“Now, I want this career day with these first graders to go well, so all of you be on your best behavior,” Laura Bush warned, “and I swear, Donald, if you strangle anyone today, I’ll give you a talking to you won’t believe.”
“Do I have to sit next to Tom Daschle?” Bush complained.
“Yes,” Laura answered, “if Donald’s going to make the best effort not to strangle anyone, then the least I can do is not put him next to Tom Daschle.”
“I told you to bring Condi instead,” Bush said.
“I don’t like that woman,” Laura shot back, “Now let’s go into the classroom and meet the kids.”
They entered the room as the teacher announced. “I have a special treat for you today, children. Laura Bush has brought four people from the government to talk to you about their jobs. So let’s all be on our best behavior.”
“That’s goes for all of you, too,” Laura warned as the four of them, the Marine, Tom Daschle, George W. Bush, and Donald Rumsfeld, who took seats in front of the class.
“I guess I’ll start,” said the Marine, “My name is Buck, Buck the Marine. My job is to kill foreigners. There are a lot of foreigners running around out there, so I have my work cut out for me. I just got back from Iraq. There were a lot of foreigners there, and there are now many less.”
“So what do you like best about your job?” the teacher asked.
“I’d have to say the kill’n. Now, you can’t just kill any foreigners, you have to follow your orders and only kill certain ones. As in Iraq, some were shooting at me, so I killed them. That was fun. Some threw down their weapons and raised their hands; I don’t like that because then I can’t kill them… especially not with them embedded reporters watching. I thought of killing the embedded reporter, but he ain’t foreign. I only kill foreigners.”
“What was it like liberating an Iraqi town?” asked the teacher.
“That had its high points and low points. Some Iraqis sniped at me, so I killed them; that was fun. Some cheered me on; couldn’t kill them. A little Iraqi girl walked up and said, ‘I love America.’ That made me happy… but not as much as killing.”
“Now children, do you have any questions for Buck?”
“How do you kill people?” asked a little boy.
“Usually with my M-16. Sometimes with my .45 caliber sidearm; 9mm is for pussies.”
“We don’t use that kind of language in class, Buck,” the teacher politely told him.
“Sorry. Ma’am. Anyway, my favorite weapon for killing is my KaBar. I sneak up behind someone, stab him in the kidneys and hold it in; you can’t scream with a blade in your kidneys. Then, when he finally goes into shock, I pull the blade out and slit his throat. It’s a very effective method. I recommend you try it sometime.”
“My mom came from another country; would you kill her?” a concerned little girl asked.
“If so ordered, yes, I would kill your mom. Any other questions?”
“What do you do now?”
“Right now I am on leave. I hang out with friends, drink, and talk about all my killing. I’m hoping something will happen soon in North Korea, though; never killed a Korean. Anyway, right now I have killed more people than the SARS virus, but that could change if I don’t get out in the field again soon.”
“Buck, why don’t you tell them what you have to do to become a Marine,” the teacher suggested.
“Certainly. You have to go through boot camp. There they will put you through hell. They will break down your body. They will break down your mind. They will break down your spirit. You will beg for mercy. You will not get it. You will beg for death. It will not come. If you survive – and I mean ‘if’ – you will be a Marine. Then you can kill foreigners. So who wants to be a Marine?”
The kids just stared at him bewildered, none of them raising their hands.
“What are you all? Fags?”
“Buck, we don’t use that kind of language here,” the teacher warned again.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Now, Tom Daschle, why don’t you tell the class what you do.”
“Certainly. First of all, I would like to say how grateful I am for Buck’s service in our military.”
Buck stared at Daschle for a moment. “I don’t think I like you.”
“I get that a lot,” Daschle said, laughing, “Anyway, children, I am a U.S. Senator. I help vote for what becomes our laws.”
“You’re a devil man!” screamed one child.
“Yes, I seem to radiate off sort of sinister vibe that young children pick up on,” Daschle explained, “Commonly, babies cry when I come near. Most people, though, as they grow older no longer sense my evil so easily, and then may vote for me.”
