THE PRESIDENT: Good morning. Thank you for joining me here in Crawford. As you know, I spent a good portion of yesterday in the company of Saudi Arabiac Crown Prince Abdullah. And while he departed hastily to return to his beloved sand people, I am pleased to claim that our meetings were very productive and friendly. I gave him the nickname of Prince Picnic Basket, on account of how that tablecloth he wears on his head looks like the one my mother used to spread out for fried chicken picnics under the oil wells back in Midland - and he called me Captain Zionist Pigboy. It was all very positive.

Laura and I were honored that the Prince came to our humble Texas home. Over the years, the Saudi royal family has played gracious host to the Bush family on dozens and dozens of occasions while we negotiated private and fabulously lucrative oil deals, so it really was a pleasure to finally return the hospitality. Of course, I was sad to be unable to entertain the Prince with the wonderful after-dinner beheadings I know he and King Fahd enjoy so much, but I did assure him that on his next visit, we would go down to the prison and electrocute a mongoloid or two. He seemed to like that.

The Prince and I spoke at length about the ongoing situation between the Israeloids and the Palestinos, and I have to tell you, he seemed pretty worked up over it. Why all these Muslimian people continue to squabble over that little swatch of desert with no oil under it I will never know. But the Prince was adamant - he says that unless my administration stops playing footsy with Ariel Sharon - that all the kindergartners in his country will stop being taught to wave sticks of dynamite and screech "Death to America," and start being taught to wave sticks of dynamite and screech "Super-Death to America!" I didn't like the sound of that. Not one bit.

Of course, my administration remains firmly committed to preserving the appearance of friendliness with the Saudi Arabiac royals. Never mind that they nurture and support the very terrorists I have pledged to destroy. They also keep the tank of my beloved 3-ton ivory white pickup perpetually topped off, and for that I honor them. I also honor their millions of explosively volatile subjects, whose talents are limited exclusively to extracting oil from beneath the arid, scorched wasteland that is their entire nation. And I sincerely feign respect for their religion, and hope that its peaceful adherents will prevail on that inevitable day when the Saudi oil deposits are tapped out, and a panicked and newly impoverished populace wastes no time in ritualistically disemboweling the entire royal family. So let's hope Prince Picnic Basket can hang on for awhile, OK? (Laughter.)

In closing, I have a message for you folks in the press corps. Now I know you're here doing a job, but I want you to remember that not only is this private property, this is my home - and while I know that the single Port-o-Potty behind the chopper hangar isn't enough for all of you, I'm afraid that all this sneaking behind the ranch to do your squirtin' is going to have to stop - especially with my mother-in-law Jenna Welch visiting. She's tired of looking out her window and seeing Wolf Blitzer's nubbin spritzing his morning coffee all over Laura's champion yellow roses. Do I make myself clear? Good.

Thank you, and God Bless.

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