THE VICE PRESIDENT: Please be seated. As some of you more interweb-savvy, less-deodorized nerds with jobs way down the federal pay scale may already know, late 2001 saw a detestable rogue web site surface from the fecal slime of uncontrolled speech. At that time, we briefly took pains to alert the population to be wary of this sickening charade – "WHITEHOUSE.ORG" – which masquerades as the official White House digital propaganda organ. We know only too well how easily duped the American public can be and were, frankly, concerned that one of them might follow the siren call of this insubordinate web-thingy and wind up being cheated out of a joyous afternoon playing the taxpayer-financed game "Barney's Historical White House ABC's."

Then for 16 long, painful months, we steadfastly ignored "WHITEHOUSE.ORG" and busied ourselves with stuff like wasting ragheads and giving the finger to the rest of the world. Well, all that deliberate and statesmanlike forbearance came to a quick halt one evening last December when I heard my dear, demure wife Lynne scream like a deranged Negress in the next room. At first, I thought our ruggedly masculine daughter Mary had escaped from the attic and given another interview to the homosexual press. But it turned out that while performing her nightly ritual of Googling herself over a tumbler of Riunite on ice, Lynne caught wind of one particularly egregious and America-hating page. Well, with my wife barking at my backside like a junkyard terrier in heat, there was no way my administration could ignore this depraved website any longer. And so we sprung into action – employing the full power of America's unrivalled intelligence-gathering apparatus to deliver our sorta-kinda-but-not-really "You wanna get whacked?!" letter to a mailing address that has been invalid for well over a year. Why, it was only several days ago that Lynne, equipped with a New York City street map and a carton of Newport 100's, had her limo driver traverse a three county area before successfully delivering our December-dated communication.

Today, though we have yet to receive a formal response, I wanted to publicly reiterate the thrust of my letter to the "WHITEHOUSE.ORG" terror portal:

Either you take down that snotty biography of my wife, or I'll have my Bahamas-educated legal staff take a break from shredding Energy Task Force documents to use taxpayer-owned stationery and office equipment to fire off another toothless intimidation missive – in which a big spooky bundle of mis-cited, irrelevant legal precedents and a shockingly incompetent inability to differentiate between fake and real Presidential Seals are sandwiched between two pansy requests to let yours truly wipe my ass with the First Amendment!

Hell, it's not like my wife is a public figure or anything – just because she's been a CNN "Crossfire" pundit, Chairman of the NEH, and REMAINS both a leading right-wing strategist for the American Enterprise Institute and a prolific author of sociocultural propaganda, vacuously jingoistic children's books, academic blacklists, and turbo-juicy lesbian erotica, which she assures me – repeatedly – springs only from her moist and fertile imagination. As such, again, she is most certainly NOT a public figure. She's just my sweet apolitical snookums who just happens to find her pretty little mug on television and national newspapers all the time and is being outright smeared by a pack of cretins who could really stand to take a few lessons in whipping up the so-called political ha-ha from my pals knee-slapping funny Jay Leno and our dear friends and supporters at Saturday Night Live.

In closing, please keep in mind that I'm speaking as the mastermind of a legislative agenda predicated almost exclusively on Social Darwinism when I confess that I experience a slight, non-pacemaker-induced pang of chestal discomfort each time so-called American citizens – like these WHITEHOUSE.ORG terrorists – err on the side of publishing ideologies that doom them to lifetimes of FBI monitoring, politically-motivated income tax audits, and – in special circumstances – mysterious newfound predilections to bathing fully clothed with a whole Radio Shack's worth of plugged-in appliances. Do I have to remind anyone what happened to that Enron would-be snitch? No, I didn't think so.

Thank you. No questions, please.

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