“And that completes my testimony,” Condi stated.
“Wow!” Bob Kerrey exclaimed, “Not only did your testimony remove all doubt about the actions of Bush before 9/11, but you also proved that me and Ben-Veniste are partisan hacks. Only one thing, though… why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”
“What a nightmare!” Condi exclaimed.

“Wow!” Bush exclaimed as he woke up, “What a great dream I just had.”
“What was it about, dear?” Laura asked with a yawn as she still lay in bed.
Bush paused for a moment. “Uh… fiscal responsibility. It’s Saturday, isn’t it? I’m sleeping in.”
Bush lay back down, but then the phone rang. “What?” Bush asked impatiently into the receiver.
“This is Secret Service Agent Smith. We’ve raised the alert level to orange.”
“Fine,” Bush answered and then hung up the phone. He began to get rested again, but then the phone rang once more. “What?”
“The threat level is now at red, Mr. President.”
“Super. Now let me get some rest.” Bush hung up the phone and relaxed into bed again. Just as he began to shut his eyes, the phone rang. Laura covered her head with a pillow. “What?” Bush asked extremely impatiently as he picked up the phone.
“This is an Islamic Extremist. We have taken over the White House. We will soon begin executing everyone.”
“I’m trying to get some sleep!” Bush yelled and then hung up. Just as he settled down again, the phone rand once more. “What now!” Bush yelled, shaking his fists in the air. He then picked up the phone. “What?!”
“We’ve eliminated the terrorist threat, Mr. President. Threat level is back to yellow.”
“Whatever!” Bush shouted and hung up the phone. “If it’s not phone calls waking me up, then it’s the ghost of Abe Lincoln stealing and hiding my hat,” Bush grumbled, “I hate the White House. I don’t know if I want to be here another four years.”
“You’re just cranky,” Laura assured him, “The American people and the Iraqi people are counting on you to stay the course, George. You need to keep that awful Frenchman from getting in here so he doesn’t screw everything up. Plus, I just bought new drapes, and damned if I’m giving them up.”
“You’re right, honey,” Bush said adamantly, “This is bigger than myself. My administration is all that keeps the world from tumbling into chaos.” He looked at the clock. “Well, I’m not getting back to sleep. I’m going to go play videogames.”

“Do you have to clean your guns during this press conference?”
“Might as well get something useful done during this,” Rumsfeld grumbled as he pushed a metal brush through the barrel of one of his 1911 handguns, “Now ask you’re useless questions.”
“With all the fighting in Fallujah and the battle with people you came to liberate in Iraq, will you admit it’s a quagmire?” one reporter asked.
“The answer to that is quite complex,” Rumsfeld stated, “First, the thumb unlocks the thumb safety. Then the palm pressed the grip safety allowing the trigger to be pulled. The trigger pull unlocks the firing pin safety and drops the hammer. Then the firing pin strikes the primer, igniting the gunpowder, which sends the slug forward with explosive force. And then the grooves in the barrel spiral the slug and send it straight at you.”
“Huh?”
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled as picked up an assembled handgun and shot the reporter. “The only ones in a quagmire are the idiots who oppose us!” Rumsfeld then calmed. “Crap. Now I have to clean that gun again.”

“Oh, mighty rulers of Halliburton,” Cheney said as he bowed on the ground, “How should I answer the questions of the 9/11 commission?”
“Make sure they do not know that this was all planned by us to get oil,” whispered one wraith from the darkness.
“Yessss,” hissed another, “Oil is what gives us eternal life.”
“That and evil,” said the third wraith, “Glorious war and evil!”
“We, the wraiths of Halliburton, order you, Cheney, to conceal the truth, or we will have your soul!”
“And your stock options!”
“I will do your bidding, masters,” Cheney answered.
Suddenly the light turned on. At the doorway was Bush. “What are you doing in here, Dick?” he asked, seeing nothing in the room except Cheney down on the floor.
“Yoga!”

“So you distract Ben-Veniste as I release Chomps,” Condi told Scott McClellan as she held onto the rottweiler who kept getting increasingly angry, “Then Chomps will destroy his car. That will teach him to be mean to me!”
“Isn’t this a crime?” Scott asked.
“Yes, just like this is assault and battery,” Condi said, and then twisted Scott’s arm behind his back until he started screaming, “Now do as I say.”
“Okay! Okay!” Scott answered, and then walked out to greet Ben-Veniste as he came out of building.
“What do you want, dough-boy?” Ben-Veniste asked impatiently.
“I just want to say how impressed I am with the 9/11 commission,” Scott stated nervously as he saw Chomps run towards Ben-Veniste’s car. “I really think some good is going to become of it.”
“Well, fatty, your opinion to me is worth about as much to me as a bucket full of…” Ben-Veniste then noticed Scott was staring at something behind him. Ben-Veniste turned to see Chomps rip a tire off of his car with his teeth. “You bastard!” Ben-Veniste shouted at Scott, “This was a set up!” He then began to strangle Scott.
“Condi, help!” Scott yelled out, but Condi was nowhere to be seen. “Chomps, help!”
Chomps ran over as quick as he could. He then started gnawing on Scott’s leg while Ben-Veniste continued to strangle him.
“Why… does… God… hate… me?” Scott asked in troubled gasps.
“I don’t hate you,” answered the Heavens, “You’re just easy to pick on.”

“Where’s my cowboy hat!” Bush yelled angrily.
“I hid it so well, you won’t find it for four score and seven years,” answered a disembodied voice.
“Damn you Abe Lincoln!” Bush shouted as he shook his fist in the air.
“Just come to bed, dear,” Laura said, “It’s late.”
“And I’m tired,” Bush said as he got into bed. He yawned, put his head down onto his pillow, and closed his eyes.
Then the phone rang.
“Dammit!” Bush answered the phone. “What?”
“Ebola infected monkeys have invaded the White House, Mr. President. We don’t have a threat level color for that. We’re thinking of teal.”
“Well figure that out yourselves and stop bothering me.” He hung up the phone and groggily reached under the bed for his pump action shotgun.
“What is it, dear,” Laura asked as they heard scratching at the bedroom door.
Bush chambered a round. “Same-old same-old.”