I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life. For example, once I tore off one of those mattress tags.
And back when I was young and stupid I tried to urinate my name in the snow.
Not so crazy, you say?  It is for a girl.
But by far the craziest thing I’ve ever done was date a Republican.
Again you say, not so crazy?  What if I tell you the Republican in question was George W.?

Well, it was some years ago, and because I was in the prime of my youth, I decided to have a fling
with a big name politician. So while many people were deciding whether they would vote Democrat
or Republican, my choice was not so different. Who did I trust? Who would treat me best? And most
importantly, who would bring me to the highest point of climax that would last the longest amount of time?
My pickings were slimmer than Clarista Flockhart on Jenny Craig. I had to decide between the two major
parties, along with people like Ross Perot from the Reform Party, and that no name guy from the Green party.
I wasn’t too hot on the idea of boinking Ross Perot. That doesn’t need explaining. Nor was I too excited
over the Green party guy. Hell, I don’t even know his name. And if I don’t know his name, how can I be
expected to scream it out in the heights of passion?

So like millions of Americans, my choice was narrowed to Democrat or Republican. An ass or an elephant.
Some people don’t think there’s any difference between Democrats and Republicans. But trust me, there is.
About two inches. As a result, Democrats make better lovers than Republicans. (As the joke goes, when’s the
last time you got a piece of elephant?) With this in mind, I was looking for a man with a D on the end of his
name, but ever since L’affair Lewinski, liberals were as tight legged as Mother Theresa at a slumber party.
(Rigor Mortis has made Mother Theresa’s legs even stiffer, I hear.) Bill Clinton had gotten his hummers from
Monica and judging from the hell he went through, it didn’t seem as though any Democrat would even bat an
eye at a loose-legged woman such as myself. Like millions of Americans, I secretly lusted for our last elected
President, but since Monica, Hillary kept her eye on Bill like a he was a negro shopping at Macys.

And I doubted Bill would go through murder by the media again just for a little of the dirty. That’s probably
best for him, since it seems Hillary would probably tear him a new one if he screwed around again. They say
that woman is one mean bitch. When she had Socks fixed, they say she mocked the poor cat, meowing like
he did, and laughing. Then she called him a “fucking cat bastard.” That seems a pretty heartless thing to do,
if you ask me. Don’t get me wrong. I’d vote for the woman. I’d just never screw her husband.

            The men I’d vote for wouldn’t do the dirty for me, so is it any wonder that my eyes began to wander
to the other side of the aisle? Trent Lott has too strong a resemblance to Herman Munster. Orin Hatch always
had seemed a little too short and squirrely for my tastes. And I could see myself riding a rhino before climbing
on the back of Denny Hassert. So as you can see, my options were dwindling. Disgusted with the dirty sleaze
of Washington, I ventured south, trying to hook up with a governor here, or a state senator there. But no such
luck. It wasn’t until I found myself in the great state of Texas, the un-state that thought itself its own country,
that I found true love. Or to be more accurate, true love found me. Or to be even more accurate, true love
tripped over me, and landed mug down on the floor.

            He was wearing a white cowboy hat and a white button down dress shirt. After stumbling to his feet,
he staggered up to me and said, “What’s a pretty rat like you doing in a girl hole like this?”

Obviously embarrassed, he was. Later, I would be reminded of what I read in JH Hatfield’s book,
when this man, despite taking the chance of damaging his family name, decided to dance on a table naked.

            Standing there, I could tell he was three sheets to the Texan wind. I got a whiff of whiskey when he
blew on my neck, but there was something charming about him, something attractive in his boyish personality.

            “Waiting for you to buy me a drink,” I said, not too coy. He half smiled and it was the first time I saw
the smirk he is so famous for today. I ran my fingertips over the mouth of his Molson bottle, slow and sexy.

            “Harry, get the pretty lady a drink,” he said to the bartender after he picked his tongue up off the floor.

            “Right away, Gov’na,” said the barkeep. My ears perked up Was Gov’na Texas jargon for governor?
Could I have found an interested (not to be confused with interesting) politician? Could I have struck an oilman?
I tried not to get my hopes up. If he was anything like his dad, the only bodily fluid he’d be discharging is vomit.

            “You look like someone I know,” I told him.

            He blushed. “My dad. The name’s Bush, George Dubya Bush. ” He held out his bottle of beer,
as if to toast, chuckling. “You can call me W.”

            “I’m Marilyn Monroe. You can call me M,” I answered, hoping my code name wasn’t too common.
I held out my hand, for him to kiss it, like a proper lady.

            “Well pretty lady, if you’re looking for a place to stay, the Govna’s Mansion is always open.”

            “Oh, do you know the Governor?” I played blond.

            “I am the Govna, pretty lady.”

            I acted surprised, and doubly interested. “You have a little sugar under your nose,” I said but it wasn’t sugar.

