Bush set a pencil on top of his stapler and then tried to karate chop it in two, but it instead flew across the room. “One day I’ll master my kung fu and smite my enemies… especially those at the New York Times!”
The hooded figure of Karl Rove emerged from the shadows. “Our plan with the ports is going as foreseen.”
“There’s a plan?” Bush asked, “So far nothing seems to be happening except everybody hating me.”
“All of this is predicted by The Book of Punditry,” Rove intoned as he held up a large book.
“Really? Let me see that…” Bush reached for the book, but Rove then faded back into the shadows as he laughed evilly. “I really should listen to Laura about worrying more about Rover eating my soul,” Bush grumbled. He then stood up. “Well, if people are concerned about port security, I’ll show initiative and check out the ports myself to make sure this UAE deal won’t harm America.”
Bush stormed out of his office. “Don’t forget your mittens!” Laura called out to him.
But it was too late.

“Hey, President Bush is in the hizouse!”
“This is a port, not a house, moron,” yelled a worker.
“Whatever,” Bush said as he looked around the port. Then he spotted someone. “Ha! An Arab!” Bush declared as he approached a worker. “I knew you guys were going to try to sneak in here!”
“I’m a Mexican, you stupid gringo.”
“Well… uh… then where’s your green card?”
“Where’s yours?”
“I don’t need no green card.” Bush thumped his chest. “I’m the President of the United States.”
“Prove it.”
Bush searched his pockets. “Man, I don’t where my Presidential ID card is! I hope it’s not stolen, or someone could be out there pretending to be me and pardoning everybody.”
The Mexican stared at Bush for a moment. “Hey! I recognize you now! You’re that American President who keeps bothering me.”
Bush brightened up. “And you’re my old friend, The Mexican!”
The Mexican pulled out a switchblade. “I never did get to cut you!”
Bush squealed as he ran away from the Mexican, but then he rammed into a group of men. When he looked up at them, he exclaimed, “Hey! You’re Muslim terrorists!”
“What?” yelled one angrily, “Why do people always stereotype us?”
Bush stood up. “It’s just that…”
“It’s just what? Because you see a bunch of Arabs with AK-47s chanting, ‘Death to America!’ and carrying around odd looking canisters, you just immediately think ‘terrorists,’ huh?”
“Well…”
“You’re a stereotyper, that’s what you are!”
Bush hung his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to stereotype.”
“You better be sorry, or we’ll kill you with the rest of the infidel Americans!” The men then walked off as Bush kept trying to apologize.
“Who are you?” called someone from behind Bush.
“I’m President Bush,” Bush answered as he turned around, “You may remember me from such State of the Union Addresses as State of the Union Address 2002 and State of the Union Address 2005.”
The man checked his clipboard. “We don’t have any ‘President Bush’ listed as being allowed on the port today.”
“I’m just here to inspect security. Who are you?”
“I’m the port security guy,” he said and then pointed to a label on his shirt. “See, it says here ‘Port Security.’ That’s hand-stitched; very official.”
Bush looked at the label. “It is. Still, I just got chased by a Mexican trying to cut me; that doesn’t seem very secure.”
“Mexicans may do that, so I put up signs,” the port security guy said as he pointed to a sign behind Bush that said “Don’t Pester the Mexicans.” “You have to read the signs,” he continued, “I don’t put signs up for fun. It is a bit fun, but that’s not why I do that.”
“Sorry, I’ll pay more attention,” Bush said, “So what do you do for security?”
The port security guy pointed to two German Shepherds behind him. “These are Ed and Ted. Ed is a drug sniffing dog and Ted is a bomb sniffing dog.”
Bush stared at the two. “They look exactly the same; are they twins?”
“I dunno; they never talk about their personal lives.”
“How do you tell them apart?”
The port security guy shrugged his shoulders. “I tried putting collars on them with their names, but they keep getting out of them. Still, if one of them barks at a crate, we know it’s either drugs or a bomb. And, if they both bark at a crate, then it’s a drug bomb… or Milk-Bones.” The port security guy thought for a moment. “Actually, every time they bark, it’s always Milk-Bones. Far as I can tell, they only know how to find Milk-Bones.”
“I once tried a Milk-Bone and I didn’t like it,” Bush commented. He then noticed a larger German Shepherd barking at a crate. “What’s that dog’s problem?”
“That’s our new dog, Hans,” the port security guy said as they walked over to the crate. “He’s trained for our new mission now that the UAE will be buying this port.”
“He found WMDs?!” Bush exclaimed.
“No, he found Israeli goods. He’s trained to sniff for kosher-ness.” The port security guy looked to some workers. “Take this crate out and blow it up.”
“We’re on break!” they answered.
“Union workers,” the port security guy grumbled, “they take forever to explode anything.”
“Bad anti-Semetic dog! Bad!” Bush shouted at Hans. “Being German, I would have thought you’d be more sensitive to things like that.”
Hans lay down and whimpered.
“You made Hans sad,” the port security guy said. “You’re a mean President.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Bush answered defensively. “Man, port security is hard. Maybe I can just come up with a cool slogan to raise awareness.” He thought for a moment. “I got it! ‘Port Security is Im-PORT-ant!'”
The port security guy stared at Bush for a few seconds. “So, are you technically a lame duck now or what?”