THE PRESIDENT: Ummmmm... (Shuffles papers in front of a podium.)

Shit. This place is a D-U-M-P. I mean, at least last year it looked like God had curb-stomped everything. But I don't think God's been back here since then. You call these refrigerator boxes houses? Who scored this construction contract? Fucking Maytag? I'm depressed. Somebody get me a Dr. Pepper. And if one more skeeter bites Mr. President, Mr. President is going to punch somebody in the tits. Use the Delay homebrew – spray that death juice everywhere. I want a halo of death wherever I walk, y'hear?

Why Trent Lott loves this coast, I'll never know. Stupid backstabbing faggot. His hairpiece drools, you know that? It's so greasy...

(Personal aide whispers into President's ear; lightly taps microphone; loud feedback is heard.)

Yes. Right. Good afternoon.

They say "let bygones be bygones." Take our utterly righteous invasion of Iraq: sure, maybe we didn't find any nukular-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles, or chemical weapons, or even Osama Bin Laden. But we're there. Can't just cut and run. Nope. We will stay the course, even if it means the total and utter destruction of my administration, its legacy, the conservative movement, and, uh... Western Civilization?

Get the GODLY New Book!

And so I say unto you – when it comes to Iraq, bygones is bygones. Or that time the entire American South strung negroes from trees and refused to let them vote? Bygones. Or the fact that the people who really make money off of Injun reservation casinos aren't the drunk redskins, but the white men who build, own and operate them? Bygones!

Get where I'm going? A year ago this August, while I was on a Red Bull-fueled Cypress tree hacking rampage, the Gulf Coast was hit by a hurricane that had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared days prior to making landfall. And maybe, just maybe, my Administration was too concerned with drowning terrorists in buckets of chaw spit in a patriotic attempt to uncover future 24 plotlines to really respond in the way that we should have – had we cared about the poor, the black, or just crummy swimmers.

I promise you, that somehow, the minority Democratic Party is at fault for the inability of my Administration to provide the very basics of society – such as feeding the hungry, tending to the wounded, and burying the dead. The Democrats are at fault, for sure, as the Constitution gives the minority party one right, and one right only, and that's the Right To Bitch And Moan And Pout.

Any failing of government during last year's epic drizzle isn't a case of a corrupt and fanatical Administration paying off campaign donors with cozy Federal jobs that they are tragically unqualified for. No sir. It's not because, like on Sept. 11, my Administration was caught sniffing our belly button lint while watching High Noon on the Presidential DVD player. Any failing of government can be laid at the Democrat's fancy, manicured hooves and specifically, Mayor Ray Nagin of New Orleans. He is one uppity cotton-picker, and somebody should take a whip to that boy and teach him some manners. You get more favors with honey than disrespectful jive talk on national television, turkey!

If I could have, I would have launched a preemptive, shock and awe air campaign against the Gulf Stream. But I'm not Cher. I cannot "turn back time," as she would say. All I can ask is that you kind people, you cherry-picked Republican-voting Bush-sympathizing white folk probably bused in here from Tennessee, believe me when I say: let bygones be bygones. Whaddya think? Let's look to the future, not the past. As I stand here today and look at you courageous citizens, some of who for some supremely unknowable reason decided to stay in this meteorological kill zone, I want to make you a solemn promise.

I promise all of you that the Gulf Coast will rebound, even if it takes a couple decades of construction boondoggles and graft to get there. This area will come back from the dead, albeit as a continuous solid wall of cheapo resorts with flood insurance up the wazoo. Think of all the low-paying service jobs you can aspire to! And think of all the gambling to be done with said bottom-barrel wages! Bygones, my friends?

(Exaltations and hosannas)

My critics have accused my Administration of administering too little, too late to the poor people who actually use public transportation because they don't even own a car. Don't. Even. Own. A. Car. I had no idea this part of the country was so... backward. Why the fuck we giving money to Africa? We basically got it here, fer reelz! But listen up critics: what if my Administration had given too much too soon? Like, what if I choppered in a bunch of Delta Force with Burger King Chicken Fries bazookas and started a damn riot? You know how monkeys love the marriage of chicken and deep fry vats! When people are hungry, they get weak and don't riot good. They riot like they made out of wiggly spaghetti or something. So there. I'm only trying to think of the innocent property value.

Speaking of value, there are some in the press who suggest that my Administration doesn't believe that all citizens are created equal. That we value some American lives over others, and they point as proof to the super crunk house party in the Superdome where thousands of home boys and bitchez danced their booties off while sloshing around in a stiflingly hot open sewer. They claim that corporations, TV networks, and private security firms moved into the disaster areas faster and more efficiently than the world's sole remaining superpower. That's ridiculous. I value all Americans equally. Especially during an election year, which is partly why I'm here trying my best not to point out that you know that I know my Administration fucked up big-time in the days following Katrina. Fucked up as in "We Done Broke The Country." Too bad the Hurricane didn't hit this year. I'd have been all over New Orleans, like black on welfare checks. Good campaign commercial b-roll. But I digress.

A year after the destruction of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, I am happy to report that Mission: Accomplished! There's billions of tax dollars flowing into the pockets of real estate developers who look at you all as chess pawns in muu-muus and wrap-around sunglasses. Now that's a Republican fairy tale happy ending. I further predict that New Orleans will rise from the mildew just like Baghdad. In twenty or thirty years.

But Hurricane Katrina did prove one thing: and that's when the shit hits the fan, and the end of the world is nigh, the swarthy, impoverished masses will try to loot your mansions, yachts, summer homes, lake houses, and other assets. Oh, and they'll rape your white daughters. It's a given. So load up on ammo, and keep Blackwater USA's emergency phone number handy. It's 1-800-KILL-4-$$.

Remember: Blackwater USA – the unregulated corporate mercenary army preferred by the President of the United States. (Thumbs up.)

Don't fret, my fellow Americans. I haven't forgotten you, this I swear. For as long as there are day planners, and secretaries and political advisors, I shall never miss a chance to grandstand and take credit for leadership I did not display. And now, I've got to say this speech a few more times and I'll see y'all next year. Although it'll be a shorter speech. In closing: the good times might not be rolling, but limping is still better than bloated, and putrefying in the street. Am I right or what?

And now I'm to for a round of gold with my bestest pal, Michael Chertoff.

Ta-ta.

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