President Bush told reporters Tuesday that he is running short on patience with Iraq.
“It appears to be a re-run of a bad movie,” Bush said. “[Iraqi President Saddam Hussein] is delaying. He’s deceiving. He’s asking for time. He’s playing hide-and-seek with inspectors. One thing is for certain — he’s not disarming.”
“On the other hand, if he had woke up one day and couldn’t remember what he did with all his WMD’s, that would be like a re-run of a good movie, because that would be like Dude, Where’s My Car?” Bush then chuckled to himself. “‘Dude, where are my WMD’s?’ That crazy Saddam; what trouble is he going to get into next?”
The reporters just stared at him.
Bush then got angry. “You guys suck; I’m outta here.”
In a later press conference, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld responded to Bush’s comments. “I’m not sure what kind of movie Iraq is now,” he said, “but, as soon I get this war started, it’s going to become the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Generations from now they will still be trying to scrub all the blood off the walls in Baghdad.”
When asked whether there still might be any negotiations with Iraq to get them to disarm, Rumsfeld replied, “In my mind, the only thing still on the table is whether the spoon I personally gut Saddam with is dull or sharpened. If he thinks that there is anyway he can avoid a painful death at this point, then he is extremely high.”
“Don’t you ever feel ashamed about declaring war on innocent people just so you can get oil to make yourself richer?” asked a smelly hippy who had somehow broke into the press conference.
The reporters immediately jumped away from the hippy, hoping to avoid any resultant splash damage. Surprisingly, Rumsfeld hadn’t leapt on the dirty hippy to tear him limb from limb, but instead just stood behind the podium, glaring at the fool. Eventually, a low rumbling sound was heard, and the hippy started choking and then fell to the ground. The reporters didn’t seem too surprised by the incident; although none of them had before seen Rumsfeld kill someone just by looking at them, they always assumed he could do something like that.
“Any other questions?” Rumsfeld demanded.
“Is he going to explode?” asked a reporter looking at the hippy lying there in spasms.
“Eventually.” Rumsfeld then looked at his watch. “Laura Bush talked me into reading to school children, so someone film it for me.”
In a nearby kindergarten class, Rumsfeld read some excerpts from Jane’s Guide to Guns and then took questions from the children.
“My mom says guns are bad,” said little Suzy, age 5.
“Your mom is obviously a stupid whore,” Rumsfeld responded.
Some of the children then started crying, asking that the “mean man go away.”
“You children are weak!” Rumsfeld shouted in full rage, startling the children from their tears. “When I was your age, I had to help my village fight off roaming samurai with nothing but a pitch fork. And then I was in bed by six and never complained to my parents. I bet you children couldn’t even pierce bamboo armor! You disgust me!”
That night, most of the children had trouble sleeping, fearing that Rumsfeld was hiding under their beds. They took little solace from the fact that Rumsfeld hardly ever waits in the dark to strangle someone in their sleep sleeps, instead preferring more direct approaches to killing.