The Divider-in-Chief dreamed he was in a new reality television show. It was a cross between The Surreal Life and Big Brother. At first the entire inner-circle of his Administration was on the show. Everyone he brought up with him from Texas. Everything was great. They all got on really well together. They had pillow fights, played Twister. Only the rules of the show were that every week one person from his cabal was voted off the show. Tom DeLay went first. Rummy was voted off next. One by one every member of his cabinet was sent packing. Sometimes it was because of scandal. Other times it was like rats escaping from a sinking ship. Even Karl Rove had to go. The catch was that every time one of his Neocon radical rightwing cronies was voted off the show they were replaced by somebody new. Ron Jeremy filled in for DeLay. Rummy was replaced by Flavor Flav; Rove by Vanilla Ice; Condi by Omarosa; Darth Cheney by Gary Coleman, etc. By the tenth episode the producers were actually striking the West Wing set. The Divider was sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office when the walls came down around him. Set designers pushed his desk off the stage, grabbed the phone out of his hands, rolled up the rug designed by his wife, and began to pimp the place out with purple velvet couches and all manner of gaudy furnishings and fresh décor. Before he knew it the Divider-in-Chief was sitting in the middle of a space age party pad. Mirrored balls were put up where chandeliers once swung, and they hung erotic black-light posters in place of patriotic paintings. They wanted him to change out of his dark blue suit and red tie combo into something more hip, but he refused. Everyone else was having a really great time. Pillow fights were now held in the nude, and the new group task was a game of Naked Twister. The Divider’s world came apart with the thud of a giant blue-ribbon Halloween pumpkin hitting the ground. None of the other household contestants liked Dubya. He refused to participate in their games. During the episode they played strip poker, he claimed executive privilege. The rest of the cast thought he was snotty. When struggling Vietnam Vets felt their post-combat sickness coming on they called it “breaking out”. When they felt themselves coming apart again, they would say, “I’m breaking out.” That’s the way the Divider-in-Chief felt, except it had nothing to do with military service. For him it was about his alcohol and drug addiction. Surrounded by all these party hounds, Dubya felt it all coming back. He was a dry-drunk about to “break out”. Almost everyone wanted to vote him off the show. He needed some dirt on them quickly, so The Divider ordered the NSA to tap the phones of the house. The illegal surveillance indicated that the other contestants alternately referred to him behind his back as either "King George" or "Screaming Mad George" because he was always so out of sorts. Ron and Flavor Flav were both angling for the six foot one inch tall Danish goddess Brigitte Nielsen. Dubya didn’t have many friends, except Omarosa. For a while anyway he could hide under her skirt. She was the proverbial bitch on high heels. Between shoots the Divider tried to petition the producers to allow him to reclassify the other contestants as enemies of the state. He figured if he could have them all designated as terrorists, maybe he could actually win the game. It was a last ditch effort. Everything hung on their decision. The Divider tried to keep a low profile on the show while the producers argued his point back and forth. Flavor Flav and Brigitte became quite the number, which ultimately created a heck of a spin-off. Dubya and Omarosa were really hanging on by a thread. Every time the producers would come up with a new and ever more debauched activity, the President could count on Omarosa to pull out her Bible and start praying. The Democratic Congress loved it. Senators made impassioned speeches decrying the role of the President on the reality show. Dubya had stacked the Supreme Court. He waited for their decision on whether or not cable television compelled him to take part in the unholy goings on. He declared, “I will not surrender!” The rest of the cast looked at him like he was crazy. They figured if he just got laid he would be okay. The Divider vowed the last couple of episodes would take place on Gitmo if the rest of the house didn’t clean up its act, so the other guys asked the ladies to draw straws. They looked at the men like they were nuts. No one wanted to go to bed with the Divider. He was a total creep. Not one of them wanted to lay the man. “Would you believe that a hundred black-ops have surrounded the place?” he asked the rest of the crew, like agent 86 always did on the show Get Smart. They said, “No.” “Would you believe one black-op and a watch dog?” The rest of the household figured they’d tried their best to make friends. They didn’t know what to do next. Dubya had one emergency line left. He called his old friend Pat Robertson. “What should I do?” he asked the right wing sage. “Liberal judges are a greater threat to our way of life than terrorists!” was what he got back. The Divider wasn’t quite sure how it applied to his situation. He pulled Ron Jeremy aside and asked him, “What do you think of liberal judges?” Dubya asked everyone else the same question and everyone gave him the same thumbs up sign. The FBI and the Justice Department reported back that he was in a hive of degenerates. They had lengthy files on everyone on the show. CIA officials claimed Ron Jeremy had the biggest dick on the face of the planet. Pentagon officials gave testimony that Flavor Flav had a bigger organ. The Divider didn’t know what to do. They were headed for another vote on who would get expelled from the show. Dubya looked around. He really was surrounded by criminals and pornographers. “Beat ‘em or join ‘em,” he said to himself, but Omarosa was insisting on taking no prisoners. The President was confused whether she had replaced Condi or Darth Cheney and tried to placate her. She was his only hope and she abandoned him like all the rest. Gary Coleman couldn’t wait for the vote. Flavor Flav brandished his super-sized 24-carot gold clock necklace and pointed at the time. “So long sucker,” they said. The rest of the contestants filled out the ballet unanimously. And without the slightest hesitation or ceremony the Divider-in-Chief was expelled from the show, replaced by a screaming chimp the cast all named George.
