From the PtB* archives: Four Fantasies of George W. Bush, a homage to National Lampoon. WARNING!!! Not for the faint of heart.
The Big Game
I'm up in heaven at the big game, sitting in the box seats my daddy owns. It's the bottom of the ninth. Game's tied at one. Two outs. Bob Gibson is pitching for the minority team. He's given up only one hit, a long double by Babe Ruth that drove in Mike Schimdt back in the third inning . Lou Gehrig is at the plate rubbing some dirt onto his hands when the stadium P.A. fires up. It's God and he needs Lou immediately for some important heaven business.
Casey Stengel, the skipper of the white team, looks down his bench for a suitable pinch hitter. Someone who can not only hit but who can also play a respectable firstbase. Hank Greenberg comes to mind but he's a Jew and isn't allowed into heaven. Jimmie Foxx was a drinker and is burning in hell. Casey mutters something about Steve Garvey and the whore that he married, wipes his furrowed brow and a smile slowly forms. He climbs out of the dugout and looks into the crowd. He finds me and calls me out onto the field.
I quickly loosen my tie and reach for a bat. Ted Williams, unable to play because his asshole son cut off his head, hands me one of his gamers. I step into the box, careful not to dig in too much. Gibson has been known to throw at a guy who looked too comfortable. The first pitch flashes by like a blur and pops into the catcher's mitt. Judge Landis rightfully calls it a strike and I chuckle and tell him that its been a few years since a black man put one past me. Even Campanella has to laugh at my wit and composure.
The second pitch misses my chin by a hair. I figure that Gibson's next one is going to be something to hit because he doesn't want to fall behind. It's a hard slider down near my knees. I swing and am rewarded with the sweet crack of wood meeting horsehide. The ball flys out into right center. Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente race out to the fence but can only watch the ball disappear into the clouds.
As I circle the bases the crowd errupts. Even in the din I can hear my daddy saying with pride, "That's my boy. That's my Junior."
Defending her Honor
I'm at a Rebublican fundraiser in Orange County. I'm sitting on the dais next to Chuck Heston with my lovely wife. Chuck, Laura and I are sipping some cold Dr. Peppers and enjoying an amusing anecdote from the speaker, my old friend Cap Weinberger. Sitting next to Laura is Arnold Schwarzenegger. He's not drinking soda pop. He's drinking scotch whiskey. Since that Kennedy bitch closed the compound gate, scotch is all he drinks.
Schwarzenegger is not paying any attention to Cap's oratory. He is staring at the long and silky legs of my wife. He bends in close and mumbles something into her ear in his pidgeon english. My wife, unaccustomed to such rude behavior, smiles politely and looks to me for help. I nod discretely, letting her know that everything is under control.
Taking my wife's smile as permission to further his advances, Swartznegger places his large hand on her thigh. A flush of embarassment burns my wife's face as his hand moves up her leg and begins caressing her.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, get out of my chair slowly and wave appologetically to a confused Cap Weinberger. I motion to Schwarzenegger to follow me out of the room into the hallway. As I leave the room with my Secret Service escorts, Laura gives me a loving look of thanks.
Out in the hallway I tell the Secret Service agents to get lost. They protest strongly but I assure them that this was between me and Arnold. Alone, I clench my fists and confront the massive, Teutonic halfwit. No one, not even a wealthy Hollywood contributor, may behave in public with such a lack of decorum.
A few hours later, in the privacy of my hotel suite, I sit in a large and comfortable chair, check in hand, watching the proceedings. On the bed, my lovely wife Laura is getting the pounding of her life from the extremely well-endowed Mr. Schwarzenegger. Sitting in the chair next to me, stroking his Dr. Pepper, my daddy says with pride, "That's my boy. That's my Junior."
An Audience with my President
She lets me in. I'm alone. My staff and security know to wait in the cars. This is something I have to do by myself.
Nancy looks good. Her eyes are rimmed with red probably from crying, but she looks good. She always does.
"How is he doing Mrs. Reagan?"
A small smile appears and vanishes as she replies "Oh George, please. Call me Nancy. He's doing well. He has his moments of lucidity... I think, overall, he's happy."
"How are the children?"
"Good, George. Everyone is fine." Her hand reaches out for mine and gives it a squeeze.
I look in her eyes and I see something. A loneliness. A longing. I feel the need to give her a hug and I do it. Not a passionate one. A hug of two people sharing. Nancy hugs back. She really hugs back.
"How are you doing Nancy?" I ask as I take a step back.
She responds quickly, "Fine, George. I'm doing fine. It's hard sometimes but it's okay... Let's go see him now before he falls asleep."
She still has my hand as she guides me to his room. He's in bed his nurse sitting by his side.
"Ron, the president is here to see you." Her voice is loud and slow and startles me.
One of the truely great Americans turns and looks at me. His eyes take some time to focus. His lips tremble and churn to form words.
He whispers hoarsely, "George, my old friend George. It's great to see you."
"Mr. President, it's Junior. George's boy. You look great Mr. President."
Nancy excuses herself and I am alone with the great Ronald Reagan and his nurse.
