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George W Bush, President

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Reading Camus

Yep. I really read that there Camus book. Mr. Snow said it'd give me grabbitass. I don't know what that means, but I like the sound of it.

The book didn't make much sense to me, but I guess you can't expect a killer whale to make a lot of sense, especially one that can't even spell his own name right.

Still, it's amazing that he was able to write it at all. It must be hard to write with flippers, especially under water. I bet a lot of the pages just fell apart before he was finished writing them.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Memo to the Secret Service.

Re: My Strawberries.

Somebody ate my strawberries. I put them in the little fridge I keep here in my bunker on Air Force One, but now they're gone. I bet Koizumi's behind it. He's wanted my strawberries since he first saw them while visiting me during my first term.

Who helped him? Someone had to get into the bunker while I was out pretending that everything is OK. It wasn't Koizumi, because I was with him all day. My dog, Barney, swears that nobody came in, but I don't trust him--he's too close to Santorum. Besides, he was passed out drunk on my special medicine when I returned. He wouldn't have seen anyone come in. I want him banned from the bunker.

That leaves Condi, Laura, and Mom as suspects, because they're the only other people who have the code to the bunker. They all knew about the strawberries, but I made them swear that they'd never touch them for any reason other than to bring me to climax.

I want you to find out which one of them broke the oath. Put them on one of our CIA chartered flights to Damascus if that's what it takes. If that doesn't work, we'll invade Japan. I need my strawberries.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

I know black people

Tonight, at the debate, Carry said that I never met with the NWPCAA or the Congressman Black Cockus (he, he, cockus--why do they call themselves that?). Of course I denied it right away and then after the debate, I asked Mr. Rove if it was true.

He said, "remember those really old basketball players that came to visit you?" I said I didm and he said that was the Congressman Black Cockus. Then I remembered everything.

They kept calling me up and saying that they wanted to talk to me about hatey. I didn't want to talk to them because they were black men--some with funny foreign names--and they must be pretty mad if they were going to come over and hate me. I was scared even though I knew I could beat them up.

Anyway, they wouldn't take no for an answer. One day they all got on a bus and drove to my house and forced there way in. I told the secret policemen to shoot them, but Mr. Rove said "no, that would cause problems--you have to meet with them since they're here. So I invited them into my oboe office to talk. I told them that I was a big basketball fan so that they wouldn't try to kill me and than I said they must be pretty tough to still be playing basketball at their age. That seemed to piss them off, because they started to talk about hatey. After awhile, I tried to calm them down by saying that I thought it would be cool to have a really big thingy because girls would like that. That seemed to make them really mad, and then they left. I think I scared them by being resoloot.

I bought all new toilet seats after they left. You can't be too caeful.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Being President is Hard Work

I don't like these debate things. Everybody's always telling me how to act at them. They even took away my Ny-Quil about a week before the first one. That made me all shaky, and I started to see giant spiders in my room. And they didn't have spider heads neither. Instead, they all had Uncle Dick's head on their bodies, and they were saying they were going to interrogate me by putting glow sticks in my butt.

Mr. Rove said I couldn't debate if I kept seeing the spiders, so they gave me my Ny-Quil back. I stopped shaking and seeing spiders after that.

They brought me a a little juice glass full of Ny-Quil before the first debate and said that it was all I could drink. Then they stuck a thing in my ear that made it so Mr. Rove could talk to me in my head. That made Jesus mad, because He likes to have my head to himself. He told me to ignore Mr. Rove, but I said that would get me in trouble. Then, Jesus told me to go and have a few hits off of my Ny-Quil bong, and I wouldn't care anymore. He was right.

I couldn't understand all the big words Mr. Kerry was saying in the first debate. Mr. Rove kept trying to help me, but Jesus started to sing "Jesus wants me to be a Sunbeam" really loud, and I couldn't understand what Mr. Rove was saying. That made me kind of mad, and I guess it showed. Everybody yelled at me afterward, and said that I was drunk.

They let me use my nose medicine for the next debate, and they promised not to arrest me this time for using it. Mr. Limbaugh said that combined with the Ny-Quil, it would keep me on an even keel. He knows a lot about medicine--he's like a doctor or something. There was a problem though. Uncle Dick found my Ny-Quil bong after the first debate and confiscated it. All I got was a little glass, the balance between Ny-Quil and nose medicine this time was way off.

That said, this time was stil a little better, because Jesus was mad at me for touching Barney the way Sen. Santorum taught me and didn't talk to me except for that time he told me to kill Charley Gibson. Mr Rove stopped me just in time.

I got really angry a lot during that debate. Once, Mr. Kerry tried to embarrass me my saying that I had wood. That was a lie. I haven't had wood in years--Laura says it's because of all the Ny-Quil and nose medicine.

There's one more debate coming up. I don't want to do it. Maybe, they'll let my man-secretary, Mr. Rumsfeld, do it for me. I sure hope so.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004


I thought I should expend on my remarks about the pressed conference. A lot of the reporters asked me if I made mi...mis...mis...uhhh, if I had re...re...regrrr...hmmm...uhhh, if I should tell the 9-11 families that I was sor...sor..sor...uhhh, if somebody made a mistake and if they owed the public an apology.

