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The tall and attractive press secretary sauntered into the Great Hall to announce the arrival of the Emperor for his daily audience. “All rise and be informed that anyone seeking audience with the Grand Omnipotent Potentate, the Revered Communicator, the Wise and Infallible Decider, Emperor of the New World Order, His Excellency George Bush the First, may approach and be recognized.” She took two steps back and waited for the Emperor’s entrance, head bowed and hands folded below the waist of her tasteful, light blue business suit.
All in attendance rose from their chairs as Ann Coulter proclaimed the arrival of their Emperor. Their heads turned in unison toward the stage entrance to the Great Hall to catch a glimpse of their beloved leader. The audience collectively inhaled as Emperor George the First strolled confidently up to the riser. He was clothed in the official attire of his office. His long imperial red and white striped satin robe, draped over his broad shoulders, flowed out like the wings of a majestic eagle capturing the currents of a thermal. Upon his head rested the crown of state, a jewel encrusted golden helmet, cocked dramatically to the right.
Emperor George marched to his thrown as “Hail to the Chief” played over the White House sound system. He turned to face his minions, chin held high, eyes focused distantly, just above their heads. He stood, statuesque, so that his subjects could drink in the splendor of his personage. His faithful advisor puttered at his side. He arranged the documents and lists of duties that needed to be completed before the day was done. When all was organized, he stood and waited patiently for the New World Anthem to end.
The Emperor sat back on his majestic thrown made of Central American mahogany, South African diamonds, and Indian rubies and sapphires. He signaled that he was ready to begin the day’s business with a nonchalant rising of his hand. Everyone returned to their seats and sat in respectful silence.
“Sir Rove, what’s our first order of business?” the Emperor asked, turning to his advisor.
“Great Leader, before we begin, I have a letter from your mother and father. They wish to thank you for the wonderful vacation you arranged for them and are respectfully wondering when you think they can go back home.”
“I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves,” Bush said with a contemplative expression, “Mom and Dad always loved the Caribbean. You write back and tell them that everything’s going great back home and that they should relax and enjoy all that Guantanamo has to offer. I hope that their rooms are to their liking and that they take advantage of the sun and beautiful beaches. Mom could really use a tan. Don’t put that in the letter Carl. Just end it ‘Love always, your son, Number 1’.
“Very good, sire.” Rove bowed and handed his notes to an assistant who then ran out of the Great Hall. Rove opened his leather bound folder and read the first entry on the agenda.
“Now, Your Majesty, the Minister of War would like the honor of reporting progress in the Australian insurgency campaign, ‘Operation Kangaroo Barbecue’,” Rove announced reading from his folder.
Lord Rumsfeld approached the Emperor from the first row of seats. He bowed deeply as he heaped praise upon his master. “Oh, Grand Omnipotent Potentate,” he said with his head still bowed, “Lord of all people, Master of all the world, I wish to inform you that the Australian insurgency is close to defeat. They are within months of complete eradication.”
“When have I heard that before?” Bush asked sarcastically, “ I thought I ordered you to nuke those Aussie agitators. What’s the sense of naming this operation ‘Barbecue’ when there’s no blasted barbecue?”
“Yes, your Excellency,” Rumsfeld replied, sweat running profusely from his deeply furrowed brow, “I thought it wise to complete ‘Operation Track and Kill’ before we resorted to an all out nuclear attack. If we can break the back of the insurgency with ground and air troops, we can avoid turning the country into a nuclear wasteland.”
“Rummy, Rummy, Rummy, when are you going to get it through your egomaniacal brain that I am the Decider. What I say goes, without question. You’ve done a heck of a job so far Rummy. Don’t make me angry with you. You don’t want that. You know what happened to Brownie after he screwed the pooch in New Orleans, don’t you?”
“No! Please, sire. Don’t send me to him! I’ll order the missile attack right away, Your Majesty. You are most wise and I am but an insignificant servant to your magnificence. I should be flogged for my insubordination. But I beg you, don’t send me to the Dark Lord,” Rumsfeld pleaded, as he fell to his knees.
