Last night this bitch tumbled into a fitful sleep and dreamed of devilment and deception within the dark halls of power…
The corridor was cold and damp…the air heavy with the tension of strategery gone wrong.
A bitch, clad in a fantabulous slick black leather body suit and matching boots complete with steel heels (oooh, la la…a bitch works it in dreamland), was in search of a certain neo-con mastermind who was missing from his cage area.
Cautiously…because even in my dreams this bitch can’t walk in heels (wink)…I navigated the tunnel beneath the White House in search of Karl Rove. And this bitch was pissed to have to go looking for his rancid ass because that motherfucker knew he was scheduled for a fierce session of correction featuring the Merciless Rod of pain-based encouragement.
Suddenly, Scooter B. (President Bush to the uninitiated) appears through a door. His eyes were red rimmed and his face blotchified. Curious, a bitch followed as he went a wee bit down the hall and opened a door. He entered and a bitch peered in through the opening to see a bedroom and Karl Rove, who was folding t-shirts into a suitcase.
“Don’t go!” Scooter B. begged. “Don’t leave me alone with these people!!”
“You need to stop, George. You knew the deal going in. I’d help you get elected and stay as long as I could use you…but your lame duck ass is worthless now.” Rove replied and, without looking at Scooter B., continued to pack.
“But, but, but…ugh! Where will you go? What will you do?” Scooter B. questioned.
Rove, his eyes dark with power, gazed toward the wall yet seemed to be seeing beyond into the future. Above ground thunder and lightening flashed angrily through the sky.
“I must hunt.” He said softly.
“It is time.”
A bitch jumped into the shadows as Rove closed his suitcase and exited stage right.
Scooter B. followed slowly sobbing softly as he closed the door.
“Stop right there, Scooter B.” a bitch demanded as I stepped from the shadows.
“Oh no! What do you want of me??” he cried and shrunk back against the wall.
“Well, your friend has decided to go elsewhere…thus you are now the head asshole in charge of all things fubar and administrative.” With a flick of my hand, this bitch transported us both to the Chamber of Correction.
“But I’m uncorrectable Mistress!” Scooter B. cried as he was secured into the four points of correction.
“Oh, I know. You’re a lost cause, son. But the moon is full…I’m all dressed up…and there’s nothing on television.” A bitch smiled. “Might as well make sure the rest of your term isn’t a total loss.”
With a flick of my wrist the Rod of Correction sliced through the air.