“As you all know,” Bush told the press assembled on the White House lawn, “Terrorists are trying to use explosive liquids to kill people. Thus, for security purposes, it is required that all you reporter empty your bladders before meeting with me for questions. If any of you are caught peeing during this press conference, this guy over here will shoot you.” Bush pointed to a nearby Marine.
“I’m Buck the Marine and I kill terrorists.”
“You tell ’em, Buck!”
“Mr. President,” said one reporter, “why are you standing on a pile of dead terrorists? Is that supposed to be symbolic of something?”
“Yes, it’s symbolic of how my administration has killed many many terrorists and will kill many more. I want terrorists to know that we will kill them, and then I’ll stand on your dead body and answer questions from moron reporters. That’s right, with me, you get results… results we can stand on. Thus, Republicans tower over Democrats because we look down upon from our large piles of dead terrorists while Democrats have no dead terrorists to stand on. Hell, them Democrats never killed nobody. But look under my feet; these people are dead because of my policies. That’s results. It may not smell nice, but hardwork isn’t always pretty.”
“Why isn’t the pile larger?” asked the FOX News reporter.
“Well… it ain’t like it’s all the terrorists we killed… it just symbolic of how many we killed.” Bush turned stern. “Now stop being so critical, FOX News. You just recite the talking points we send you each day and then we’ll lend you our dead terrorists for those fluff pieces you do. Next question.”
“With the growing price of gas–”
“Why are you asking me about gas prices!” Bush asked angrily. “Can’t you see I’m standing on top of a pile of dead terrorists? I am mighty! Ask me good questions about killing terrorists!”
“Are you worried that standing on a pile of dead terrorists could be interrepted by some as being offensive to Muslims?”
“Well, this organization CAIR raised that concern… but then I found out that those guys are Islamic and had them arrested for being fascists. Any more questions? And remember to speak up because I’m way up here on top of a pile of dead terrorists.”
“Are you going to support the Republican candidate in the Senate race in Connetticut?”
“Why are you asking about Conetticut?” Bush shouted. “Are you not noticing this huge pile of terrorists I’m standing on? Who cares about Conetticut? Americans care about dead terrorists. Now, some one give me a good question.”
“How are you going to get all those dead bodies off the White House lawn?”
Bush was silent for a moment. “Hadn’t really thought about that. Well, the bodies should all decompose, so I guess the problem will take care of itself. Anyway, I want to show you this cool new thing that should lead to even more piles of dead terrorists.”
A fierce looking robot marched out from behind the pile of dead terrorists. It held its hands up in a threatening manner.
“People are worried about discrimination in trying to find terrorists at airports,” Bush continued, “but a robot can’t be unfairly prejudiced because it’s got circuits and electricty for a brain. Thus, we’ve made robots that will patrol the airports, identify terrorists and terrorist supporters, and crush their heads with its mighty robot steel hands.”
“But won’t this–” a New York Times reporter started to say but then had his head crushed by the robot.
“I should note that there are many different definitions of terrorists,” Bush said. “This robot was programmed by Condi, so it will… and there goes the head of a Reuters reporter. Anyway, as I look down upon you all from my pile of dead terrorists while you tremble in fear of my head-crushing robot, it brings me hope for a great American future. I hope it brings all those watching hope as well. To further that hope, I want to introduce yet another weapon against terror: Drunken Rumsfeld!”
A bleary Rumsfeld stumbled out onto the lawn.
“The terrorists may have their deadly liquids, but no liquid is more deadly than whiskey when applied to Donald Rumsfeld. He’s now a mindless killing machine!”
Rumsfeld’s stared at the press.
“Aieeee!” one reporter screamed. “He has murder in his eyes!”
“Rarr!” Rumsfeld yelled as he chased the reporters.
“I guess that ends the press conference,” Bush laughed to himself. He then looked for a way down from his pile of dead terrorists. “Uh… a little help here.” No one answered. “Hello? Anybody around?” Still no answer. “Head-crushing robot, could you get me down without crushing me?”
The robot just stared at Bush with its cold, lifeless eyes.
“I guess I’ll just wait up here then.”