President Bush Has 12 Things To Do Today

1. Sleep in a little, maybe as late as 8:30. It’s over in January, so anyone who has a problem with this can go fuck themselves.
2. Lie in bed and ignore ringing phone. Whisper something about “that bald asshole.”
3. Skip breakfast and workout leisurely. Pretend flood of happiness from daughter’s wedding will offset festering despair over being the most unpopular President in history.
4. Arrive in West Wing and order staff to cancel all appointments. Crack that inane “time to make the donuts” joke and ignore Cheney calling after him from down the hall. Also ignore secretary trying to alert him to Cheney. Walk straight ahead as Cheney begins snapping his fingers and yelling, “George! George! Hey, George, it’s Dick! George! Come here for a second! George, it’s me, Dick!” Do not in any way acknowledge the Vice President. Continue walking swiftly into Oval Office. Slam door.
5. Walk toward desk in Oval Office and flip off phone, already ringing. Answer phone:
   —Yeah.
   —Oh, hey, Dick.
   —Really? Weird.
   —Are you serious? Just now?
   —That’s messed up.
   —[Whispering] Bald fat fuck.
   —What? I didn’t say anything.
   —Maybe it’s static.
   —[Whispering] Maybe your ears are plugged with lard.
   —I said it’s just static.
   —So what do you need?
   —Today? You mean now? Oh, no.
   —No, I’m busy this morning.
   —Yeah, no. No way.
   —Yeah, all morning. I’m just…really swamped.
   —No, sorry. Can’t. That won’t work either.
   —Oh, man. Sounds like a real whammy. Wish I could help you, Dick.
   —Yeah, well, I better get to it.
   —Sorry again. Don’t shoot me, okay Dick?
   —I said don’t shoot me in the face.
   —Yeah, okay. Maybe tomorrow. Sure, sounds really great.
6. Unplug phone. Slide chair back from desk. Take favorite rubber ball out from top drawer and throw it hard across the office, catching it with one hand on its return bounce. Repeat this several times without error. “God, I’m good. Look at me. Perfect. Genuine. Complete. Crystalline. Pure.” In flash of inspiration, return ball to drawer and work on text for next Presidential Signing Statement: “Today, I have signed into law H.R. XXXX, the National Oil for Babies Act of 2008. The Act secures a strategic reserve of crude oil for exclusive use by American babies, thus establishing an unprecedented pairing of two of our most precious resources. Provisions of the Act, including sections 43 and 619, claim authority my lawyers have assured me I can ignore without fear of reaction from the legislative or judicial branches, since I’m the man. These provisions could block the golden streams of urine with which I regularly soak the Constitution, as well as my ability to carry out my morally bankrupt assault on civil liberties in the name of Jesus Christ, our Nation’s only Savior and Supreme Lord. As I have specific obligations as Commander in Chief, among these national security and supervision of the executive branch, I have no choice but to command that these provisions lick my balls. The executive branch shall construe such provisions in a manner consistent with however my megalomaniac lawyers choose to interpret the powers of the President. Now sit down and be quiet.”
7. Lunch on hot dogs and ice cream.
8. Take an unplanned stroll around the Rose Garden. Some days it feels like the job is stretching into forever. They don’t tell you that when you win your first term. Fight back anxiety over lame duck status—the long list of unsolved problems, the countries that won’t be invaded, the popular fears that won’t be exploited, the thousands of prisoners who may never be tortured. Stew in anger over the media’s disproportionate preoccupation with waterboarding. Torture is so much more than that. Would it kill them to give some credit for the use of dogs and sexual humiliation? What about sleep deprivation and belly slaps? Almost no mention of forced standing and stress positions, and those are the best ones! No. All you hear is waterboarding this, waterboarding that. Fuckers.
9. Return to West Wing. Creep down the hallways, peering carefully around each corner in case Cheney is lurking about. Get spotted by Chief of Staff Joshua Bolten, who approaches and says hello. Without a word, turn to Bolten and stare him down forcefully. Watch as Bolten becomes so frightened he walks into a wall and drops his coffee. Leave Bolten to clean up his mess. Ask secretary to hold all calls and slip into Oval Office. Nap.
10. Wake in the late afternoon and wander back to the residence. Appeal to Laura about skipping an evening fundraiser for the GOP; put on tuxedo when she will have none of this. Pout for a bit in the limousine, but perk up when she lists the appetizers they’re likely to be served. Bounce around the room all evening in a light mood, oblivious to the sense of doom among donors, their untouched food, the part he plays in their misery. Devour ribeye.
11. Skip out of fundraiser before dessert. Would rather eat ice cream at home anyway. Appeal unsuccessfully to Laura for a sick day tomorrow. “You’ve had enough,” she says. Watch Washington roll by through tinted windows. Drift off for a bit and dream about factories churning out statues with his likeness, victory parades in the sky, standing center stage in front a stadium packed with supporters, taking the microphone with a grin, flashbulbs popping by the thousands, “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you….”
12. Wake to Laura shaking his arm. “George, wake up,” she says. “You’re dreaming. We’re home. Now get out of the car.”