“Kittens are coming out of everywhere,” Darth Cheney told his therapist, “drains, cracks, you name it. The floor, walls and ceiling are covered with little cute furry creatures, millions of them. No matter where I look I see them. They are on all the furniture, on anything that doesn’t move. There are more kittens, puppy dogs and bunny rabbits outside, and they are coming in waves. As far as I can see the world outside my compound is swarming with them, and there isn’t anything I can do to stop it. Nothing I order the military to do can arrest the advance of the little furry creatures. They are getting into my personal quarters. The Air Force carpet-bombs my cul-de-sac. I order the Special Forces to destroy every last one of them with flamethrowers. I try chemical weapons, have GI’s spray them with anthrax, but it doesn’t work. The place is reduced to a fiery ruin. It is like everywhere I look something good is trying to get out from behind it, like there is something good in everything no matter how bad it is that just wants to get out. The generals tell me it is a stalemate. They have thrown every advanced and not-so-advanced weapon system they have in the Pentagon arsenal at the cute little furry pets. The senior officers suggest a change in policy. ‘Maybe it would go better, Mr. Vice President,’ they propose, ‘if you tried to befriend the kittens.’ The regular army is not working, they point out. ‘What you need is an army of hippies,’ they tell him, ‘with flowers in their hair, incense, colorful clothing, and giant soap bubbles.’ The dream always goes the same way. I point out to the generals there is one option they have not yet considered. 'Am I the only morally strong man left on earth?’ I wonder. ‘Is there no one else who understands that killing these household pets is the only way to save the world from our enemies?’ I address my military advisors face to face in my collapsing den. ‘Can’t you understand these kittens and puppy dogs are working for our enemies?’ I demand. ‘Were we attacked by cute furry animals on 9/11?’ I ask, ‘No, we were not! But are they now in league with our enemies?’ I toss them a copy of the unbiased Central Intelligence Agency report commissioned by the White House on why puppy dogs and other adorable animals are a threat to our way of life. ‘This is the face of terrorism,’ I say, but they nervously hem and haw. ‘If we want to preserve our freedom, we must kill every last kitten on earth!’ I say. Anyone with half a brain in their head would understand that the fuzzy little creatures have been infiltrated by the axis of evil. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I ask. ‘Do you want the whole world to turn into one gigantor litter box?’ I press them. ‘There’s only one appropriate response to these heathen forces. Nuke ‘em, and do it now!’ I demand. The chain of command is followed. B-52 war birds take off with missiles armed. Satellites are given the coordinates of my house. Silos are given the launch sequence. The whole place goes up in a ball of flame, but I’m still knocking singed puppy dogs and kittens off my desk. The only difference is the loud thunderclap of the explosion scared the little creatures, and now they are mewling and barking, nipping at my heels and sleeves. With a frightening certainty, I realize I’m the only one left to stave off all this infernal goodness. I push my generals aside, raise my twelve-gage shotgun to my shoulder, and starts squeezing the trigger vigilante-style. ‘If you want something done right,’ I say, firing one cartridge after another, ‘you have to do it yourself!’ Buckshot is flying. Fur is flying. I pump my twelve-gage into the cuddly little creatures until my gun is smoking hot, and I’m too tired to pump anymore, but it’s not working, for every one I’ve shot ten more have taken its place. I can hear the generals laughing and singing behind my back, and when I wheel around to stare them down, they’ve all taken off their uniforms and are happily dancing naked among all the bunny rabbits, kittens, and puppy dogs, wearing wizard’s hats and playing flutes and tambourines. ‘Don’t be such a downer,’ the generals chant in a mindless chorus, cuddling the little furry creatures in their arms. That’s usually when I've had enough, and I say, ‘To hell with you,’ and open fire on them, blowing great big beautiful red gouts of meat and blood out of their faces, necks, and chests, sending my top military advisors flying backwards into the sea of soft fur behind them. After the nuclear Armageddon, the little creatures have started to mutate. There are three-headed kittens, and six legged puppy dogs with fangs. They close in around me, and as they lunge at me I feel vindicated. ‘Look,’ I say, going down, ‘I was right all along,’ but it's kind of sad because there’s no one left to hear me, just little misshapen animals licking their whiskers and paws as far as I can see.”