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On a warm summer night, when prying eyes are sleeping, they strike again. Ali Busha And The Forty Thieves, fresh from an all night movie review (two f%&*ing thumbs down, BTW), play Round 500 of “Shift The Focus.” In this round, the idea, as always, is to distract the masses.
Them there Iraqis get their country back early, sort of - except for the governing part – and the oil. As the walls of Jericho fall down around him, our Fearless Leader gets the usual midnight note from Natasha, this time however devoid of fragrance and missing the usual codpiece warming bon-mots. Sensing once again that he is (as always) the last to know, he turns to Boris Badenov, flashes his heart-warming Karla Faye Tucker smile, shakes hands, and proceeds to scribble a spontaneous note that he has been practicing for three months. Not surprisingly, it comes out wrong.
Back in America the citizens greet the news with a giant case of the “fool me once, er, uh won’t get fooled again blues”, a malady brought on by overexposure to constant falsehoods, below average intellectual curiosity, and lack of fresh air. At present, there is no cure, although Dr. Moore of The Institute For Advanced Documentary Studies And Marriage Is A Sacrament Counseling Center is making great strides in eradicating it. If all goes well, and Dr. Moore is allowed to advertise, the citizenry should be feeling magnificent by early November.
Meanwhile, Our Pet Goat struts around in full battle mode, undershirt at the ready. After crossing yet another thing from his to-do list, he now heads home. He stares blankly at the giant numeral “1” on his plane, a gift from his handlers who grew tired of explaining why the plane wasn’t called Air Force Won. He climbs the steps and buckles in, checking his pockets to see if he has the usual $20 for five mixed drinks at $4 each. Then he remembers he’s the President, and all the booze is free. What a country. He grabs a fifth and a pretzel and dozes off, dreaming of women with gaps between their teeth.
Upon arriving back home, he stumbles from the plane and salutes, mistakenly sticking his finger in his eye while hitting the tarmac. His handlers will later say that Mr. Bush collapsed from exhaustion after successfully completing a triathlon in 100-degree weather. The following day, Sean Hannity will accuse anyone who dislikes Bush of being against physical fitness.
Almost to bed and breathing heavily now, he makes his way up the stairs. As he turns down the hall, the voices start. Softly, they call his name, over and over again. He looks in the guestrooms, and the offices, and the study, but he sees nothing. He turns the light off, but the luminescence stays, and in its glow he sees them. Hundreds of them ramrod straight and in full salute. They are the ghosts of the dead, and they beckon him closer and closer. Closer still, until they are but a whisper away. Then they speak for us all.
“President Bush – can you hear us?”
“Yes”
“Good – goodnight – and go fuck yourself”
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