquired an exasperated Condi Rice.
“That only hippies and college professors pay it any mind?”
“Exactly. Now come on, we have to go fight the War on Christmas!”
“But I thought that Christmas was good!” Bush said before being slapped again.
“No, the war was started by left-wing zealots and big retail merchants; we’re defending Christmas.”
“Oh, all right. Let’s go!”
“And put on something first. That Curious George pattern doesn’t really become you.”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” Bush griped.

The President, the Secretary of State and Karl Rove waited at the landing pad.
“I think you’ll like my new helicopter,” boasted Bush. “It’s radio-controlled, and it makes five different weapon sounds!”
“Yes, but does it actually fire weapons, per se?” asked Condi sceptically.
“Do malted milkball machine guns count?”
“Dooooom!!!” Karl Rove bellowed.
Just then, a thunderous crash filled the area with dust and débris.
“A perfect landing!” Bush stated proudly.
“I’m flying,” said Condi.

“Look, children! It’s Santa!” said a young mother with several younglings in tow.
“Ho, ho, ho! Happy holidays! Come and tell Santa what you want for the religious celebration of your choice,” St. Nick declared.
“Something’s not right…” the young mother said to herself.
TO BE CONTINUED…