Several 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 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 went to mush sometime in his last year of the Presidency. Thank God it didn’t show until after he was gone from office. And people thought ketchup was a vegetable!” observed the man in the blue suit.
“Are the other candidates conscious of the fact they will be eliminated?” asked the man in the black suit.
“Of course not, 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,” said the man in the tan suit.
Suddenly a rumbling sound came from a closet in the back of the room. The sound of a rusty door knob being turned invaded their conversation, startling the suited men into an abrupt silence.
“Oh, no! It’s HIM!” whispered the man in the tweed suit.
“No! That’s all we need now!” dittoed the man in the green suit.
The closet door slowly creaked open and a familiar figure slowly emerged.
“Oh my God!” exhaled the man in the gray suit, throwing up in his mouth just a little bit.
“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 blue 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 as thick as flies buzzing around Charlie Sheen’s decomposed career 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!” said the man in the tan suit.
“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 that would be disastrous,” ranted the man in the gray suit.
“And above all we can’t, for God’s sake, let him do any talking to the press! That would be political Harakiri!”
gasped the man in the orange sherbet suit.
“That’s Seppuku, you moron!” screamed the janitor in the blue coveralls from the back.” And where’d you get that suit?”
Like a pack of political wolves, 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! Cheney gets to walk around outside. 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? Wait, it’s not a monkey is it? Monkeys scare me with those little monkey hands and all”
The men all look at each other. “No,…. it’s a PONY in there!” They all point at the closet.
Bush collapses into a incoherent mess of childlike exuberance. “A pony! Oh boy! Let me see! Let me see!” And he rushes back into the closet.
The suits rush in 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. Just follow the trail of…”
“Silence, you fool! He’ll just follow all that horse hockey right back to us!” hissed the man in the blue suit.
“There’s…no…horse, remember?” the man in the orange sherbet suit reminds him.
“Oh, riiiight! Wait, who the heck are you?” the man in the blue suit asked the man in the orange sherbet suit before once again being distracted by the ranting inside the closet.
The voice from inside implored “Hey guys, when can I finally come out of here?”
They all spoke in unison. “Some time after the second of November!”
“Well, OK,” came his reply. “At least I’ll have a pony to ride until then.”
Ed. Note: The entire story is true except for the part about Santorum and Gingrich. Wishful thinking on our part and we apologize for the confusion.