(cross-posted at Deny My Freedom)
Oh greatest leader of the free world, the mighty George Walker Bush, the 43rd president of God’s Chosen Land! I have a proposition for you. To be fair, I don’t know if your daughters currently have boyfriends (or girlfriends, if Mary Cheney has infected them with her horrible disease), but I’d like to take one of them out on a date. Preferably Barbara, since I have a thing for brunettes, but I’m equal opportunity, so I’d be happy with Jenna as well. Hell, if you could ask God for permission, could you see if She could allow all three of us to enjoy a night of unadultered debauchery?
I didn’t mean to anger you, Oh Mighty Conveyor of Subliminable Expressions! Give me a chance to explain.
Your daughters are both gorgeous creatures of God, don’t get me wrong. Jenna isn’t shy about it, but Barbara seems a little like the quiet type. The truth is, Possesser of God’s Phone Number, is that I cannot wait to know more about a brilliant man such as yourself. Other readers of the Holy Book itself have said you are an artist above all others, even on the level of the most selfess and kind painter the world has ever known, Vincent Van Gogh. I want to get inside your mind and learn your Jedi mind tricks. Teach me how I can think of exactly what you’d want to say in your dissertations on democracy. I want to be at your side, ’til death do us part, holding Sharpie pens for you and choosing what pink whistles you will blow during the White House Easter Egg Roll.
When you’re feeling down, I’ll crack jokes about needing wood to remind you that you, Defender of Marriage, that you still have the largest penis in the world – Tony Blair has nothing on you. I want to be the one who goes over to Congress and makes sure to tell cheap whores like Arlen Specter that the two-cent Judiciary Committee chairmanship he holds is in 1776 dollars and that he still needs to put out. A nickname I really want to have is “Soldier”; it will remind you, Sagacious Commander-in-Chief, of the glorious success Iraq has been. I’ll be your systems analyst to help you extend your godly prescience; I’ll be your gatekeeper when those God-hating, abortion-loving, perverted homosexual left-wing liberals invade your bubble of invincibility; and I’ll be your diplomat to tell the rest of the world that yes, we don’t really give a fuck.
I will be your slave, Oh Master. I will mutilate myself if it makes God laugh in Her indispensible glory. All I ask in return, Oh Generous One, is to provide me with a $95,000 annual salary and a ticket to Harvard Business School. If you can spend money on a bunch of nobodys, surely you can at least let me live in reaosnable luxury. And even though I never finished college, I’m sure you can help me get into the most elite business school in the country. I’d be like your son.
So, what do you think, Oh Authority of the English Language? Do you think you can help me out? I promise I’ll take good care of your angels.
Thanks! I knew you’d see it my way.