“My dad says you’re a mean man who takes his money,” said a little boy.
“I think that you’re dad is just being selfish to try and keep his money. As a Senator, I’m better equipped to know how to spend people’s money. And we’ll be able to take even more money into our loving care if we Democrats can get a majority in 2004.”
“Yeah, that will happen,” Bush chuckled.
“It’s not your turn, Mr. Bush,” the teacher told him firmly, “Let Daschle speak. Now, Daschle, what does one have to do to become a Senator?”
“I think it’s a good idea to first become a lawyer. That helps erode away your soul, which is an obstacle in politics. Then I say you need to act concerned about lots of things and talk down to people. And it’s good to have a believable smile.” Daschle then smiled, causing the class to cry.
“Make the scary man go away!” cried one girl.
“Maybe it’s time for George Bush to speak,” the teacher said, “Tell the class what your job is.”
“I’m the President of the United States,” Bush said proudly, “The most powerful man in the world. Maybe the universe. Within at least a few light-years from here, for sure, though. It’s a fun job. I miss signing off all those executions like when I was governor, but instead I can declare wars now and kill even more bad people. You know that Iraqi war? That was my idea.”
“And would just like to say I supported the troops,” Daschle added, “but I was saddened how your botched diplomacy forced us into conflict.”
“Oh, and I always had something I wanted to say in response to that,” Bush said. He then turned to his side and punched Daschle in the face.
“You broke my nose!” Daschle screamed.
“People say I sometimes garble my words, but I think I was pretty clear there,” Bush chuckled.
“There is no hitting in class!” the teacher yelled. “Daschle, you can go to the nurse. Bush, you’re getting a demerit.”
“I’m going to tell!” Daschle cried, running off.
“Crybaby,” Bush uttered.
Laura smacked him on the back of the head. “You’re embarrassing me.”
The teacher added Bush’s name to a list on the wall and put a frowny face next to it.
“Ha ha!” laughed a kid, “Bush got a demerit!”
“What’s your name kid?”
“Uh… Tommy.”
“Tommy what?”
“Tommy… Anderson.”
“Well, guess what? The Andersons are about to get audited. It’s going to be so stressful to your parents that they’ll get divorced and it will be all your fault.”
“George!” Laura yelled.
“What? He was making fun of me.”
“Why don’t you explain more of your job,” the teacher told him.
“Alright. I have to keep the world from imploding, since the rest of the countries are a bunch of idiots. The worst is France. How can I describe this to you… France is kinda like that kid in class everyone hates who reminds the teacher to give out homework.” He then pointed to a geeky looking kid wearing glasses. “Probably that kid; he’s France.”
“But without homework,” the kid responded, “how are we going…”
“Quiet, France. I’m tired of dealing with you.”
“Do you have questions for Mr. Bush?” the teacher asked the class.
“My mom says you didn’t really win the election,” said one boy.
“She said that, huh,” Bush answered, looking a bit annoyed, “Well I want you to go home and bitch-slap her for me. And she can’t ground you for it, because I pardon you.”
“George!” Laura shouted.
“What?” Bush said innocently.
“You don’t seem that powerful to me,” said one kid.
“I am powerful.”
“Are not.”
“Are so!” Bush yelled, rising out of his seat.
The kid just stuck his tongue out.
“I’ll show you!” Bush shouted, grabbing a nearby globe, “I’ll just pick a country and bomb it.”
“Whatever,” the kid said dismissively.
“Don’t do this, George!” Laura warned.
Bush spun the globe and then stopped it with his finger. “The United States! I’ll bomb the… oh, better spin again.” He spun the globe once more and stopped it. “Hmm… I don’t know how to say this one, but I can’t just spell it for them,” he said as he took out his cell phone. “Hey, I want you to bomb a country spelled K-Y-R-Y-G-Z-stan… Just do it… I don’t have to give you a reason why…” Bush looked to the kid with a haughty expression, “I’m the president.”
Laura just shook her head.
