Laura Bush, America's First Lady
enjoys a lovely, candid interview with her spiritual advisor
Mrs Betty Bowers, America's Best Christian
It's lovely to be back in the White House, Laura --
Oh, Betty, for goodness sake, call me what Bushie calls me -- Pickles!
But it was my understanding that the alarmingly indiscrete help in this building called you Pickled, dear.
Well, not to my face and, I hope, only after my third breakfast margarita.
So, what do you think about that blabbermouth traitor Paul O'Neill's saying that 9-11™ was simply used as a convenient ruse to go ahead with plans already in place to invade that dreaful Iraq place?
Well, I just hope he makes sure he is right with the Lord every morning before he slides his Mercedes key into the ignition switch! (LAUGHS) No, less seriously, it's like Bushie said, "If we had been planning the invasion of Iraq for years and years, do you think our whole occupation plan would look like it was conceived on the back of an envelope during a game of cards on the 10-hour flight over there?"
I think going with Socratic obfuscation is a wonderfully wise choice while the naïve press still flounders under the delightful misapprehension that there actually was an occupation plan.
Exactly.
Now, what about O'Neill saying the President was disengaged at Cabinet meetings?
Bushie was furious with that unflattering, off-message observation. He is almost certain that he was super-engaged at those meetings, Betty. But since he doesn't actually remember being at any of them, it is hardly fair for the liberal press to pester him for examples. What really got my goat was O'Neill saying Bushie was like a blind man!
Well, I can hear those America-haters at MoveOn.org now: "There are none so blind as those who will Nazi!"
Betty, I'm getting a tad uncomfortable here. Can we get back to the list of innocuous pleasantries Karl Rove has allowed me to talk about?
Well, I'm not sure the word "teacher" scribbled on a Post-it constitutes a list, dear.
Well, my conversational leeway is a bit broader than that, Betty. I'm also allowed to talk about White House Christmas decorations in prime time. And, I mean to say, I was real excited about all the fun holiday stuff we had this past year.
Other than "too much," was there a unifying theme, dear?
Yes. All of the Christmas decorations were based on stories close to my and the President's hearts. Well, they would be close to his heart if he could read. Over by the fireplace behind us, I personally supervised a shortcake tableau from Valley of the Dolls, allowing my staff full access to my walk-in medicine cabinet to add the colorful pharmacological touches that really brought that fun, doll-filled piece to life. And over by that window there was the fun story of Judy Garland's last day on earth done in marzipan. She was slung out on a fabulous little chocolate commode, vomiting a butter icing the pastry chef whipped up -- and we used Spree sour candies as her many, many sleeping pills and barbiturates that led a lovely, fun candied trail to her bed, where her semi-sweet chocolate homosexual husband was dreaming of whatever it is those people dream about when they get aroused in their sleep. His fabulous erection was actually a peppermint stick.
How resourceful! It sounds lovely, dear. Can I see him?
Well, you could have seen all the fun decorations if you'd gotten here before January first.
Is that when they were put in storage?
No, that's when Star Jones visited the White House. While I was in the powder room, she devoured three subdivisions of gingerbread houses.
But I thought the dreadful creature had had her ample stomach stapled!
Well, apparently, that only limits the egress, not ingress of edible decorations when one is stripping over twenty Christmas trees of every popcorn garland and candy cane in sight.
Dear me! Now you know, Laura, as a Christian I never gossip except to save a soul or a conversation, but what about these rumors everyone in Washington is talking about?
Oh, Betty, shame on you! Some people just have naturally blotchy, boozer, whiskey-rash, gin-blossom skin. The President hasn't touched a single drop since, well, a while ago.
Yes, but what about a whole bottle, dear?
I don't believe that that was the question. And I'm not going to dignify that type of unfun, unpatriotic talk by going on about private matters that are sacred to a woman, her husband, his Personal Savior and his battalion of handlers and spontaneous quip writers.
Well, the rumor I was alluding to is that Condoleezza Rice must be elated that her type can now get married on the permafrost prairies of Canada.
They are letting coloreds marry up there? I tell you, those Canadians will go in for any kind of weird liberal experimentation just to annoy us, won't they?
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