            “Why don’t you be my sugar tonight at the Mansion?” he said, and I found something about him
very attractive, even with white under his nose.

            “I’m more of a Nutra Sweet girl. What about Pickles?”

            “I’m not into kinky food sex,” he said, as if it were a quality.

            “No, I mean your wife,” I struggled to remember her real name. “Laura?”

            “She uses Equal.”

            “No, I mean, won’t she be home?”

            “She’s visiting her mother.” He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. We walked out of the
saloon’s swinging doors hand in hand. And that is how I met the man who would someday be leader of the free world.
 

            As long as we avoided conversation, Mr. Bush and I got along splendidly. He would slip up every once
in awhile, and comment about his past. He told me that while he was learning math, he had trouble distinguishing
between an addition sign and a division sign. He told his teacher “I’m a uniter, not a divider,” which meant he
didn’t need to figure out division problems all throughout his elementary years. I asked what he had against
division and he said, “The Republican party is the party of inclusion, not division,” which I think means that
the GOP doesn’t know how many times 6 goes into 42.

But enough talk about arithmetic…

            That night he rode me like a bull in a rodeo. I just held on and let him go at it like he was a horse
and I was Paul Harvey. Do you wish to know the grisly details? The president has a distinguishing birthmark
on his manhood. Since Mr. Bush is now President I’ve decided not to disclose the imperfections of his genitalia.
I will say, however, that compared to King Clinton, W’s sausage is nothing but a Smokey Link. But as he said,
it’s not how big the bone is, it’s how deep you bury it. I had to remind him that I wasn’t exactly the Grand Canyon.
Then I had to remind him where the Grand Canyon was, in the great state of Arizona. “That’s where that major
league asshole John McCain is from,” he said.

            I don’t get why such a spectacle was made over W calling Adam Clymer an asshole. That night at the
Mansion, he even called me a major league piece of ass. Or was it that he said my ass was major league?
As is the case with anything he says, who can tell what he really meant? But since we were having anal sex
at the time, I took it as a sincere compliment.

            After we were done, we lay in each other’s arms, he in only his boxers and I in only my briefs.
We smoked a cigarette and pondered the mysteries of the universe. I asked him a question that had been
knocking on the door of my mind all night. “How many lovers have you had before me?”

            Immediately I regretted asking, not because it was a violation of his privacy, but because I doubted
he could count that high. But I figured if he needed to use his toes, at least he wouldn’t have to bother taking
off his shoes and socks. He answered quickly.

            “None.”

            I knew he was lying. “What about your wife?”

            “I don’t know how many she’s had.”

            “No, I mean, doesn’t she count as a lover?”

            “She’s my wife, not my lover.”

            “You mean, you don’t make love to her?”

            “Well, I have in the past. I had to twice to get my twins.” I laughed but he wasn’t joking.

            “Speaking of your daughters, is it true that the J&B in J&B Scotch stands for Jenna Bush?”

            The Gov’na answered, “I always thought it stood for Jimmy Baker.”

            And so our morning continued, pondering these deeper questions of life. Until, I let myself out
and never saw George again until he decided to get appointed President.
 

            No one believes me when I say I had sex with the President. Not even Linda Tripp, whom I’ve
called many times. But it’s true, absolutely. And if you don’t believe me, how else would I know about
the tattoo on his penis that says “Welcome to Texas, the lone star state” (written in shorthand, of course)?
How else would I know that the only shampoo in his bathroom is Johnson’s? But I guess no one’s
interested anymore. Sex with the President has been done already. Come to think of it, it’s been done to death.
It’s hardly news anymore. And that’s what troubles me about America. America used to be a place where a girl
could do the dirty with a big name politician and really go places in life. But not anymore. Now they need
something kinky, some sick fetish like S&M or leather. Bush wasn’t into leather, and he’s certainly not into
S&M unless you count those spurs he wore on his ankles when we did it. I even asked him one night,
“Do you like S&M?”

            And he said, “Are they anything like M&M’s?”

            (Heavy Al Gore sigh)

            I didn’t sleep with him for his brains, folks.
 

 ----------------
 

           This story didn’t really happen. At least not exactly how I’ve written it. But, it is true, in a way.
I’ve just taken artistic liberties in my reporting. Truth be told, I was screwed by George W. Bush.
The screwing didn’t involve cowboy hats or saddles, not even spurs, I’m sorry to say. Nor did it take
place in the Governor’s Mansion while Pickles was visiting her mother. It happened as I sat in my own
living room, reading in my mail that I would not be getting a tax rebate check after George W. Bush
personally promised me, as a taxpayer, three hundred dollars of “instant relief.” But he screwed me
in the most charming way… and as a woman, I’ve a tendency to romanticize the story a bit.

My affair with George W. will continue. This certainly won’t be the last time he screws me.
I just wish that when he screws me, he’d find my G spot. That way, at least I’d enjoy it a little.