“President Bush…”
“Just wait a sec, Condi,” Bush said as leaned out the window, waiting for the right moment. Finally, he released the water balloon. “Got him!”
“You got me all wet!” Senator Tom Daschle whined.
“Ha ha!” Bush laughed, “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m telling the press!” Daschle yelled.
Bush slammed the window shut. “Crybaby.” He then turned to Condoleezza Rice. “If the press comes asking about this, I was here with you.”
“You are with me!” Rice said impatiently.
“Good, you know how to play the game,” he answered smugly as he took a seat. “What’s on your mind?”
“I wanted to talk about more of our military strategy.”
“Again!” Bush exclaimed, “But I wanted to watch T.V. now. You keep working me like this and I’m going to have to complain to my union boss.”
“There is no presidents’ union!” Rice answered irately.
Bush looked confused. “But Ariel Sharon keeps taking my dues each week…” A thought then struck him, and his expression turned to anger. “That Jew bastard! If he just wanted more money to bulldoze Palestinian homes, he could have just asked. I hate those Palestinians, always blowing themselves up. Why don’t they just kill themselves?”
Rice had a number of things she wanted to say in response, but she decided to let it go. “We need to talk about Syria.”
“Why can’t we just talk about Iraq?” Bush complained, “We kicked ass there. I thought for a moment there was going to be trouble, but then ‘zip’ ‘bang’ ‘pow’, we took Baghdad. Now I just have to set up a new government there chock full of democracy, and people will be like, ‘Hey, Bush, you’re the best president ever!’ and I’ll be like, ‘Yes I am. Now get me a soda, bitch!'”
“But we have to move on the popularity of the Iraqi war to go onto other wars,” Rice told him, “And the troops have about run out of people to kill; they’re getting restless.”
“I thought we were just going to use diplomacy and scare Syria, though.”
“A relentless barrage of bombs and ground troops is scary,” Rice assured him.
“I dunno. I’m gonna ask Dick.” He turned on the monitor with the satellite connection to Cheney’s undisclosed location. “You there?”
“Si, senor.”
Bush stared at the man on screen for a moment and then turned to Rice. “Did we replace Dick with a Mexican?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Bush looked to the Mexican. “What are you doing there?”
“I see this place here, and there was food and a T.V. So I sit down to watch T.V. but instead see American president.”
“Is the Vice President around there?”
“I know not of this Vice President, senor.”
“He’s has white hair, is balding, tends to have heart attacks, and answers to the name of Dick.”
“I would certainly have noticed such a gringo if he were here, senor.”
“Alrighty, then. Well, you stay put in case we have to kill you as part of some cover-up.”
“Si, senor.”
Bush turned off the monitor. “Dick Cheney is loose!” he exclaimed, “He could kill millions!”
Rice just stared at him.
“Sorry, I forgot why we locked him away in the first place,” Bush admitted sheepishly.
“Let’s just get to my war plans,” Rice demanded, “We attack Syria, then we go on to Jordan. Next, we skip over Saudi Arabia saying, “Oh, you’re our friends, Saudi Arabia; we won’t attack you,” and then we attack Yemen. Now, when Saudi Arabia least expects it, POW! We hit them too.”
Laura Bush then came in the room. “George! You’re not letting that harlot talk you into more war again, are you?”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Bush,” Rice said politely, “We have important matters of national security to talk about. Aren’t there some books you need to order into the Dewey Decimal system?”
Laura just stared back angrily. “I have a mind to give you a good talking to one of these days,” she threatened.
“Hey, let’s not fight,” Bush urged, “I have a great idea that doesn’t involve any war. The problem with lots of those countries is that some people interpret the Koran to mean violence is okay. So let’s steal their Korans and rewrite them!”
“I don’t think that will work, sir,” Rice said.
“It will. We’ll just steal them the same as I stole Tom Daschle’s Koran.”
“That’s the antenna to his car, dear,” Laura told him.
“Whatever; same principle. We just take the Korans, put in bold letters, ‘Don’t kill people… especially Americans,’ and there will be no more interpretations that violence is allowed. It’s a great idea!”

“Hello, Mr. Muslim,” Tom Daschle said, opening his front door, “How can I help you.”
“I’m fulfilling my religious obligation,” the man said and then kicked Daschle in the groin.
“That bastard rewrote the Koran again!” Daschle wheezed, “I’ll get him… and his little tax cuts too.”