“Why won’t you answer my questions?” David Gregory screeched.
“I have answered your questions,” White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan grumbled.
“No you haven’t! I think I know when questions have been answered!”
“David, I’m getting tired of your attitude,” Scott said. “Could you find some other subject to freak out about? It’s not like a hunting accident is a matter of national security.”
“I’m not freaking out!” Gregory yelled. “And you’re fat!”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’m going to move onto the next person with questions…”
“Fatty fatty fat fat!”
“You take that back!” Scott screamed as he jumped on Gregory and started punching him. The other reporters soon crowded around and started chanting, “Fight! Fight!”
Bush, done watching the scene, started flipping through the channels. “Hey, Rover!” he called out. “When does ice-boxing come on in the Olympics?”
The hooded figure of Karl Rove emerged from the shadows. “There is no such thing as ice-boxing.”
“Why not? It would be fun! People would be sliding around on ice and punching each other; there’s no sport more pure than that.”
Rove raised he hand and the TV turned off. “We must talk about Cheney.”
“What about?”
There was the sound of a shotgun blast, and a portion of the wall was blown away. Through it, they could see Dick Cheney. “I thought I saw a quail,” he said.
“Was it a picture of Dan Quayle?” Bush asked.
Cheney punched his way into the room. “I don’t remember.”
“You have an image problem,” Rove intoned.
“Is it anything that can be solved by telling the press to go @#$% themselves?” Cheney asked.
“I don’t think that’s going to work, Dick,” Bush said, “People need to hear you feel remorse like a normal human. Don’t you feel bad you shot your friend in the face?”
“Yes, I do,” Cheney answered. “I would have had that quail if it weren’t for his stupid face getting in the way!”
“But he had a heart attack; aren’t you worried about him?”
Cheney laughed. “I’ve had plenty of heart attacks, and that one was hardly worth mentioning. If Harry plays it up, I’ll shoot him in the face with a shotgun again.”
Bush shook his head. “Cheney, you have to act nicer.”
“Why? Rumsfeld burns down orphanages for fun and has contests on the White House lawn for how far he can kick puppies and you don’t complain!”
“Well, we expect that from the Secretary of Defense,” Bush replied, “but, if I got my head stuck in the banister again, you have to take over as President. That means people need to like you.”
“You must improve your image,” Rove uttered, “or all could be doomed. So says the Book of Punditry.” Rove then disappeared into the shadows.
Cheney looked to Bush. “I’d tell Rove to go @#$% himself, but I’m afraid he’d eat my soul.”
Bush nodded. “I fear that everyday.”
“I am holding this press conference,” Cheney announced, “to say that I feel very sorry for what happened to my friend, Harry Whittington. I so wish this had never happened, and I am losing sleep about this every day.” Cheney then held up a tiny cat. “And, look, I’m holding a kitten.” Cheney, with much effort, then smiled.
“Are you planning to snap the kitten’s neck for fun after this press conference is over?” asked a reporter.
“What I do on my own time is my business!” Cheney screamed. “Go @#$% yourself!”
Bush then nudged Cheney in the side.
“Uh… I mean that I plan to take the kitten home, name him mittens, and then watch him play with a ball of yarn.”
“Aww, Cheney is much sweeter than we thought,” said one female reporter.
A little kid then walked up to Cheney. “Will you give me a hug, Unkie Cheney?”
“So I knocked a kid unconscious by throwing a kitten at his head,” Cheney grumbled. “He smelled.”
Bush laughed. “I guess that’s just our gruff VP.” Bush then turned to Condi and whispered, “I keep hearing rumors that I’m planning on forcing Cheney to resign and replace him with you. Do you know if there is any truth to those rumors?”
Condi smacked Bush upside his head.
“Ow,” Bush moaned as he rubbed the back of his head, “I always thought people would hit me less as soon as I was President, but the opposite was true. Anyway, I have the pardon for Scott for assaulting that stupid reporter. Anyone want to go fetch him from prison?” Bush looked around the room, but no one moved. “Fine, let’s watch the Olympics. I think the biathlon is on.” Bush looked to Cheney. “You lose points in that for shooting someone else in the face.”
“Sounds gay.”
Bush chuckled. “That the Winter Olympics, alright.”
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