"The country can really use your counsel, Mr. President. We all miss your wise words and steady strength."
He smiles. A sweet, earthy smell fills the room.
"Mommy! Mommy! I did a dirty!" he exclaims.
The nurse bolts upright and says, "Excuse me sir. The President has soiled himself. I'll have him cleaned up in a minute."
I look at the young man and ask a question that suprises him. "Would you allow me the honor, son?"
The nurse looks confused but is not going to confront his Commander-in-Chief.
"Please leave me alone. I'll call you when I'm finished."
The strapping young man strides sharply out of the room and closes the door. I pull down the old man's covers and unbutton his warm, damp pajama bottoms. His penis lies flaccidly, covered in a glistening dew. Can it get better? I look at the old man. He is happy. I know he's happy. I'm shaking with excitement. I mean I'm really shaking. There is only one thing that I know that can make this better and I have a baggie of it in my coat pocket. I spread the line right on the old man's belly like we used to do to the whores down in Austin. It looks okay. A little chunky but this is no time to be cutting. I'm shaking so much that its difficult to get the whole line. It takes three tries.
All is calm. The only noise is the deep wet sound of the old man's breathing. Everthing is sharper. My shaking has stopped. I reach for a baby wipe from the plastic dispenser on his nightstand. Gently I wipe away the moisture. To do a thorough job, I grab hold of his penis and lift it slightly in order to clean off his ball sack.
The member in my hand responds to my touch and the old man starts talking to himself, "Oh Raisa, you commie whore, make Daddy happy." A smile forms on the old man's face. My hand involuntarily begins a slow and deliberate stroking.
"Raisa, here comes Daddy!"
My hand speeds up and the old man comes on himself. I scoop up a dollop and carefully put it in the empty baggie. Never know when this particular DNA might be useful. I lick the residual off my fingers, finish cleaning up the old man, kiss him gently on the lips and walk out of the room.
G.I. George
The two General Electric turboshaft engines are melting the wax in my ears as the bird flys low and fast over the most desolate terrain I've seen since east Texas. We're so close to the ground that it seems I could reach out and grab a hand full of towel. I look around the cabin of the Apache Longbow at the faces of the team I have assembled to dig the rat out of his nest. Junior is not about to send a bunch of boys to do his dirty work.
Directly across from me is Colin Powell. Big, smart, wise beyond his years with a house nigger's blind loyalty. Outside of Jesus Christ Himself, there is no one else that I would want watching my back. To his left, Condolezza Rice, she's typing notes into her laptop. No press, Daddy said "no." Tom Ridge is down on the end, next to the Chief Warrant Officer. Cried like a baby in the oval office when he was told he had to stay behind. I thought he was going to pull down his pants and offer me his ass when I gave in and said he could go. First thing I'm going to do when I hit the ground is trip the useless fucker and put a bullet in the back of his head with the Russian Makarova 9 mm I keep in my ankle holster. Dear Mrs. Useless Fucker, you're husband died a hero...
Ridge is being carried back onto the bird as the rest of the team makes the treeline and the protection of the woods. We meet up with the scouts a few minutes later and get the low down on the cave and the troglodytes that call it home. Twenty minutes later we're below ground, infra-red goggles in place, pressed so hard against the stone walls of the cave that its geological history can be read off the indentations in my love handles. The air is thick with the acrid smell of the stun grenades that just echoed through the mountain. I can see him huddled in the corner surrounded by his guard. He looks worn and tired and my deeply felt Christian ethic should force me to feel sympathy and forgiveness. There is none. This man is evil. My team is picking off his pack of satanic prairie dogs one by one, careful to leave the alpha male for me. I unsheath the nine inch buck knife that I used to garrot my first deer when I was twelve.
A loud, piercing alarm goes off - screaming in my previously abused ears. What the fuck! Is it a poison gas indicator? Blackness, then blinding light.
"Honey, wake up! You better get a move on cowboy! It's almost 10 o'clock. You'll be late for work again." Laura smiles down at me, dressed in a silk teddy with my Daddy's arm wrapped snug about her waist. "That's my boy. That's my Junior."
*It seems like I wrote this bit yesterday but Reagan is dead, Arnold is happily married again and a goveror, and Ted Williams' head is no longer in the news. Oh yeah, Bush is no longer president. Sadly. Osama is still out there lurking in a cave.
If you're going to quibble that Ted Williams shouldn't be on the white team because everyone knows that he was half a mexican, don't bother.
If you're gonna tell me that Arnold can't possibly be well endowed because of his years of steroid abuse, don't bother. What man in his right mind fantasizes about his wife being penetrated by a Slim Jim and two raisins? It's a FANTASY, ferchissakes!
John Sterling the despicable, unlistenable, makes Phil Rizutto sound like Vince Scully-able, radio announcer for the Yankees makes these personalized homerun calls that suck.
I sent Sterling a tweet and suggested:
I have to admit that its harder to see than I thought it would be. It's a large canvas but maybe it's the wrong logo. For you old timers, it reminded me some of Andy Messersmith of the Atlanta Braves.
