Betty Bowers Keeps White House Visitors From Slipping in President's Pretzel & Beer Vomit

The First Lady tried her usual method of attempting to revive her drunken husband: She beat his face with the sensible heel of her 9 West pleather pump for several minutes. "It didn't seem to help him," said Mrs. Bush "but I sure-as-shooting felt better!"
(WASHINGTON, D.C.) First Lady Laura Bush recruited her spiritual advisor Mrs. Betty Bowers over the weekend to stall a White House tour group of South American diplomats while a vomit-splattered President Bush was scraped off the floor and hidden behind a row of one-arm bandits in the Sports Tavern Room (formally the Map Room). With the help of burly presidential advisor Karen Hughes and a wheelbarrow Mrs. Bowers had spotted in the Rose Garden, an intoxicated Mr. Bush was lifted off the sawdust floor and slung out of view just seconds before Mexican-looking visitors were ushered in.

"Whew, that was close!" sighed an exasperated First Lady after the guests had moved on to the Blue Room. "I mean to tell you, it's just like back in Texas. Not a day goes by without someone falling down drunk around here! If it's not the twins or Bar, it's Bushie. Jiminy Cricket, if I'd wanted to spend my life surrounded by drunks, I never would have stopped teaching in public school!"

Mrs. Bowers had been in our nation's capital to give Arthur Andersen her "final offer" on the certified figures to be used in the financial statements of an offshore Christian enterprise to sell vials of Jesus' tears to gullible Latin Americans. "I had stopped by the White House to help Laura pick out some china to sell on E-Bay," recalled Mrs. Bowers. "We were in the middle of a friendly disagreement (Laura wanted to unload some frightfully dreary Mamie, but I told her the louder Nancy would fetch a much better price) when Karen Hughes came flying in door. Frankly, I was surprised by her appearance, as she looked even younger than she had on that TV show of hers – Maude -- thirty years ago!"

"When we first walked in the Sports Tavern Room and saw him laying splayed out on the floor like a dead pet," recalled Mrs. Bowers, "I immediately assumed that he had simply been tossed off the mechanical bull in the center of the room. It wasn't until I saw the unsightly pool of pretzel vomit splashed about his face and the four-story stack of empty Busch beer bottles that I cottoned on to the fact that the leader of the free world was in a drunken stupor."

"I tried to keep those unsaved Catholics outside the door as long as I could," said Mrs. Betty Bowers. "Fortunately, I happened to have a slew of Chick Bible tracts in my Bottega Veneta clutch. I pulled out one that seemed particularly well-suited for the audience called "Mary: Goddess of the Catholic Damned" and started reading it to them, taking time to show each of them the cartoons of the priests being righteously jammed up the rear with pitchforks. ('Hardly a new sensation,' I editorialized -- a comment the wife of some Argentine assented to by making some cross-like gesticulation, as if she was taking inventory of the buttons on her loud faux-Chanel jacket.) The pictures came in handy, because I find that it is often difficult to effectively tell people who speak wretched English that they are going straight to hell. The Lord knows, I was doing the best job I could, but the President of Uruguay was getting very impatient. You should have seen the look he gave me when I asked if he wanted to join his mother in Hell! Honestly, foreigners can be so rude, which is why I refuse to be one."

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