Bush turned on a T.V. that was at the corner of the room. “After the success of the Iraqi war, a new era of peace is spreading through the Middle East,” the news anchor said, “Experts say democracy will soon flourish and… This just in. The U.S. has launched an unprovoked attack against Kyrygzstan. Who knows what diplomatic damage this will do to the U.S. and to how it is viewed around the world. It could take years to repair…”
Bush turned off the T.V. “Told ya!” he said, and then stuck his tongue out at the kid.
“So what does someone have to do to become president?” the teacher asked, trying to take control again of the class.
“I think it helps if your father was president,” Bush said, sitting back down, “and better make sure your stupid brother doesn’t mess up the voting in his state.”
“Could I one day be president?” asked a boy.
“No, you’re too fat.”
“George!” Laura yelled, hitting Bush on the head.
“Uh… I mean, if you work really hard, you could become president, despite your tubbiness.”
“I think it’s now Donald Rumsfeld’s turn,” the teacher said, “So what is your job.”
“I am the Secretary of War.”
“Defense,” Laura corrected him.
“Whatever they now call it,” he said with annoyance, “My job is to make sure America strikes fear into the heart of all other nations. It was through my lobbying that I made sure we had this Iraq war.”
“I want to thank you for that,” Buck said.
“Glad you enjoyed the war,” Rumsfeld answered, “There will be more to come.”
“My parents say you’re an evil warmonger,” said a little girl.
Rumsfeld stared at her for a few seconds. “After this, I’m going to follow you home and murder your family.”
“Donald!” Laura yelled, “I told you no threatening the children!”
“Why don’t you tell us more about what your job requires?” the teacher urged.
“Certainly. A Secretary of Defense must thirst for blood. He must love nothing more than to see the enemy cower before him, begging for mercy. But you must not be merciful. The enemy will see that as weakness, and we must never show weakness, for we are the United States of America.”
“Ooh-rah!” Buck added.
“Are you going to kill and eat us?” asked a scared little child.
Rumsfeld considered this for a little while. “Not at this time,” he finally answered.
“So what exactly do you do at your job?” the teacher asked.
“Other than the war planning and the thirsting for blood, I have to give press conferences and talk to idiot reporters. I would like to kill them all, but then next week there would just be a new set of reporters, even dumber than the last. One time there was…”
“I like the reporter with the big mustache,” said a little boy.
“That child spoke out of turn; have him beaten,” Rumsfeld ordered the teacher.
“We don’t ‘beat’ children anymore,” the teacher responded, “That’s child abuse.”
“Poppycock! When I was their age, if you were bad, they had this large stick they would beat you with for hours with. And, if you were good, they had an even bigger stick to beat you with. Beatings made you tougher, so it was a privilege to be pummeled.”
“I’m confused,” said one kid, “You said before you were a secretary, but I thought a secretary was the woman who gets people coffee.”
“You children are insolent!” Rumsfeld shouted, pulling out his luger, “Line up for execution!”
Laura grabbed the luger away. “I told you no guns at career day.”
“That’s my luger!” Rumsfeld protested.
“You’ll get it back after class if you’re good.”
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled, but Laura just kept staring back at him sternly.
“Why don’t you tell the kids what they need to do if they want to be a Secretary of Defense,” the teacher said.
“None of them can be Secretary of Defense; they are too weak and stupid.”
“Don’t say things like that,” the teacher chided him, “Give them a positive message.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Rumsfeld yelled, reaching for the teacher’s throat.
Laura pushed him back into his chair. “No strangling!” she yelled at him, “Not at an event I organized.”
“I think the children have learned enough for today,” the teacher said, “I want to thank you all for giving us your time today. Certainly pass that message on to Daschle when you see him again.”
“Yeah, I’ll pass him a message,” Bush chuckled, hitting his fist into his palm.
“We’re all going to O’Malley’s after this,” Buck announced to the kids, “You can meet us there, have a few beers, and I can tell you more about killing foreigners.”
“Cool!” Bush exclaimed, “We’ll have a game of darts.”
“Just make sure to drive Donald home if he gets tipsy,” Laura told Bush.
