Ever since Hunter S Thompson performed the "will my head keep my .44 automag from knocking a hole in my William S Burroughs collection some 12 feet away" experiment (result: no), I've had the great fortune/misfortune of channeling both of their savage and rambunctious spirits. HST came to me in a dream, obviously agitated, clutching a banana daiquiri, a piece of paper, and a sweet Luger with the loveliest cherry grips you have ever seen. I asked him if he came to give me a drink or to prove that 9mm is hi-power enough when it comes to slack-ass, out of shape hackers. Turns out, neither. He had, through copious application of cocaine and calling in some favors from folks in the little black book that the little black book which thought it was the little black book that the little black book didn't know about, didn't know about, come into possession of a letter from W himself to the "China Guy", and he wanted to read his new found treasure to me. Turns out that he had a whole goddamn pitcher of those banana daiquris, laced with who knows what, but my memory is an iron trap and I've got the recitation:
Dear China Guy, [Ed: Wen Jiabao?]
Lookee here, we got a problem over here in The States [Ed: I remember that the capitalized "The States"]. Seems like our old people just goddamn don't know when to die, pardon my blasphemy. Well, me and my posse, we've got a plan. Trouble is, we've got a bunch of goddamn snot nosed youngsters to placate as well, pardon my blasphemy. So here's the deal: in order for us to rip the guts out of that goddamn communist social security program, and by communist I mean Stalin, not anything Chinese, or communist like that, and by goddamn I mean, pardon my blasphemy, I need you to buy, oh, about two trillion dollars worth of US T notes.
Now Condi, Condi is my "workout partner", Secretary of Strange, and she kicks the technocrat ass of all of those liberal fuck nuts at Foggy Bottom. What kind of gay-ass name is Foggy Bottom, anyway? Maybe I can get my friend Jeff Gannon a job over there. Ain't nothin' foggy about his bottom, not that I think about that kind of stuff. Where was I? Oh yeah, so Condi tells me that there is no way that you're going to do this, because, to you, it would appear that we'd just take your money to fund a foreign policy designed to thwart you from accessing the oil you need to fuel your economy, that, despite the sundried tricks you've played to cool it off, has been growing like kudzu on a shit farm. I told her, whoa there my little broncette! China Guy danced with Laura one time, or two. I think he even grabbed her ass a little. Now, if that is some punk-ass Senator like that loser (what a LOSER) Kerry, I would have kicked his ass, and maybe paid for some hospital time to get him back on his feet so I could kick his ass some more. China Guy danced with Laura and grabbed her ass, but I said cool, because, like me, he's cool. He da man. He knows that I would never knowingly approve of a foreign policy designed to keep him from the oil he needs to drive his economy, and I would be goddamned if I did it with his money! Pardon the blasphemy.
So, China Guy, please by some securities, and I'll bring Jenna over for some dancing. I can't wait to see you again! You da man!
Your MAN (the only MAN) in DC,
W
PS: Dear China Guy, please find Christ, because if you don't you and 1.3 billion little yellow people and one motherfucking huge yellow person are going to burn in hell. Luvya W
No comments:
Post a Comment