Bush to Britain: "Speak English, Motherfuckers"

nother embarrassing gaff from the president occurred Tuesday when President Bush, briefly addressing protestors as he was escorted to a meeting with Prime Minister Tony Blair, angrily demanded the crowd, “Speak English, motherfuckers!�

“Y’all talk like fruits over here,� concluded the president, as handlers corralled the president to the prime minister’s residence.

It was a bad start to a rough visit to London for the president, on a goodwill trip to improve his image across the Atlantic. Inside sources describe Bush as beleaguered and exasperated with constant negative coverage of his visit to the country, as well as an extreme difficulty in crossing the accent gap. Bush had reportedly cupped his hand to his ear minutes earlier and mouthed, “I don’t unnerstan ya,� before blurting out his loud insult to the surprised crowd.

Though Bush’s meeting with the prime minister was insightful, according to better educated White House spokespeople, reporters from both countries were anxious to hear Bush’s excuse for the comment.

“The president was tired and cranky, suffering from jet lag,� said overworked White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan, “he responded aggressively to what he perceived as an aggressive accusation in a language he couldn’t understand. He regrets saying things he should have only thought, but does not apologize. Wrap your head around that one.�

Other difficulties presented themselves, the White House stated in an accompanying memo, all adding to Bush’s confusion with the language. He was disturbed when the prime minister asked for Bush to “knock him up� as soon as he arrived; also bothering him were a minor traffic accident involving a pair of “lorries� and the ride on the “lift� during his first stop.

“We are talking about a president who hasn’t mastered this country’s cultural language quirks,� said an unidentified White House source this reporter nicknamed Big Johnson. “Put the pressure of selling the Iraq war and post-war reconstruction together with a culture he’s only familiar with through Benny Hill re-runs and we’re talking about one pissed-off president.�

The visit was declared successful by the White House, claiming disagreements about the Iraq war and the country’s future were discussed and overcome, though gaffs continued to follow the president like a pack of redneck-sniffing hounds. When introduced to the Queen, the president shared how much he loved “We Will Rock You�; addressing a gathering British diplomats, Bush said how deeply he regretted bombing their country in World War II and he would make sure to see the big clock before he left.

Thursday marked the biggest turnout of protestors as an estimated 100,000 tongue-clucking Britons gathered in Trafalgar Square to burn effigies of Bush, carry sort-of clever disparaging signs addressed to him, and generally dis the visiting president.

Bush himself, in a better mood Thursday, took a Zen approach to the protests.

“Everyone has the right to speak their own mind,� said the president. “We fought for their independence so they could say what they want.�

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Quit being so goddamned selfish, people. There are folks drowning or something down wherever they're having that problem, because of rain or malfunctioning plumbing of some sort, and we're in a position to help. Wherever these people are, and I want to say "Magnolia" but I have a sneaking suspicion that's not a real state name, but wherever they are, we're their only hope. That's why we need to donate to Omarelief, like right now.

And by "we" I mean you, because it doesn't make a whole lot of sense for me to donate to my own charity, since that's like a hooker paying to play with herself or something asinine like that. But for some reason "Let's us do this!" always seems to be a better motivator than "Hey asshole, you need to solve this problem!" So like I said, "we" need to donate to Omarelief immediately.

90% of all cash donations made to Omarelief will be spent on feeding and housing any refugees from the disaster who make their way up to Flatbush, New Jersey, find the Bricks Manor in spite of the bogus directions I gave them, cross the moat I've dug around my house, defeat the security system, and then refuse to leave when asked politely. This is the real deal, people.

We also need to quit donating to Red Bagel's scam charity "Red's Cross," because it's giving him a big head and he keeps blowing all the money on weird portraits of himself in famous religious poses that are creeping the rest of us all the hell out.

But how does it work? How can Omar Bricks afford to be so good to people? I'm glad you asked.

The brilliant part of the charity is that I don't have to spend a dime of the donations on anyone who's not smart enough to find the Bricks Manor, which includes pretty much everyone on earth because Mapquest made a cock out of its directions to my house. I'm serious; I tried using them once myself and I ended up in Newfoundland, no shit. These are the directions I give to bill collectors, girls wanting paternity tests, and the pissed-off boyfriends of girls wanting paternity tests. They're like paper gold for a million uses, unless you're actually trying to find my house.

But don't you imagine for a second that I'll be unprepared if any sad sack motherfuckers actually make it into my house. I've got those bases covered as well, and Omar Bricks isn't one to welch on his charity commitments. We've got plenty of room here in Bricks Manor, and several sets of rubber bedsheets. And there will be plenty of mustard sandwiches to go around. Anyone who's not too put off by the fact that Foghat wets the bed can bunk with him. Otherwise you're going to be sleeping on the toilet. Don't think that's as bad as it sounds—I do it all the time, it's fine. I'd offer to let you sleep in the bathtub, a more traditional bathroom-sleeping arrangement, but the fact of the matter is I can't have some homeless lug sleeping in the tub when I need to take a shower or bathe or make some beer. Some homesteader camping out on the crapper I can handle, but it's not like you can just stick your Johnson out the window and take a shower. That's just the reality of the world, folks.

Any charity-case overflow will be housed on my neighbor Hamms' lawn, and when he's not home, in his house. So don't worry that our donations are only going to help one guy sleeping on Omar Bricks' toilet. This charity is for everybody. Everybody who was effected by the thing and who made their way all the way up here and tracked me down like a goddamned bloodhound from hell. So let's us open our wallets and give, until we've made Red Bagel's bullshit charity look like the second-rate bullshit charity it really is. Because that's what giving is all about, people. Bricks out.

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"At one time in my youth I was lucky enough to go on that game show, Twenty-One—that's the show famous for all the cheating, where they gave the contestants the answers. Well, Sampson L. Hartwig didn't get any answers, I'll tell you that much. It frosts my dumplings that somebody at that game show took one look at me and said, 'He's not returning winner material.' But I suppose it was a fun experience all the same.

I knew the game show was fixed as soon as I got into that booth. It was hot and smelled of fat man from the previous contestant. How was anybody supposed to remember the nickname of the motorcycle Patton rode to his promotion under these conditions? And yet that Charles Van Dorn knew everything without thinking twice about it. I called him a nasty word, and I think the soundproofing kept him from hearing it, but everybody in the first three rows could read my lips obviously enough, and I apologize to any of them who still remember that incident. You caught Mr. Hartwig on a bad day is all.

When it was over, I had done so poorly they didn't even air the episode. I received no consolation prize, unless you count a swift boot to the behind to get out quickly. And I do, I'm kind of an optimist. But by the time I got around to writing a thank-you note for the boot the story had blown wide-open that the show was being investigated.

That thank-you note quickly turned to a forget-you note, except I changed the 'forget' to something a little more offensive at the time. I sent that off with a sense of pride, never thinking I would hear anything back, but I did receive a response after a few years.

It said, basically, 'Mr. Hartwig: Please forgive us for the inexcusable crime of rigging the game show against you. In all forwardness, however, be honest with yourself and ask if any rigging was necessary for this particular episode. Think of all the time wasted making sure Charles Van Dorn had the answers memorized to provide the impression of a hard-fought battle, a show of tension for the American people, and you blew it all by not answering a single question right. If anything, you owe us a big pay-off.

I've never found it easy to argue with logic. So I sent out the first of many checks that afternoon. Fair's fair."

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