Mr. President, It’s for You.
The Scene: The White House Residence. The President and Mrs. Bush are eating breakfast. The telephone rings. Such calls are carefully pre-screened.
The President: Hello.
Caller: You’re a filthy liar! You lied us into war so your rich oil friends could get richer. Liar, liar, pants on fire!! Blood for oil!!! Halliburton! Halliburton!! You betrayed us, you piece of shit! You and your wing-nut, chickenhawk reTHUGlican, jackbooted swine buddies have trashed the constitution, and you are determined to watch the earth burn to a crisp because of global warming. Everyone hates us because of you, you pile of excrement. You make me want to puke, but I wouldn’t even waste vomit on your sorry ass. We will impeach you for the crimes you and your henchmen have committed! Screw you and your miserable family, including your old man!
The President: Have you finished?
Caller: No, goddammit, I haven’t finished! You’re a swaggering douchebag who couldn’t lead a Cub Scout Pack, let alone the United Goddamned States. You and your buddy Karl Rove are pieces of shit not worth the sweat off Noam Chomsky’s ass! Oh, and did I mention that you are realllllllllly stooooooopid, and you look like a chimp?
The President: Are you finished now?
Caller: Yes I am finished, you fascist bastard.
The President: OK. Have a nice day now, y’hear? (hangs up phone)
Mrs. Bush: Who was that, George?
The President: It was Howard Dean.
Mrs. Bush: Howard Dean? What did he want?
The President: Oh, same ol’, same ol’. He calls whenever he’s constipated.
