I got back from my Yearly Performance Review with Satan yesterday and found George Bush in a
very nasty mood. I don't mind the yelling so much, but it gets a little frightening when he gets down on all fours and starts chewing the rug.
"It's the damned newspapers again," Dick Cheney observed as we watched George make his way through the field of stars around the Presidential Seal.
Dick didn't seem inclined to do anything, but Condi Rice went over and gently lifted George to his feet. "There, there, honey, it's ok," she soothed him, stroking him perhaps a bit too affectionately... She led him back to his desk, and George slumped down in his chair. "Make them stop," he whined.
"Make who stop, Mr. Decider?" I asked.
"The New York Times," Dick answered. "They've been printing leaks about our secret operations again."
"Oh, right, that illegal bank-records search thing," I recalled. "Yeah, that was a real problem. I mean, what terrorist would ever think that somebody might be watching their records?"
"Exactly," Dick said. "We'll throw `em all in Gitmo."
"The terrorists?"
"The New York Fucking Times!" Dick exploded. "Whose fucking side are you on, anyway?"
I flicked my forked tail and looked down at my cloven hoofs, which were making little singe marks in the carpet. The faint smell of brimstone wafted up and made my nose twitch.
"I'm on you're side, Dick," I replied coolly. "Has there ever been any doubt?"