[1]Rabid Fiction by Tara Parks
Episode 7: Even Fighter Pilots Crash and Burn, or You Fall Down Go Bye-Bye
(In our last episode, Rumsfeld was fatally injured in a car wreck that involved Kissinger, Papa Bush, Laura, and Condoleezza. The fatality was not specified then, but after he lost his job, I decided that just like a night with the newly single Kevin Federline, it proved too good of an opportunity to pass up. K-Fed would make a formidable WMD, you know. Threats of more live performances could bring any country to their knees. From Webster Hall to the White House/ countries fear that rappin’ louse! But he will never appear in this series because he is too busy selling his recording equipment. Hopefully.
When we last left our fearless fuck-ups, George and Tony Blair were doubling on a bike from Camp David to the scene of the accident because George’s new lightning-inspired intelligence has also given him the ability to sense when his loved ones are in danger. Too bad this is just fiction. That could have helped him in this last election. Anywwwaaayyy... George’s eyes widen in horror as he peddles over the hill; Tony buries his head into his into his back, wrapping his arms tightly around George’s waist.)
George: Oh, my God--- Laura! (He hops off the bike and Tony topples to the ground. Laura’s legs are hanging out of the back seat of limo; her skirt is pushed up above her waist and she is moaning softly as she picks shards of glass out of her hair.)
Laura: This is just like that Secret Service incident with the glass dildo...it all went horribly wrong because you should never use one that has been chilled...
George:(kneels beside her) What happened?
Laura: Oh, I read an article about ice enhancing sexual pleasure in Cosmo and they were all standing with their backs to me---wait. You mean the wreck? Well...I put a mask of Bill Clinton on, just as a joke. A cameo of Bob Woodward drove by in a used car and threw one of his books at me and Papa Bush. But it hit Kissinger instead. Kissinger was knocked out cold. Then Papa Bush insisted on driving and we hit a motorcycle with a sidecar...the circus must be in town...
(George runs to Condoleezza, who is cradling Don in her arms.)
Condoleezza: (wiping a tear from her eye) As unbelievable as it sounds, your dad was driving that limo. I saw him stumble from the driver’s seat and wonder into the woods. You know his eyesight and reflexes are not what they used to be. He hit me and Don. Dick was in the side car. Don is dead; I have no idea where Dick is. (pause) Sir, we are at a dangerous crossroads, one where we stand to lose billions of dollars in our war effort. You have developed some notion that the people are what matter. Because of this, we have been working to find a way to return you to your normal stupid state. Sir, I beg of you to reconsider your anti-war efforts so we can move forward with all of our purchases, such as my vacation home. The decorator said he could make it look just like the inside of an oil tanker...(bursts into tears)
(George stands up. The air is thick with smoke and fumes as surveys the destruction around him.)
(Gail and the Ghost of Aaron Burr keep watch over a snoring Dick Cheney. GAB is pacing back and forth, his feet barely touching the floor as he considers his options.)
GAB: Gail, Jesus sent me a message via Houdini.
Gail: Houdini?
GAB: Yes, Jesus has always had a flair for the dramatic, what with His whole “I walk on water you do not†thing. He and Houdini spend hour upon hour arranging special sightings of the Virgin Mary for poor people to distract them from the fact that they have no money.
Gail: What does that mean for me?
GAB: I like the way you think, Gail. “What does that mean for me?†For as soon as you take care of me---meaning you---the most important work is done. Now, we have some pressing business to attend to. But never underestimate the power of me and by that, I mean me. (pause) We are going to stage a concert for recovery, calling it a Memorial Fund for Donald Rumsfeld. Oh, how I loathe the man and his rotten spirit; yet this concert will help Dick by drawing attention away from the war by making a hero of Don, raising money for the party, and of course supplying free shrimp cocktail for people like Ted Haggard, who is an avid supporter of shrimping! Therefore, Mr. Nugent will perform his dreadful electric hypnotism and Ann Coulter will be his opening comedy act, which is easy because all she has to do is open her mouth. Do you dance or sing or anything? We need someone colorful.
Gail: (coldly) No. I don’t shine shoes, either. Maybe I should have stuck with the liberals, though the writer of this blog has spelled my name incorrectly since my character first appeared. It’s G-A-Y-L-E. Got it? (author humbly apologizes)
GAB: (cups ear) Hark! I hear guitar music and the clanking of bones. Perhaps it is the Ghost of Christmas Future---er, it’s Ted Nugent and the Slim Reaper. (Enter Ted Nugent with Ann Coulter; Ted is strumming his guitar)
The Nuge: (bends over and sniffs Dick like an animal.) He fuckin’ dead?
Gayle: No. (Ted bounds over to Gayle and sniffs her up and down)
The Nuge: Bless my jingled bells---new meat for the beat! (He gives the guitar a little wang tang for the sweet poon tang; she recoils in horror.)
GAB (to Gayle): They can’t see me. Tell him to calm down. Remind him that we have much work to do to make sure that we implement Dick’s plan for his appointment as a General, thereby securing his post as a future Secretary of Defense.
Gayle: Shut up. We have to make you some kind of general.
Ann: What about me? Will I get to Clinton anytime soon?
GAB: My dear, suggest that we need not be subjected to any more of her radioactive spy shenanigans. It’s hard enough to look at her and I consort with dead people.
