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From
the Desk of George W. Bush
August 28, 2002
as told to Rebecca Salcedo
For almost a year, DU's White House mole Brass Mustache has
been held in "protective custody" in a secret sub-basement
of the White House for "questioning" concerning certain "top
secret" information leaked from the desk of George W. Bush
himself. We are happy to report that Brass Mustache managed
to escape by digging out of his "guest quarters" into a nearby
tunnel used by the Vice President to stealthily move between
the White House and his secret lair. If you’ve been wondering
what Dick Cheney has been up to this last year, Brass Mustache
can report he has one mean right hook.
Anywho, Brass Mustache, ever the tenacious investigator,
refuses to relinquish his mission to uncover the truth behind
the Presidency of George W. Cover blown, Brass Mustache immediately
flew to Sweden and spent several weeks in the care of a Dr.
Frankenhammer. Now, with a new look and a new identity, Brass
Mustache will be known as Hot Lips.
Hot Lips has unearthed an article that was intercepted by
the White House before it could be published. It’s particularly
apropos in light of Dubya’s new forest initiative. Fact of
Fiction? You decide. The name of the article’s author has
been changed for her protection.
George W’s Lost Weekends
By
Sabrina Sunrise, Environment News Service
It was a
glorious mid-summer day. Streams of bright sunlight filtered
through the high dense canopies of Osceola National Forest.
The air was thick with the clean delightful smells of pine
and rich earth. The casual, reverent conversation of the members
of the Friends of the Forest Society occasionally rose above
the wild calls of the indigenous bird life that fluttered
about. This was the Society’s Annual Picnic Fundraiser and
they were thoroughly enjoying the quiet simplicity of camaraderie
and nature in its full glory. Never in all the years of the
Society’s Picnic Fundraiser had they ever experienced the
indignity that was to come.
A large
blue Ford pickup sporting a Confederate Flag and a gun rack
roared into the small peaceful clearing. The truck came to
a violent stop, kicking up a dense cloud of dirt and pine
needles. There was silence among the Friends of the Forest
Society and every eye was glued to the truck that had so rudely
disturbed their celebration. The driver’s door flew open and
out staggered a rather smallish man with steely gray hair,
beady eyes, and facial features resembling that of a chimpanzee.
In almost perfect unison the stunned crowd took in a harsh
disbelieving gasp. Then there were confused murmurs.
"Is it really
him?"
"No, it
couldn’t be!"
"What on
earth?"
The realization
of the identity of the unwanted guest hit the Friends of the
Forest Society like a stinging slap to the face. Yes, it was
he, the sworn enemy of all environmentalists — George W. Bush.
But then, there was a sliver of hope. Maybe he’d come to make
amends, to change his ways. Maybe he’d finally realized that
preserving the planet was more important than overflowing
corporate coffers. That hope was quickly and efficiently extinguished.
Bush swayed
on his cowboy boot clad feet and took a final chug from the
beer can he clutched in his left hand. Satisfied that he’d
extracted the last drop of amber fluid, Bush released a deep
rumbling belch, crumpled the can, and tossed it over his shoulder.
"Howdy,
folks," he slurred through his infamous arrogant smirk. "Heard
y’all was havin a Bar-B-Q and thought, ‘heck, no one throws
a Bar-B-Q like me!’"
Bush lifted
his right hand and revealed the object he’d managed to previously
conceal. To the Friends of the Forest Society’s horror it
was a small chainsaw, its gold blade reflecting an errant
stream of sunlight, its blue body emblazoned with the Presidential
Seal! Bush brandished the abhorrent instrument of destruction
with evil glee.
"So whatcha
folks say," hissed Bush, sharply jerking the chainsaw cord,
starting its motor, "Let’s have a big ol’ Texas-style Bar-B-Q!"
For a long
moment, the Friends of the Forest Society stood, their mouths
agape, the only sound that of the blood-curdling scream of
the chainsaw. Then, miraculously, as if from heaven, or Mother
Nature herself, a large pinecone flew toward Bush and smartly
bopped him on the head. Whether it was really a miracle or
a heroic effort from one the Friends of the Forest, we may
never know. Although, the pinecone didn’t effect Bush in his
inebriated state, it served as divine inspiration for the
Friends of the Forest. With the only weapons at their disposal,
they began hurling pinecones at Bush. Bush attempted to duck
and dodge the onslaught, but the pinecones quickly became
too numerous. Bush then started beating them off with the
chainsaw, but he couldn’t avoid the pelting from the pinecones
flying at him in all directions.
Suddenly,
two huge black SUV’s appeared and a small army of Secret Service
Agents tore out of them, wearing their trademarked dark suits,
mirrored sunglasses, and earpieces. One agent easily disarmed
Bush while several others blocked him from the pinecone bombardment.
They swiftly ushered Bush into one of the SUV’s and all three
cars raced from the scene. It wasn’t until the two SUV’s and
the pickup were completely out of site that the Friends of
the Forest ceased fire. They’d beaten back the enemy and a
joyous celebration followed.
When questioned,
the White House refuted Bush’s involvement in the incident
and, despite the many witnesses, denied it even occurred.
Was this
an isolated incident? It would appear not. After a thorough
investigation, other such incidents were uncovered. In Florida,
Bush reportedly infiltrated a scuba diving club and took a
hammer to the protected Coral Reef. In the Arctic Wildlife
Refuge, Bush spray painted the phrase "Oil Rules, Bambi Drools"
on a herd of caribou. And at a conference for the Society
for the Prevention of Global Warming, Bush appeared armed
with an aerosol can in each hand, spraying their contents
into the air, screaming, "Die, Greenies, Die!" On each occasion
witnesses report Bush arrived alone and was then whisked away
by the Secret Service.
The White
House also denies these incidents, calling them, "absurd and
ridiculous." When questioned about Bush’s whereabouts on the
weekends in question, the White House refused to provide proof,
but insisted that he was vacationing at his Crawford, Texas
ranch.
How is it
that the White House has managed to keep these incidents quiet?
How does Bush escape from his Secret Service detail? Are these
incidents of environmental terrorism the result of lost weekends
of drinking binges or an evil twin never before acknowledged?
At this point, there are more questions than answers. One
thing is for certain — environmentalists must beware with
George W. Bush on the loose.
See
other leaked material
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