“I will make New Orleans a chocolate town again!” Mayor Ray Nagin said. “And, if time permits, I will add a chewy nougat center. The important thing to remember, though, is that God hit us with a hurricane to punish the black community for its violence. He was also punishing us for the illegal war in Iraq; the reason he hasn’t attacked Bush, though, is because God is an elitist Who has a double standard for rich white men!”
The heavens then opened up and a loud voice boomed, “How dare you try and pin this on Me, you incompetent boob! I wasn’t the one Who left all those buses underwater!”
A giant hand then came from the heavens and started thrashing Nagin about. Pat Robertson emerged from the crowd and shouted, “God must be punishing Nagin because he’s a homosexual!”
“You shut up!” God responded. “You’re next!”
Bush changed the channel on the TV. Gore was on screen giving a speech. “Bush needs to be investigated to see if those NSA wiretaps are illegal… which they were!” Gore thrashed his arms around in threatening fashion. “Gore-bot has determined Bush is threat! Gore-bot destroy! Bush is ruining America… the same as iPod Nanos! Those are a conspiracy to control our brains!”
One of the hobos on the street corner watching him coughed.
“How dare you interrupt me!”
Bush chuckled. “Somewhere sits an unopened bottle of meds prescribed to Albert Gore.”
Condoleezza Rice entered the room. “Are you watching TV?”
“I’m watching the news and not cartoons this time! Honest!”
Condi turned off the TV. “Nagin and Gore count as cartoons. You need to confront Iran about their nuclear program.”
Bush groaned. “But I don’t wanna! You think you can tell me what to do just because you’re my vice-president, but you can’t!”
“I’m the Secretary of State.”
“Oh… so how are all the states doing? I’ve been having some concern about Vermont.”
Condi rolled her eyes. “I deal with foreign affairs, moron.”
“Oh yeah… just like Powell did.” Bush thought for a moment. “So what’s it with black people and being the Secretary of State?”
Condi tossed a phone at Bush. “Just call the President of Iran… and make sure to use your threatening voice.”
“But I hate using the phone,” Bush grumbled as he began to dial the phone. “I never know when the NSA is spying on me.” Bush put the phone to his ear. “Hello, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? This is President George W. Bush.”
“What do you want, infidel?”
“I heard you guys are starting a nuclear program, and I don’t quite cotton to that.”
“We’re just making nuclear power plants, American pig-dog.”
“Okay; that’s cool.” Bush hung up the phone and turned to Condi. “It’s just for nuclear power.”
“Idiot!” Condi yelled at him. “Are you just going to take their word on that? The Iranian government is evil!”
“Fine; I’ll call him back, but now I’ll just feel like I’m bugging him.” Bush redialed. “Hey, Mahmoud, it’s Dubya again.”
“You’re trying my patience, infidel.”
“Yeah, well, I was just wondering what you guys need all that nuclear power for?”
“To kill joooos.”
“Okay; as long as you have an explanation.” Bush hung up the phone and leaned back in his seat as he yawned. He then suddenly sprung to his feet. “Wait! Killing Jews is bad!”
“That’s why we need to do something,” Condi asserted.
“Can’t we just turn a blind eye to Israel and let them handle it like they did with Iraq’s nuclear program?”
“No, because they’d have to fly over Iraq to reach Iran, which means we’d have to explicitly give them permission.”
Bush shook his fist in the air. “Stupid geography! Always working against me! I guess we’ll have to do something, then. Summon the Rumsfeld with the Rumsfeld signal!”
“Donald!” Condi yelled out.
A angry rottweiler ran into the room and tore apart a chair with vengeance. Soon walked in Donald Rumsfeld. “Chomps is full of rage; that means a new war is near.”
“Well, we do need to do something about Iran,” Bush said.
“We have plans for that,” Rumsfeld answered. “We’ll infect the populace with a virus that turns them into man-eating zombies who will tear each other apart. My grandson got the idea from a videogame.”
“No more zombie plagues!” Bush shouted. “Anyway, a lot of the populace is pro-America and we shouldn’t hurt them.”
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled as he punched a whole in the wall. “My job is to kill people! If you want people not killed, you talk to someone else!” Rumsfeld then stormed out of the room. Chomps snarled and then followed him.
“I guess some hard diplomacy is the only answer,” Bush answered, “Let’s send a fruit basket to Mahmoud with a note asking him to pretty please stop his nuclear program… and let’s poison the fruit.”
“And what do you expect that to accomplish?” Condi asked.
“I don’t think through my actions,” Bush said, “The enemy can’t tell what you’re thinking if you don’t think – that’s straight from The Art of War by General Tso.”
Condi sighed. “I’ll go tell Scott McClellan to expect a firestorm from the press.”
Bush looked worried. “The press has learned how to use fire?!”
“Well, a nuclear war will make for a good memoir,” Condi muttered as she left the room.