“OK, your job is safe, for now! Just follow my orders. I want Australia buried under huge piles of nu-cul-ar fallout. Get him out of here.” Bush waved his arm and immediately two guards moved towards the groveling Secretary of War, picked him up by both arms and dragged him from the Emperor’s feet and out of the hall.
“Well that was a piece of unpleasant business,” Bush said to Rove with a smirk, “Who’s next?”
“Lady Condoleeza Rice wishes your counsel over some European matters, Your Highness.”
“Condi, step up where I can get a gander of you girl.”
Lady Rice rose from her chair, walked to the foot of the throne platform, curtsied and addressed her King.
“Your Excellency, I am seeking your wisdom on a problem with the French government. I’m afraid things are a bit over my head. They are refusing to pay the customary sixty percent of their Gross National Product to your treasury and want to negotiate a reduction in their assessment.”
“The impertinence!” Bush shouted as he stood from his throne. Lady Rice jumped back startled and covered her face with her arms as if trying to deflect the ire of her Emperor. “Those French are nothing but a pain in my butt.” He looked down at the cowering Lady Rice at his feet. “You tell them to pay up or else! Tell them to look to the southeast tonight. That bright light in the sky will be their destiny if they refuse to pay me every dollar they owe. I have spoken!”
Emperor Bush returned to his throne and sat in silence while Lady Rice crawled back to her seat, shaking like a little girl having been scolded by an abusive father. She sat with her face in her hands as the press secretary tried her best to console the distraught Minister of Imperial Affairs.
“This is hard work, Carl,” the now recovered world ruler whispered to his advisor. Sir Rove nodded with grave sympathy as he read the next bit of business.
“Your Worship, the token opposition requests an audience.”
“Do I have to?” Bush asked his advisor with tired, sad eyes.
“I’m afraid you must, sire,” Rove replied, “duties of the throne and all that.”
“All right, send them in.” Bush said with resignation in his voice. He slumped on his throne and rested his weary head on his hand.
Two men walked down the center isle of the Great Hall, amongst the whispers and jeers from the audience. They approached the throne and bowed in unison.
“Grand Omnipotent Potentate, John Kerry and Albert Gore, representatives of the token opposition, wish to present a petition from the people of the Kingdom of America,” Gore announced loud enough for all in attendance to hear. There was a buzz of excited whispers throughout the room.
“Oh, what are they complaining about now?” Bush asked, slumping further on his throne.
“Sire, your subjects are revolting!” Kerry proclaimed with steadfast sincerity.
“They most certainly are, heh, heh, heh,” The Emperor replied with a folksy chuckle. The entire room burst with laughter.
“This is serious, sire,” Gore interrupted, trying to bring a sense of gravity back to the presentation.
“All right, what do they want of me?”
“They are petitioning for the return of their basic freedoms granted to them by the original constitution, the freedom of speech, freedom of assembly and freedom of religion to name a few,” replied Kerry to Bush’s question.
“I got a bone to pick about their freedom of religion,” Bush said while straightening himself on his throne, “My subjects have never been denied the right to worship any of the great religions of the world. Why there’s Baptist, Presbyterian, Lutheran and Methodist churches right here in Washington. Well, maybe they got a point with Universalism. Could never bide by them, too damn liberal. Besides, I’ve accepted Jesus as my personal savior and I speak to him every day. He says I’m doin’ a heck of a job. They think they know better than Christ?”
“No sire,” replied Gore, “They just want their cherished democracy back.”
“Oh, they do, do they? Don’t they know that terrorists are lurking around every corner? Don’t they read my newspapers, watch my TV news shows? If they did, they’d know I’m the only one between them and death at the hands of the terrorists. I limited a few freedoms so that I could protect them from terrorists. That’s a fair trade. They weren’t really using them anyway. Listen, you tell my people that it’s either my way or death by terrorists. Now go away.” Bush waved an arm to emphasize his command.
“Sorry sire, but there’s more,” Kerry said.
“What? More?”
