George Bush Fucked My Dog

So I tell a good friend of mine these words verbatim: "If George Bush wins, he can fuck my dog." A few weeks pass, and guess what? Regardless of polls and overwhelming pleas for common sense, the fucking mongoloid wins.

Ah shit, ha ha, gotcha. Goddammit, the man wins on a morals platform, and now I - nay - my faithful lab/husky mix - is now FUCKED. So my good friend is on the phone to the White House calling our newly reelected President of these here United States.

"No, seriously, you can come over right now. We bet on it!" he says as I protest vehemently. "Bring some of those Pannido things from Jack in the Box and some KY and you can do it, I promise. No...no...he definitely doesn't have that smug liberal look on his face anymore. Yes, he definitely looks like a pussy now."

I'm pretty sure I got on George's bad side when he spied me on CNN in front of Republican National Headquarters holding a sign reading "FUCK THE POOR. VOTE BUSH."

A few hours later, a helicopter with the Presidential Seal emblazoned on it decides to land directly on my Toyota Prius, effectively crushing it into a hybrid pulp.

The doors slide open and out steps our Commander In Chief. He surveys the damage with a disdainful glance. "Dang imports crumple like tin can at the slightest breeze, don't they?" A respectful titter runs through the crowd of black-clad Secret Service agents following him. He rummages through his pockets and pulls out a few shiny nickles and tosses them over his shoulder towards the wreckage. "Buy yourself a new one, chief."

Now I'm a little pissed off at this moment, as you can imagine. Not only did this ass spelunker of a President intend on doing the Ned Beatty thing to my faithful canine companion, but he also destroyed my hybrid. Holy Jesus H. Baldheaded Christ, what the fuck was this world coming to?

George motions to his minions in dark sunglasses, and they converge upon me, searching every nook and cranny of my body, lingering just a bit longer on my crotch area than I was comfortable with. Satisfied that I had no concealed weapons, President Bush came forward and faced me eye-to-eye.

"Are you a good American, son?" he asks. "Yes sir," I respond. He cocks an eyebrow and glances at the nearest agent, who promptly delivers a stinging bitch-slap.

"Let's try that again: Are you a good American, son?"
"Yes, massa."
"That's better." He smiles. "Now where's that little 'ole dog of yours?"

"Right here, Georgie!" my so-called good friend exclaims, dragging the terrified animal behind him.

And there we go. The insult of insults. Here I am, being restrained by a bunch of Secret Service Agents, as President Bush unbuckles his fine-leather belt and lets his perfectly pressed pants fall into a puddle at his feet. Here I am, trying to suppress screams of horror as George clamps his hand over my dog's muzzle to stifle the whines. He violates the animal in every possible way, right there in front of me, going at it with a bestial passion the likes of which I had not seen since my last trip to Tijuana. "You...little...motherfucking bitch," he whispers through gritted teeth. "Take it...take it all the way...you dirty little rag-headed liberal abortion-loving gun-hating homo-marrying pacifist anti-war tree-hugging cock tease...FUCKING TAKE IT!"

I black out.

I come to a few hours later on my own couch. George is sitting beside me talking animatedly to my good friend about his plans for Social Security reform. "Jesus Christ, these here are some good fucking Pannidos, my nizzle!" he says out loud. Everyone laughs.

Realizing I'm conscious, he helps me steady myself as a wave of revulsion passes over me.

"I'm sorry," he says, genuinely apologetic. "I never meant for that to happen. I've just been a little tense this past year. I'm sure you'll understand." Uncomprehending, I ask to see my dog. A hushed silence falls across the room. Whispers.

"I never meant to go that long or be that rough. It was the fucking Viagra, I swear to Christ."
"What?" I say, still confused.
"We can always get you another dog. I have connections."
Finally, realization sets in.
"To death, Mr. President?" I ask, horrified.
"Um, yeah. If it makes you feel any better, we buried most of him. But we're still looking for the head."

(TO BE CONTINUED)