Somewhere inside a Washington Super Pac think tank:
Three suited men are pouring over papers scattered on a desk before them.
“So, it comes down to this: The Corporations are deciding on either Gingrich or Santorum to be the Republican representative for the Republican platform in the Presidential election,” stated the man in the gray suit. “We’ll make sure that the other candidates fall by the wayside after the South Carolina Primary. Romney just won’t make a strong enough puppet for us to get our bills passed through Congress. If we are going to be the ones to be the Marines for getting Corporate control of America then we are going to need a strong front man we can work through. Ronald Reagan was the perfect channel until his brain started to go soft in his last year of the Presidency. Thank God it didn’t show until after he was gone from office.”
“Are the other candidates conscious of the fact they will be eliminated?” asked the man in the black suit.
“No, but they soon shall. Had they been more attentive to our needs and stronger in their corporate backing they might have been the chosen ones.”
Suddenly a rumbling sound came from the closet in the back of the room. The sound of the door knob being turned invaded their conversation.
“Oh, no! It’s HIM!” exclaimed the man in the tweed suit.
“No! That’s all we need now!” dittoed the man in the black suit.
The closet door slowly creaked open and a familiar figure slowly emerged.
“Oh my God!” exhaled the man in the gray suit.
“Hi, gentlemen! What’s shakin’?” asked an eerily familiar voice in a distinctive southern accent.
“Get him back inside before someone sees him!” shrieked the man in the tweed suit.
“Quick! Get rid of him before he says something!” gasped the man in the black suit.
“So how are you fellers doin’?” asked the mysterious figure.
The man in the gray suit swiftly ran to the individual and put his arm on his shoulder. “We is doing juss fine, Mr. Bush! How is you?”
“I’m not bad, thank you! Ah jis thought I’d take a walk around.”
The black suited man whispered to the tweed suited man, “Are there reporters around?”
The tweed suited whispered back. “They are thick like flies around here with the primaries going on.”
“We’ve got to get him OUT of here! We’ve already got the American public to forget about how he got us into the Iraqi War and helped send the economy into a downward spiral. We put a lot of work into transferring all that blame over to Obama. We can’t lose that now!”
“Yes, and the fact that he and Cheney did more than the infiltrating Reds ever did to turn this nation into a dictatorship will send our ratings plummeting. For them to see him now would undo a lot of work we did making ourselves look good and Obama’s camp look bad. Now would be disastrous.”
“And above all we can’t for God’s sake let him do any talking to the press! That would be political suicide!”
They all turn on George W the Second. “Now Georgey, we are very busy at the moment. We can’t play right now. Could we get you to go back in the closet?”
“Agh, come on guys! It’s so boring in there! Can’t I stay out here with you fellas?”
“Guess what Georgey?! We got a surprise in there for you!”
“Really! A surprise?” He starts to jump up and down and clap his hands. “What sort of a surprise?”
The men all look at each other. “Oh… there’s a PONY in there!” They all point at the closet.
Bush gets all excited. “A pony! Oh boy! Let me see! Let me see!” He rushes back into the closet.
The suits all run and quickly lock the door.
“Hey, where’s the pony?!” came the muffled voice from inside.
The gray suited man spoke loudly to the door, “Oh, keep looking. He’s in there somewhere.”
The voice from inside implored “Hey guy’s, when can I finally come out of here?”
They all spoke in unison. “Some time after the sixth of November!”
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