From the Desk of George W. Bush - Democratic Underground

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.