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Taking Liberties
Congress Checks In, Checks Underwear
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 Saddam
was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register
of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker,
and the chief mourner. Bush had signed it: So had his father. Old Saddam
was as dead as a door-nail.
If only he could get the French in line.
But there was something else that needed burying - and
quick. The stench was proliferating as fast as Kim Jong-Il's pronouncements.
It was the best of times if you were rich in dividends, and the worst
of times if your dividends came in the form of sweat on the brow. As rich
as the oil fields of Iraq were, they weren't rich enough as long as there
was money still available to the likes of those who would burden the world
with more Tiny Tim's and other ruffians the world could not afford. "Are
there no workhouses," Bush asked. "Are there no poor houses?"
Bush had tried what he could to discourage the poor from being born. He
had explained to the poor that if your daddy won't buy you a baseball
team, chance is you can't afford a child. Of course once the poor had
procreated anyway, it was too late. It would then be up to the Great Society
to abort it — after it was born — if the poor child was truly
fortunate, it would refreshingly die of a childhood disease. If it grew
any older, chances were that life - and more likely death - would trickle
down upon it.
Money was something that God gave to the rich on purpose,
Bush told himself. It could never be trusted to the poor.
"It's a wonderful world," the voice of Louis
Prima was singing in the background, as the advanced sound system tranquilized
Bush into a deep sleep. Counting his investments from the oil fields of
Texas to the basement of full of wine bottles emptied with care, carried
the chief executive to calmer places. "We don't govern by focus groups,"
Bush lulled himself to sleep. "It's not the government's money, it's
MY money."
Bush didn't immediately hear the sound of chains rattling and the increasing
speed of wind in the room.
"Mr. President," the voice of David Stockman jarred the commander-in-chief
to the point where he dropped the stuffed figure of his vice-president
to the floor.
"Who are you?" the President called out.
"I am the ghost of President's Day Past! " Stockman replied.
"You're damn right, President's Day was last week," Bush recalled.
"That's not what I mean," Stockman said. "I am the first
of three ghosts that will visit you this evening. We are here to bring
you a message about the state of your presidency."
"Oh, kind of like a State of the Union?" Bush answered. "Been
there, done that, couldn't quite figure out some of the words on the T-shirt."
"Put a sock in it, Mr. President," Stockman answered. "I'm
going to show you the spirit of President's Day past."
"Who is that over there with his pants down? Gasp!"
"That's me with President Reagan in the woodshed," Stockman
answered.
"You mean Reagan didn't approve of your "trickle-down economics?"
Bush asked.
"No, he loved it," "Stockman said. "He just didn't
care for my telling everyone EXACTLY how it worked!
"I don't get it, it was even easy enough for ME to understand,"
Bush said. "All you had to do to
stop government as a source of entitlement programs was to take away all
the government's resources and give them back to the rich!"
"Well, there are some people who didn't appreciate knowing how it
works," Stockman explained. "There was a time when we had compassionate
conservatives."
Bush head the chains again, as Stockman's figure evaporated into thin
air. Suddenly there was another sound of rattling chains and then a familiar
voice. "Are you getting enough to eat?"
"Mom!" The voice was too familiar; George looked around to make
sure that the maid had given the room a once-over. "What are you
doing here at this hour?"
"I'm the Ghost of President's Day Present, " Barbara Bush announced
to her son. "Come with me."
"Hmm, this place smells familiar - that's the same brand of pork
rinds daddy eats," Bush pointed out. "Oh look, we found Daddy
snoring!"
"Read my lips," the voice from the bedroom cried out, "
No new taxes…wouldn't be prudent at this juncture."
"You're right, dad, I wouldn't be caught dead raising taxes,"
Bush said, "I learned my lesson from you. We can pay for this war
off the backs of the poor. Another pork rind? "
"Mmmmmppppppppphhhhhhhh," was the only sound coming from the
bedroom now.
"Hey Daddy, if I get rid of Saddam for you, do you think you can
arrange for me to finally reach my goal in life? I think Bud Selig has
been baseball commissioner long enough. Can I be the next baseball commissioner,
huh dad? Huh dad?
"Mmmmmppppppppppphhhhhhhhhhh," was the response again.
Barbara Bush's figure faded away once more, as the wind speed picked up
again. A sad funeral cortege was passing by as the junior Bush looked
out. "What's happening? Who are they burying? Is that my Dad? My
Mom? My puppy?"
"It's none of the above," the dark, sinister face looked directly
into the eyes of the President. "We are losing the last of a valuable
American resource. It's almost as needed as the bald Eagle, and certainly
many of us will no longer be able to function unless we can figure out
a way to replace them."
"Why you are Leona Helmseley!" Bush shrieked at a woman whose
name drew greater fear than this own.
"I am the Ghost of President's Day Future!" Helmsley enunciated
slowly and clearly. "And this, thanks to you was the last poor person
left in America. Now, who will wash my laundry?"
"More importantly, who will make a pretzel run for me? " Bush
countered.
"I am aghast, I am befuddled. " Is it too late? Is there nothing
I can do to stop this from happening? Tell me Spirit, what can I do to
prevent this?"
"Remember, I am the Spirit of President's Day Future! "Helmseley
responded. "It is up to you if this prophecy becomes real!"
"Then I have indeed turned it around, indeed I shall!" Bush
said. "I will follow in the words of Abraham Lincoln. God did indeed
loved poor people because he made so many of them! Blessed be, I will
make sure there are poor people plenty enough to go around and help rich
people lead happier lives!"
As the sunlight shone brightly into the White House window, the newly
revitalized President awoke with excitement. He was moved, he was excited
and ready to repopulate the numbers of the poor. He would act with great
speed and daring. "Hello, Michael!" the President began with
his happiest voice. "Mr. Jackson, you may not know me, but you're
the only one I know who may be ready to do this. We need some little people.
Some little people who are poor! Can you make a bunch of children who
look poor? "
"You can?"
"God Bless Us Everyone!"
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