Dear Family and Friends,
Happy Holidays! Heh, heh, heh, just kidding. Merry Christmas. As I sit here writing this, I’m sipping some patented Bush Nog. One part eggnog, one quart of Knob Creek. Okay, I’m exaggerating, it doesn’t have any eggnog in it.
To say this year has driven me to drink would be an understatement. No, wait, an overstatement. Or maybe just a statement. I’m a decider, not a writer. Laura usually writes this thing but she’s laid up from her skin melodrama. So I’m taking pen to paper this year. Actually, plastic toothpick thing to this Blueberry gizmo.
What I found this year is that raising a democracy is like raising twin daughters. They can be sweet and loving and perfect to your face, then you turn your back and they get caught using a fake ID or blowing up a mosque. They say it won’t happen again and then blammo, they’re falling down all over the front page of The New York Times. Iraq, I mean. I think. These meta-fours make my head hurt.
The good news is the girls have been out of the news again. Mostly. Barbara got her purse stolen by some Mexicans from Argentina, but that’s much better than her stealing from them. Jenna hasn’t fallen on the floor or stuck her tongue out or gotten busted for coke. Just like the girls, I think Iraq will straighten out when she turns 20. That’s only 17 more years, and let me tell you, they fly by. Especially when you drink Bush Nog.
Speaking of drinking, we recently lost a dear member of the family, our good friend Rummy. I had to let him go the way I had to let booze go. They were both great in moderation. But too much clouded my judgment and made me think that blonde winking at me in the bar was Miss Texas or that an ice cream truck was a bioweapons lab. What I woke up next to didn’t look anything like what I went to bed with, so I had to swear to quit for good. Booze, I mean. No, wait, I mean Rummy. I think.
Rummy was even harder to quit than drinking. He understood me. When we had strategeric bombing meetings, he’d always say hard targets, just to make me laugh. Heh, heh, heh, it still works. He did a heck of a job.
I asked Dad how he was able to get in and out of Iraq so easily. He told me, “I learned very early on the severe consequences of pulling out too late. That’s how we ended up with Neil.” Wish he’d have told me that three years ago.
Speaking of unwanted bastards, the Democrats are giving us more trouble than ever. I can’t believe those losers won the election. That sucked. Sucked balls. I shouldn’t write that, but I don’t care. I hate those guys. It’s always illegal this and unconstitutional that. They looove their Constitution. They act like we should do exactly what it says, but I ask them: Do we walk around wearing wigs and those short pants? Do we write with bird feathers? Do we say things like “poppycock”? (I do wish we still said that, heh.) Then why do we pay so much attention to some 200-year old document written on weed? I’ve got to fight terror. I don’t have time to read laws, much less obey them.
That’s not good enough for them. They want me to do both. They say they want me to protect their freedom. I know because I read their NSA transcripts. I tell them, hey, we’re on the same page. When they ask how I know and I tell them, they start in with the unconstitutional mumbo jumbo again. How am I supposed to protect freedom if I don’t limit it? It’s like freedom’s an endangered species. Do you help it by letting it roam all over the damn place, or do you confine it until it’s ready to go back into the wild? I try and keep it safe and contained while the Democrats let out next to the interstate so it can go wherever it wants. Freedom, I mean. I think.
Sorry to be so negative. There were some bright spots this year. Dick (heh) didn’t kill anyone that I know of. Mom managed to go all year without having to talk about poor people. And Laura’s sensors detected her cancer before it reached her circuits. So Jesus was looking out for us.
The best part of all is that I’ve got another bottle of Bush Nog right here in the desk. So have yourself a Merry Christmas. That’s a Presidential Order.
President George W. Bush