"Yes, Your Excellency. It seems the middle class and poor are having a difficult time making ends meet. They want you to cut their taxes and start taxing the wealthy and the corporations. Your reverse progressive tax structure isn’t working for a vast majority of Americans. We in the token opposition demand tax reform as well as the reestablishment of Social Security, Medicare, unemployment insurance, disability insurance and a minimum wage.” Kerry looked Bush squarely in the eyes while he listed his demands.
“Well, That takes the cake,” said Bush as he stared angrily at the two petitioners, “They want the wealthy to pay taxes. Who do they think will give them jobs if I tax the rich? The wealthy can’t sustain their lavish lifestyles and palatial mansions if they’re taxed. If I do what they want, then good jobs like butlers and maids and gardeners will disappear. And, they want social security too? How can I pay for that? There are wars goin’ on. Where’s their sense of patriotism. We can’t have war without sacrifice. They’re all ungrateful traitors and you two are no better. Guards, arrest them.”
Three guards approached John Kerry and Al Gore, handcuffed their hands behind their backs and began to lead them away until Bush stood to stop them.
“Hold on,” Bush commanded, “a simple arrest is too good for these traitors. Carl, send for the Dark Lord.” Carl Rove reached into his breast pocket and flipped open his cellular phone.
The two prisoners fell to their knees upon hearing Bush’s order. “Please, Please my Lord, we’ll do anything. We’ll tell the people you’re working on their requests and that we can’t comment until you release a plan. It’s worked before. Please sire, have mercy on us,” Kerry pleaded with the Emperor as Gore tried to bury his face into the hardwood floor. The meeting attendees were almost as panic-stricken. People desperately tried to move away from the center isle, pushing and shoving their way towards the Great Hall walls and hiding behind chairs.
Suddenly, the large doors to the main hall entrance burst open. Seconds later a man, dressed entirely in black, walked determinedly up the center isle. His black storm trooper helmet bore the golden symbol of the Kingdom of America and his ankle length cloak hung stiffly from around his neck as if it was made of plaster. He looked not at the audience, now huddling against the walls, or at the prisoners in front of him. His gaze was firmly fixed upon the Emperor, his lord, his master.
“You summoned, my master?” the Dark Lord inquired with a raspy, throaty voice. His breathing was labored and loud enough to reverberate off the Great Hall walls.
“Yes I did, Dick.” Bush said with a cocky smile. “I have some traitors here that require your special attention. Take them to the dungeon and make them talk. I want the names of those who would dare petition their Emperor.”
“Yes, Master. I will obey,” the Dark Lord, Dick Cheney, said as he picked up the two prisoners by their suit coat collars and effortlessly dragged them towards the Great Hall entrance.
“Oh, Dick.” Cheney stopped and turned slightly to listen to his master. “Go see a doctor about your bronchitis, will you? Your breathing is freaking me out.”
“I apologize my Lord, but the dungeon is very damp. Perhaps you could see your way to having a dehumidifier installed?”
“Consider it done, old friend,” Bush replied. Cheney grimly nodded once and dragged Gore and Kerry, now in deep shock, out of the Great Hall.
Bush fell back onto his throne with his legs out stretched and his arms locked at shoulder height upon the arm rests. His ornate crown practically covered his eyes. “I think that’s enough for today Carl,” he said.
“But we have much more yet to cover, Your Highness. Perhaps we can continue after a short break?”
“I said enough! I have a golf game today with Vijay Sing and I need to recoup.” Bush sat up and looked around the room. "Oh, there you are. Condi, Ann, how ‘bout you and I adjourn to the Lincoln bedroom for a threesome.”
The two imperial staff members walked towards the Great Hall side exit. Bush followed close behind. “Only this time girls, how ‘bout paying a little more attention to your Lord and Master.” The two women looked at each other and smiled, wrapped their arms around each other’s waists and led the Emperor out of the room.
“George, George, wake up, George.”
“What, what, what’s wrong Laura? Is al-Qaeda attacking?”
“No George, you’re having that rodeo dream again. You’re yellin’, ‘Ride her Annie Oakley.’”
“Oh, I’m sorry to wake you, honey. Let’s go back to sleep. The ruler of the free world needs his rest.”
“Ruler? You mean leader.”
“What? Oh ya, leader, heh, heh, heh.”