“Are you saying I can’t hold my liquor, woman!” Rumsfeld demanded angrily.
“You know he’s a mean drunk,” Laura whispered to Bush, “So be careful.”
“Hell, he’s a mean sober,” Bush said, “Drunk, he’s a WMD.”

“Man, it’s certainly been a stressing time, Dick. I have to worry about getting a good government set up in Iraq, and then I have to fight the Democrats to get tax cuts so I can improve the economy. But they don’t want the economy to improve since they’re weasels, you know what I mean, Dick?”
“Si, senor.”
Bush looked to the monitor. “You’re not, Dick. You’re still that Mexican.”
“Si, senor.”
“Why are you still at the undisclosed location?”
“I do not know, senor. One day people come and say, ‘We have to take you to your new location, Vice President Cheney.’ And I say, “I am not this Cheney you speak of.’ But still, they put a blindfold on me and take me away. Now I do not know where I am, senor.”
“Sorry about that,” Bush said, thinking hard, “Man, where could Dick be? If it gets out I lost the VP, you just know there is going to be more of those ‘Bush is dumb’ jokes.”
“Si, senor. I just came up with one myself.”
“Anyway, I’m going to nickname you ‘the Mexican’, ‘ight?”
“Si.”
Bush thought for a while. “How would you like to be the Vice President? It pays $192,600 a year… uh… I mean three bucks an hour.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Just appear to do a speech and then fake a heart attack to get out of it. Can you do that?”
“Si, senor.”
“Kickass. You’re a good American.”
“I’m a Mexican, senor.”
“Well… you’re a good whatever you are.”
“Shouldn’t you be looking for this Cheney you speak of?”
“Hey!” Bush said angrily, “I’m the president. I’m the idea man, ‘ight?”
“Si, senor.”
Bush then saw his wife Laura enter the room. “Hey, can I ask you a question, honey?”
“Sure dear.”
“If the Vice President suddenly looked more Mexican to you, how would you react?”
She just stared at Bush for a long while. Finally, she said, “Know what; I like to stay out of politics.”

“Has the Vice President been replaced with a Mexican?” asked a reporter.
“That’s crazy talk,” Whitehouse Press Secretary Ari Fleischer responded, “Anyone who thinks that is as crazy as Helen Thomas.”
“I heard that!” Thomas yelled.
“I know you did, you old hag!” Fleischer responded.
“If he wasn’t a Mexican,” said another reporter, “Why did he keep referring to us reporters as ‘stupid gringos’?”
“Because Vice President Cheney thought the phrase ‘assclowns’ was getting over used in his press conferences.”
“So what was up with the poncho and sombrero?”
Fleischer looked confused. “The Vice President wasn’t wearing a poncho and a sombrero.”
“No, I mean Bush.”
“Oh! Well, he had just watch some Westerns,” Fleischer explained, “You know how Bush is. Now can we have a question about serious policy issues?”
“There have been rumors that Syria has been harboring Iraqis and their chemical weapons. Why haven’t we just marched in there and killed all those mother f**kers? Is your administration a bunch of pussies?” asked a Fox News reporter.
“Hey, be fair,” Fleischer said defensively, “We have to be diplomatic about things like…”
The reporter started making chicken sounds.
“That’s not very professional!”
Bush and the Mexican then came running into the conference. “Hey! Me and my new best friend…” Bush noticed all the reporters. “I mean my old friend, Dick Cheney, have a great idea. We just found Daschle’s car and want to overturn it. It sure is going to be fun, isn’t it, Mexican?”
“When do I get to go back to Mexico? I miss my family.”
“You crack me up, dude,” Bush said, laughing. “So, Ari, you want to help?”
“Sure,” he answered, “but I get to wear the sombrero this time.”
“But it’s my sombrero!” the Mexican complained.
“Learn to share, dude,” Bush chided him.
“I can’t wait to see Daschle’s face once he finds his car overturned!” Fleischer exclaimed.
“You’ll get to see it right away,” Bush chuckled, “He’s still in the car!”