THE PRESIDENT: Alright, I'm back in Warshington. Everybody happy now? So what say we kick off this little hurricane wrap-up party already? It's almost time for my pre-lunch nap.

You know, yesterday, as I gazed down from Air Force One at Katrina's destruction, many thoughts flitted through my noggin. First of which was "Hey, them poor folk up to their hips in poo water – they vote for me?" The second thought was, of course, how happy I was to be on a photo shoot thousands of feet up in the air, safely away from The Big Queasy. Stinky smells make me gag like Jenna after six or seven pounders of Smirnoff Ice.

Apparently, prayer can't hold back the waters of the Mississippi. And maybe – just maybe – we shoulda tossed a few extra "BOMB IRAQI CHILDREN" nickels towards maintaining the levees in America's favorite slave-trade-truck-stop-cum-party-town. No wonder those folk drink so damn much. I would too if I lived in a watery deathtrap!

Get the GODLY New Book!

But listen – I promise to save New Orleans, and by "I promise to save New Orleans", I mean I will delegate relief to the state level while simultaneously gumming up the works with that new breed of Capitol Hill bureaucrat – the fair weather McChristian incompetent whose daddy was a Pioneer-level contributor to my campaign and thinks his ideas are actually worth a damn. Because even if House Speaker Denny Hastert sez we oughtta just bulldoze the whole damned town, I firmly believe that Nigra Soup City should be rebuilt – if for no other reason than to restock its ghettos with our very own third world unfortunates!

If there's a silver lining, and I think Denny and Dippity Doo Lott will agree, is that in 30 or 40 years, New Orleans will make one fantastic luxury yacht marina. And think about it: the city comes with thousands of its own help!

Now I don't believe in Darwinism or evolution, as you well know. But as I read the intel neatly typed up for me about this itty-bitty basement flooding in swampy crawdad country, it seems that Darwin was right about one thing – only the strong survive. Or if not the strong per se, at least the rich. Because look, this disaster ain't really no different from a business going belly up: those at the top of the ladder keep their feet dry, while everyone else can fuck off. I hate to break it to y'all, but the GOP is only as Christian as we can be until we have to give up our Sunday games of golf.

Of course, since most of the calls and e-mail pouring in to the White House proves that folks care way more about gas prices than drowned Cajuns, I also want people to hear these words: "I will open the Strategic Oil Reserves in order to keep America running." Of course, that won't help none, but it makes folks feel better for a few days. And before you know it, everyone will be used to paying $5 for a gallon of gas! So max out the Visa filling up the Suburban and go for a nice soul-cleansing, mind-clearing drive – and forget all about the hundreds of thousands of people in New Orleans: suffering, wondering why their hobbled government still has its thumb up its ass, or why their National Guardsmen are getting shot at in Baghdad instead of getting shot at in the flooded streets of their home town.

As for the looters, I defer to my Secretary of Defense, who in the wake of looting after the liberation of Baghdad, basically said "This happens, especially when the monkeys are left to their own devices" Or something like that.

So anyway, here's my inspired five point plan to wage war against this disaster:

1. Publicly restate the obvious.
2. Get my ass and a phalanx of photogs within inches of the Louisiana Stenchzone so that I can survey the brutal damage and humanity up close – but not so close that my dress shoes get scuffed.
3. Briefly struggle to empathize with the suffering of the victims, then give up, grit teeth, and find my special strong, silent "John Wayne" place. Hang loose there for a while.
4. Sell out the Federal disaster response agencies and bean counters I had four years to streamline. And by streamline, I mean "Play Three Card Monte With Billions."
5. Pray. Pray that folk will forget this teeny widdle environmental disaster toot sweet, and pray that we find more imaginary dinosaur bone sludge that we can whip into vroom juice.

In closing, I'd like to remind everyone here that I am busy fighting our World War II in Iraq. So though I care about this little rainstorm, I want you to know that I am like FDR – only I can jog.

In other words folks, "the only thing to fear is freaking out."

10 - 4,

- G Dubya

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