THE DEVIL AND GEORGIE BUSH

Friday February 22, 2002 17:25

by JOHN CHUCKMAN

THE REAL STORY BEHIND A POSSIBLE SECOND TERM FOR PRESIDENT SAGEBRUSH. WARNING: CHRISTIAN FUNDAMENTALISTS WITH WEAK HEARTS SHOULD AVOID READING.

THE DEVIL AND GEORGIE BUSH

By John Chuckman
YellowTimes.ORG Columnist
(Canada)

(YellowTimes.ORG) - George Bush sits quietly at his desk in
the Oval Office. Suddenly, with a puff of acrid, yellow smoke, a
dark figure appears at his shoulder, arrogantly leaning an
elbow against the back corner of the big leather chair. He
wears a soot-stained stovepipe hat, a rumpled, dusty suit,
and his whiskered, rather cherubic face has an almost benign
smile as he gazes down.

"Ahem, ah, Mr. President, I do believe we have some
business?"

Although he immediately recognizes the figure, the President
is astonished at this sudden appearance. With his face
drained of color, he reaches instinctively for the hidden buzzer
to the Secret Service at the edge of his desk.

"Mr. President, all those gadgets have been disabled. Surely,
by now, you have more respect for my powers than that?

"Oh," with a rude little chuckle, "and until we've transacted
our business, no one will be able to come through the door."

"Mr. Scratch, I meant no disrespec'…"

"I'm sure, Mr. President."

"It's what they all taught me to do if anyone's here, ya know,
without an appointment an' all…"

"Yes, quite, Mr. President. Now, about our business…"

"But ain't there more'an two years left on ma contract?"

"Ah, indeed, two years, one month, eleven days, and fifty-four
minutes, to be exact." The dark figure reaches out, and, again
with a sulphurous little puff of smoke, a sheet of paper
appears in his hand. He reaches down and waves it in front of
the President's face.

"Perhaps, you would care to review the terms, Mr. President?"

"I'm sure you're right, Mr. Scratch, you're mighty careful 'bout
these things."

"Careful, indeed, Mr. President, which brings me to the point
of my little visit. As you know, the original contract was for
seven years."

The President, his face withered and frightened, mechanically
shakes his head in agreement.

"And then there was the matter of an extension we
negotiated?"

The President again shakes his head.

"And I trust there's no disagreement about the party of the
second part," with another gruff chuckle, "that's me, having
met fully all terms agreed?"

Still another doleful shake of the head.

"It says here, 'One George W. Bush, having succeeded at
virtually nothing in his adult lifetime, except getting into a
whole lot of embarrassing trouble, fighting with his family, and
consuming inordinate amounts of alcohol, in return for certain
services, specified below, promises his immortal soul to the
said Mr. Scratch,' that is," chuckle, chuckle, "yours truly."

Here the figure makes a slight flourish, briefly doffing his hat
and creating a small cloud of soot.

"Services rendered in return," clearing his throat, "Ah, just
summarizing here, Mr. President, include making a killing on a
baseball team, becoming governor of Texas, and in general
having gained recognition for turning around a worthless life."

The figure looks down at the President with a somewhat
twisted smile.

"Yielding you, I might add, boundless goodwill from legions of
pious-fraud fundamentalists. Is that not right, Mr. President?"

Again, almost like a sleepwalker responding to unseen voices,
the President shakes his head.

"The extension to the contract assured your becoming - you'll
note, Mr. President, the very careful language about
'becoming,' with nothing said about 'being elected' - President
of the United States."

Another dull shake of the head.

"Well, it doesn't allow for a second term, now does it, Mr.
President?"

"Mr. Scratch, I jus' reckoned when ya consider the kinda
president I been…"

"You mean loosing the forces of war, ignorance, and misery
upon the world?"

"Why, sure, ain't I done a good job on that?"

"Agreed, Mr. President, but I wouldn't expect anything else of
a man who's made the kind of bargain you have.

"You'll recall, when we negotiated the extension, that you
wanted credit for all the prisoners executed in Texas. And all
the slimy business deals you winked at, defrauding all kinds of
decent folks. I admit such activity keeps good trade coming my
way, but, strictly speaking, Mr. President, they just aren't part
of our terms."

"But look'it the stuff we're doin'. We're redesignin' the
country. Givin' it back to the folks what owns it, an' armin' 'em
to the teeth so's they kin keep it. Ya can't go makin' omelets
like that without breakin' a mighty heap of eggs. Why, I kin
guarantee it'll mean years of misery for all them losers out
there."

"Again, Mr. President, I hate to be like one of your heartless
corporate contributors, but that's just not part of our deal. No,
no, what you do with the office I gave you is up to you."

"But surely, Mr. Scratch, recognizin' what a great job I'm doin'
here for you, we could come to some understandin' 'bout
another li'le extension?"

"Well, I see what it is you want from me, Mr. President, but it
just fails me what you're offering that I don't already have.
The contract states clearly that the immortal soul of one
George W. Bush is to be delivered up promptly at
expiration…."

"Ain't there nothin' I kin do for an extension, Mr. Scratch?"

"Ah, that desperate, pleading tone does appeal to my better
side. Come to think of it, there just may be, Mr. President."

The President regains some color, and, for the first time,
there's some animation in his manner, "Yes, yes, what is it?"

"Well, I'm not so sure you'll share my enthusiasm for the
idea."

Looking like a puppy about to be handed a treat, "Mr. Scratch,
I'll do jus' 'bout anythin', honest to God!"

A severe, disapproving look flashes across the dusty figure's
face.

"Oh, I'm mighty sorry 'bout that, but like I said, I'll do jus'
'bout anythin'."

"I do like your attitude, and I'll note it in my little book.

"Mr. President, it does bother me considerably that a mob of
evangelical frauds in silk suits - you know the ones I mean,
there isn't one of them not headed my way when their days of
fleecing lonely folks watching television are ended - get all the
credit for your conversion. You and I both know the truth of
the matter. I would be strongly tempted," ha, ha, "to further
extend your contract in return for a promise to tell people the
truth."

The President again turns ashen, "I jus' don't see how that's
possible, Mr. Scratch?"

"Oh, I don't insist you just go and blurt it out. You may do it
slowly over a period of time. You may use all the arts of
twisting the truth, so long as in the end this one truth comes
out. That doesn't seem like too great a task for the caliber of
people you've surrounded yourself with."

"But, Mr. Scratch, how kin I tell folks I made a deal with the
devil?"

"Well, given your resources and past record of achievement, I
do not see an insurmountable barrier. A lot of folks will have
already guessed the truth. It's the ones that roll around in
church aisles babbling incoherently or go to meetings to get
slapped in the head to heal cancer that are going to be a
might difficult to reach. But these are your people, and you
are, after all, asking a great service of me. I rarely extend
contracts. Two extensions is almost unheard of."

"But suit yourself, Mr. President. Right now it's the only offer
that would entice me," chuckle, chuckle, "into so extraordinary
an act."

"I, I jus' don't see…"

"As you please, Mr. President. I will claim what's mine on the
stroke of midnight two years, one month, eleven days, and
forty nine minutes, hence, unless, of course, you see your way
to improving my image with the public. After all, it's no small
miracle I've worked in your case. People just might look at me
in a whole new light if they only knew the truth."

"But…but…"

"I'll leave it at that, Mr. President. You can let me know
anytime right up until expiration. Just snap your fingers twice
and consider it done for a second term."

The dark figure instantly disappears in another puff of acrid
smoke.

John Chuckman encourages your comments:
jchuckman@YellowTimes.ORG

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John Chuckman

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