Gayle: (to Ann) Shut-up. (pause) We must also keep in mind how much power the Republican Party as lost as of late. And we have a bigger problem on the horizon: How am I going to get my own Oprah Empire, one where I am on every cover of every publication and I can also have celebrity train wrecks crash my stage in a bikini? Plus, Oprah is seriously considering a bid for the Presidency someday and if she doesn’t run, she’ll always push for her Obama; he’s pretty good at pretending he knows what’s going on.
Ted: I don’t think Americans oughta be doin’ no business with a fuckin’ terrorist.
GAB: (sighs in disgust, whispering into Dick’s ear) We need you, my fine fellow. Besides, the Vice Presidential lesbian child has sprouted a seed, although none of us can figured out who watered her.
(Dick’s eyes fly open and he sits straight up, grabbing his heart in anguish)
Dick: Did you wake me up to have a heart attack? (Gayle, The Nuge and Ann crowd around him; he pushes them away) Get Janet Reno on the phone; I need to find out if she impregnated my daughter.
Ann: All of these dykes are getting more dick than a governor at a truck stop---I feel like maybe I should announce my lesbianism in the hopes of becoming pregnant.
The Nuge: Never thought the idea of two women kissin’ clams would make me wanna vomit.
Gayle (dryly) Must be a bad batch.
Dick: Why are you all here?
Gayle: Do you remember being lifted out of the sidecar as it toppled over the hill?
Dick: Yes. Yes. Oh, God. Don is dead.
Ted: And I am fully prepared to take over the fuckin’ office of blowin’ up the fuckin’ world, all to make it a better fuckin’ place, of course---FUCK YEAH! (The Nuge plays a few chords on his guitar) God-DAMN! I could hump a possum right now.
GAB: (to Dick and Gayle) Dick---Gayle can see me as well. (Gayle nods politely)
Dick: God, what has my life come to? Talk show wanna be's and ghosts.(looks at The Nuge playing guitar for Ann) Can’t someone in heaven turn this pitiful bitch into something that would occupy his time for a while?
GAB and Gayle: Houdini!
(Ann Coulter turns into a possum in a cloud of smoke. Ted Nugent yanks her up by her tail and undoes his belt as he runs into the bathroom; if I had the money, I’d cue Benny Mardones’ song Into the Night here because that song is creepy enough for possum fuckin'.)
GAB: Calvin Coolidge must have threatened Houdini with an eternity of conversation, making Houdini grant us this wish. Quickly, my friends--- let us plan the legacy of the moneymakers!
(Somewhere in Arkansas, Bill and Hillary arrive in front of a log cabin. Yes, they have traveled from Camp David to Arkansas on a scooter they rode in the last episode. How many times do I have to ask you to play along? Jesus, I am dealing with budget constraints and travel details; cut me some slack, Jack.)
Hillary: (dismounting; bet you never thought you’d hear that) We need to call up Oprah; make sure she understands that I am playing hard ball now that our back is to the wall. Make me travel on scooter cross country; we’ll see how she likes it when we get all Whitewater on her ass. She can’t seriously be considering a run for the office I am destined to hold.
Bill: Not yet, anyway. I think she says it to get you panties in a wad. But if she gets Obama in, it will be like she put a Steadman with balls in office.
Hillary: Well, I have had enough of her disrespectful attitude.
Bill: Yep!I love it when you get all hot and bothered because it makes me want to be disrespectful with my own wife and not everyone else's. I can’t say I blame Oprah for wanting to get your panties in a wad. I remember we did the same thing once before, in 1979. At least I think it was 1979;we’ll have to call Chelsea later to verify her birthday.
(He shoves his tongue down Hillary’s mouth, who returns his kiss full on. Just use your imagination, folks. As they kiss, they fail to notice the impending danger sneaking up on them.)
Papa Bush: Well, well, well...looks like I found a pair of love birds that would look good hanging on my wall. (he is dressed in army fatigues and his face sweats under camouflage paint; he carries a shotgun which he points at them as they recoil in fear.) That’s right!I have a nose for tracking the enemy. I tracked you all the way from Camp David. I was a fighter pilot,you know, just like my friend Don. And if Laura hadn’t felt the need to put on a mask that looked like you to make fun of your stupid poopy pants Presidency, we never would have wrecked and Don would still be alive. Now you will feel the wrath of a real man, Mr. Poopy Pants. (fires a bullet at Clinton)
Clinton: (leaving Hillary in the line of fire as he dives behind a tree) Ah, come on, Papa Bush...Woodard threw the book at what he thought was the two of us! Just because I bombed an aspirin factory which so many liberals forget about in this time of war doesn’t mean that you didn’t have some bad moments, too.
Papa Bush: Don’t be absurd! No one could ever find fault with my Presidency! (shoots several shots into the bushes)
Hillary: (ducks behind scooter): Why am I always a wide open target when I visit the south?!?
(As Papa Bush attempts to reload, a single shot rings out and he falls to the ground. Just then, a cameo by Charlton Heston walks out of the woods with his rifle raised.)
Heston: Where the hell are those monkeys...goddamn monkeys.(He notices Clinton hovering over Papa Bush) What the hell? Are you two the apes in charge? Because I have been battling my way here against your trained cage babies. I’ll be damned if they take down Moses. (he flips them off and storms away in a huff as the Clintons haul Papa Bush into their cabin.)
(Somewhere in a cave far, far away, a match is lit by Osama bin Laden, who drags a dialysis machine behind his hunched over 6’5†frame.)
OBL: Hello? Hello? I hope you guys didn’t forget about me...
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