Dear Diary,
Well, well well. Little Scotty McClellan wrote a “Tell-All” book about his days in the west wing. He’s all caught up in glitz and glamour of the literary world, dazzled no doubt by the praise of such literary giants as Larry King and Kelly Ripa. I wonder how the budding author is going to feel when he’s visited by a few of the Blackwater boys next week and the portable water board we ordered from the Sharper Image catalog. I hope “Shakespeare” has enough lung capacity to survive some real literary critics. Little Scotty broke the administration’s most sacred rule: Zip it or die. Guess he forgot about the promises he made when he got the job as official mouthpiece to the liberal media.
We’re dead serious when we force cabinet members and White House staffers to take the initiation and the oath. We tell them to meet us at Andrews Air Force base for a weekend vacation at the Crawford ranch. Little do they know they’re off for two days of interrogation, programming and hi-jinks at the Republican compound in Saudi Arabia.
When they arrive, they’re told to stand at attention on the tarmac in the oppressive 120 degree heat while I watch from Prince Bandar’s plush, air conditioned RV, sipping on chardonnay as Peggy Noonan hand feeds me grapes. After about three hours, a few give in to their inner liberal tendencies and collapse. Obviously unfit for our White House, they’re dragged away by the guards, a quick neurological procedure is performed so they won’t remember anything, tossed into the cargo hold of an army transport, and flown home and dumped somewhere in West Virginia where the natives do their “thing” with our rejects. After six hours in the oppressive heat, the strongest remain and are shown to their quarters where they’re given peanut butter sandwiches and a bottle of Gatorade.
Next up, an evening at the movies. Our little Bushies-In-Training are escorted to the theater where a technician fits them with that thingamajig from “Clockwork Orange” to make sure they keep their eyes on the screen. After a short subject about fly fishing narrated by Rush Limbaugh, they watch six hours of images of democrat leaders, liberals, Hollywood lefties and middle class families interspersed with visions of the holocaust, Satan and a song or two by Barbra Streisand. Toward the end of the film, the images are replaced with soothing music and vignettes of GW clearing brush and walking into doors. Works like a charm.
Since time is of the essence, they’re told to strip naked and join us in the “Nixon Room”. GW, myself, Anton, Orin and Condi, dressed in our hooded robes await them. First we slash their palms with a sharpened cougar tooth, draining the blood into a communal chalice. Then Orin goes down the line, anointing each with a smear of blood on their foreheads. Next they’re told to have a sip of the secret potion of bat’s piss and bile that insures virility, superior intelligence and steely determination. (It’s really a strawberry slurpee from 7-11) A few gag, but they down the magic elixir. Then one by one, they bend over and we brand their asses with Crawford Ranch logo.
Finally it’s time for the “Bush Oath” as written by Frank Luntz and Wolf Blitzer, pledging their undying allegiance to GW, Halliburton, The Carlyle Group and Barney, doing whatever is necessary to eliminate the opposition and keep republicans in power forever. Afterward, GW goes down the line, shakes their hand and issues each their very own nickname (He likes this part the best). Everybody relaxes thinking it’s over but then we bring out the cage full of puppies. Each is handed one and told to strangle it with their bare hands. Once they’ve completed that task, we welcome them to the “Club” and mingle with our newly minted “Bushies” over milk and cookies. Soon it’s time for them to don their still sweat soaked clothes, hop back on the plane and fly back to DC in time to report to work Monday morning.
So obviously I’m a tad pissed about Little Scotty’s unfortunate slip. As a result, after the Blackwater boys finish with him, we’ll whisk him off to my fortress of solitude 2000 feet under Dollywood in Tennessee, and throw him into a cell with Dan Rather and the Dixie Chicks. Scooter is back at his old job, strategically placing bloodsucking leeches in very naughty places on their bodies. (My leech farm in Mississippi had an especially bountiful harvest this year). Mary M will break all his fingers to make him think twice the next time he decides to put pen to paper.
Loose lips sink ships, Little Scotty. Heh heh heh.
Dick
