the elves attic

PRESIDENT DISCUSSES FLASHBACKS TO NAM.



THE PRESIDENT ROCK STAR W'S STATE OF THE UNION REPORT DEBACLE



has gone widly unnoticed by the public, who have genuinely stopped reading any stories about the president because, as one liberal source is said to have said to someone who said it to someone who said it to me, quote: "We won't read it, period. Too fucking depressing. Having this guy in the white house is like having a death in the family every fucking day. You have to just let that anger go. Sometimes I just think the CIA put him in there to drive me crazy. They have this one secretary there, I talked to her on the phone when I called, and though she would not admit anything, I know that she was assigned to drive me crazy."



The unscensored version of the true, true, true, true, true story. . . on certain levels. Really. . .



White House Sources say Rockstar W. was too wasted to attend THE STATE OF THE UNION, so Robot W. , who everyone secretly likes a lot better than the real one, was called in once again to give a speech. When the story first broke to the press that Rockstar W was sitting around all day coloring and absolutly refuse to do any of what he calls, 'presidenting,' once again, the Robot W went before the hostile cameras of the press and handled himself so well that American's just kind of accepted him ever since. An NBC Poll shows, when asked about their opinion of the flesh president, most americans believe, 'anything, of any species, is better than this angry terd.'

Rockstar W. is said to be so proud of the Rockstar W. the robot that they have made a copy of W.'s wife, who it is rumoured will give the rockstar W. head all day if he wants it (which has, allegedly, led to the president's much discussed penile chaffing problems, which he was hospitalized for the second day after Rockstar W's Robot Wife arrived.


The Rockstar W. later gave a brief statement to the press. Looking somehow serious, bemused, and arrogant all at once, the now red eyed and liquor breathed W. talked about his absence from the State Of The Union address.

"Maybe I'm just being paranoid, or something, man, but dang nabit... the reason... I wasn't able to do this event, which was..."

At this point Cheney was out of the door. Clearly visible inside behind him was what first was thought to be the robot W's robotic wife kneeling on the floor with come clearly visible in great white globules in her hair and on her face. . . though later reports made clear that this was indeed just the Rockstar W's real wife, not her new and improved version, as he indeed believes. A new law makes it illegal to tell the president about this instance, punishable by life in prison.

Rockstar W. turned to Cheney and high fived, thinking they were fucking buddies because they were doing the same chick, and that maybe they should have a threesome?

After finding out he was talking about from a reporter, Rockstar President W then continued.

"Yeah, I been missing a lot shit lately. Stuff I damn well want to do,
not just this stuff. You think it's easy living with my memories of Nam? It ain't man, it ain't. A car backfires and I hit the ground. I wake up late at night sweating and screaming about 'killing gooks.' I mean, I don't have anything against the Vietnamese people now. We fought them. They didn't want to fight us. We went there. Should of kicked their asses, didn't."

Cheney then had a breif, whispered conference during which, apparently, he was once more reminded that he had never been to Vietnam. "Okay... I read a lot of Vietnam books back when I was strong and could read about long marches and brutal fighting with no problem at all. No one told me that I would be scarred for life, man, and suffer these flashbacks. Hey, I thought I was helping save the democratic way by reading about the firefights... Oh, man, I still look up at all the planes going over to make sure they are one of ours. Hell if I'd been writing those books, we could have won that damn war. In fact I might just do that, with some damn ghost writer... Why the hell am the only one who can come up with new ideas like this? I guess that's why I'm a rock star, man... I know everything. Everything. Chicks? Got em. Smoke? Got em. Blow? Got em. I get the munchies man, I got cooks ready to fucking serve me their own arm if I ask... that shit's kind of gross, and like I told my mom, I didn't they would take a presidential decree that seriously. She didn't buy that because I had those security... uhm, what are they... my posse, yea... the sunglasses guys in the suits.. well, they did where suits, until I became a rock star, and could afford to dress and get haircuts like the very early beatles."

W then opened the floor breifly for reporters questions.

"You are saying, sir, that being with loose women, doing drugs, and hanging out with a posse of Beatles look a likes is more important than giving the state of the union address?"

"What the fuck? What the hell planet are you from? I thought they were only letting the nose to the ass guy's come to these things. Hey, somebody catch that little reporter there, that fat one, the one that looks liberal. Damn, I guess I have to fucking point for you damn beatle heads. Yea, you guys, beat the hell out him... Okay, now who has another question... you."

"Hello sir, I'm with Rolling Stone magazine. I wanted to ask..."

"Fucking Rolling Stone, huh?"

"Yes, sir. And my question..."

"Bet you get some fucking good weed, don't you boy?"

"Uh, no... We now kiss your ass, too, sir... and it used to be that Republicans were, well, against weed. I grew up Republican, of course, because you only let third generation Repulican reporters into these press conferences..."

"That's a fucking national secret!" The W. Screamed. "Somebody shoot that fucker. Make him disapear."

Four men dressed like the early Beatles, complete with a bowl hairdo, then surrounded the reporter, who our sources at the White House say is now in a monastary somewhere and will not be contacting anyone anywhere ever again.

Reporters on the scene claimed to have no more questions as we all high fived the W and then went out to Ginger and Mary Ann's, a strip club with a Gilligan's Island theme -- on him. It was fucking great.