Sure, people made mistakes. Saddam bin Laden made a huge one. He built a big honkin stockpile of weapons of mess destruction. That was a huge mistake.

So what if we haven't found any of those weapons. That's Valerie Plame's fault. If she hadn't married Joe Wilson, she'd still be doing her job as an undercover weapons of mess destruction spy, and we'd have found them.

Dick Clarke made a mistake too. He didn't warn me that 19 high jackers were going to fly planes into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. If he'd just told me that, I could have redacted. Little wimp. I could kick his butt if Mr. Cheney wouldn't hold me back. Clarke's a big sissy. He isn't mendacious like me. I can even grow a beard of if I want. I bet Clarke cant, the wuss.

And another thing. It's not my fault that Saddam bin Laden got away after we catched him. I had a map that pinpointed his hideout in a Afgan Stan's land, but Laura spilled coffee on it, and when she said she'd blot it up with a cloth, Jenna yelled "BLOTTER!" and ate the damned thing. So you see, Jenna and Laura are the reason Saddam bin Laden remains on the loose. It's not my fault.

So, the answer is no. I'm flatulent. I've acted correctly. It's incontinent to say otherwise.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

I got another card

My wife (a wife is like a mom who isn't drunk all of the time), Laura, read me this story that says I got another card:

Muhsin Khadr al-Khafaji, No. 48 on the 55 most-wanted list, was turned over last weekend to U.S. troops in the Baghdad area, the officials said, speaking on the condition of anonymity. The officials did not say who turned him over.
Mr. Cheney says that after three more, I can yell "YAHTZEE!"

I've got Joementum!

That's what daddy says and then he laughs.

Monday, February 02, 2004

I missed seeing Janet Jackson's boobies last night

I had too much NyQuil--I mean pretzels--and I passed out. I always miss the good stuff.

Uncle Dick told me he'd show me his boobies, but that's not the same. I want to see girl boobies. Mr. Rove said that I have to wait until I'm married and then said, "hey wait, you are married," and looked at me kind of funny.

I'm going to ask Laura if I can see hers, or maybe I'll tell my man-secretary, Colin Powell, to ask her for me. He use to be a general, so he must be very brave.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Do you think I'm pretty?

I've been feeling really really really bad since my trip to Mexico. I just can't get over the incident with Scott Reid. You know, when a man tells another man that he thinks he's pretty, the courteous thing to do is to return the complement. Reid didn't do that. He just stood there stammering. Even more important, when the President of the greatest country in the whole world invites you to his hotel room to have a few drinks and watch wrestling, you go. That's called diplomacy.

The whole thing has me wondering if I'm pretty. I've always been a little insecure about that. Unlike my brother Neil, I've never had strange ladies come to my door and ask me to have sex--I knew he was smarter than me, but is he really prettier too?

I like to think I'm a pretty man, even though I tend to break out when I tell a lot of fibs. Thinking that you're pretty is important, but you also need to hear it from others.

Tonight, when I give my State of the Union talk, I want you all to tell me how pretty I am. Of course, I know you just can't yell it out, because Mr. Ashcroft won't like it--order is very very important to him. Instead, I'll say a code word, and when you hear it, you can tell me how pretty I am by cheering. If you think I'm really really pretty, you can stand up and cheer.

I'll pause while you cheer, so that I can see who's cheering the loudest and I might invite that person to come to my house after the speech. I really really really hope it's a certain Senator from Pennsylvania. I've bought a dog collar just in case.

The code word will be "freedom."

It would also be very helpful to me if you could compare my prettiness to others. So at various points in the speech, I'm going introduce people in the audience. When I do that, I want you to clap if you think I'm prettier.

Please overlook any blemishes I may have. I noticed that I had a few this morning after I practiced my speech. Hopefully my face will clear up by tonight.

Monday, January 19, 2004

Mexico is fun. Canada is evil

My friend, Gen. JC Christian, tells me that people are making fun of me for saying that a certain Canadian official is a very pretty man. I said that while I was in Mexico. I like Mexico. It's a fun place, but it seems like I always get in trouble there.

My father use to get mad at me for things I did in Mexico. He would yell at me and call me a useless drunk. Mother always defended me. "Leave W alone, you wimpy little bastard," she'd say, "people are supposed to experiment when they go to Mexico." Mother is always right. It's ok to experiment in Mexico and that's all I was doing when I said that man was pretty.

Our trip to Mexico was a success. Presidente--that's how they say "president" in Mexican--Fox even said good things about me. The Canadians were a different story. One of their officials denied a very important request that I made to him. We can't allow something like that to happen. That's why I've asked that Canada be added to our list of axes that are evil. I told Condi to put it in my State of the Union Speech.

I've also asked my man-secretary, Mr. Rumsfeld, to draft up invasion plans against Canada. When I told him why, he said that we couldn't get the American public to go to war over something like that. I replied that maybe we could say that they had bad weapons hidden in their vast natural gas reserves. That made Mr. Rumsfeld smile really big, and he said we'd that we'd liberate Edmonton by Easter.