Bush Reveals New Shadow Government

ollowing on the heels of Friday's revelation of the Bush plan for a "shadow government" to maintain continuity of power should the administration be incapacitated, the president revealed his six choices for the positions in the shadow government.

"It is important that individuals the nation trusts be available to lead us in the event we in the present administration are somehow incapacitated," said Bush, addressing reporters from an underground bunker somewhere he would not disclose. "I have chosen six individuals that I think will gladly answer the call to lead their country in that horrible, horrible occurrence."

Bush's choices ranged from the unexpected to the ridiculous, according the critics. Should the unthinkable happen and the entire executive branch of government be disabled for any reason, and presumably should Congress lose their acting capacity as well, Bush has handpicked a six-person group to share leadership duties of the country in retaliation and recovery.

The six-person team would consist of George Herbert Walker Bush, the president's father and 41st president of the United States; country recording superstar Hank Williams Jr.; former talk show host and television personality Johnny Carson; tennis great Billie Jean King; fictional comic book character The Hulk; and deceased 16th president Abraham Lincoln.

Many questions remain in the wake of the president's announcement. Among them: Is the shadow government constitutionally allowed? Can the president make arrangements without approval of Congress for such a plan? What is a comic book character doing among the selected appointees? Isn't Lincoln dead? Why Billie Jean King?

"I have not the time nor the resources to answer all these questions," snapped Bush, slapping a reporter from The Washington Post squarely across the face. "I'm the president and I know what's best for everyone. You hear? Everyone!"

According to insiders, Bush presented the list to administration officials on a scribbled piece of notebook paper with several other possible appointees crossed out, like Hugh Hefner and Rupert Murdock. Bush reportedly believes Abraham Lincoln is available for resuscitation at any time and the technology for that is quickly being developed. He also said The Hulk is real and he knows because he used to have a TV show. Administration officials also suspect Billie Jean King was chosen to balance out the male-heavy council, and she was the first woman the president could think of.

"I am happy with the president's choices," said Vice-President Dick Cheney. "I believe the possibility of our administration collapsing overnight, along with Congress and any other potential leaders, is a very real possibility and our president is safeguarding us against that. President Bush is wise and learned and not at all losing his mind."

Cheney made some strange gestures, circling his temple with a finger, and winking at reporters, before the president turned his head, when Cheney suddenly stopped.

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I am sad to say the hour of judgment draws near. I'm not talking about biblical predictions of the end of time, or some poorly-imagined Bruce Willis action movie armageddon. I'm talking about the growing conspiracy, which I have mentioned before, without giving specific details. It's practically here.

As you may know, I have tried gathering a group before through classified ads, hoping to attract mercenaries and those with a death wish to follow me into the danger, with me firmly in the back; but no such luck. I will have to go this mission alone, and take some commune staffers with me. Mostly to carry my things, but I'm not ruling out fighting and taking bullets and what-not.

The problem, as you can imagine, is that the commune is over-run with cowards, dope fiends, and morons. Actually, the dope fiends aren't so bad, but trying to explain to them the importance of the mission takes way more time than I have. In the end, if I can get no one else, maybe I'll tell them we're going to pick up Chinese food and they'll follow me.

The morons are another matter entirely. They make up the bulk of my workforce, which was part of how they came to work for me for practically nothing, but of course that doesn't help with my mission. I'm planning on traveling a great distance and it's possible I'll be pursued—all involved will need great cunning. Most of them can't even say great cunning.

So mostly I'm left with the cowards. I can't find them right now. I know they're there, I can hear them scurrying to hide whenever I enter the room. And they haven't even heard about the deadly mission yet, they're just afraid I'll yell at them for not proofing their stories and columns, etc. Can you imagine the pants-pissing that will happen when I invite them to look death in the eye? No, that won't do. So I'm left with a random assortment of commune employees to choose from.

Lil Duncan? She's neither a coward nor a moron, and the only dope she goes for is Lorenzo Lamas. But she's a woman, and therefore left out. I don't need any women going along just so they can get pregnant or have their periods or complain about how we're not asking for directions. She's out.

Ned Nedmiller? Ned's afraid of nothing, indeed more things are afraid of him, and he's not so much a moron as a babbling oddity. And he's been gathering dust since I stopped publishing his column—he hasn't even stopped writing them yet. I've got a stack of them piling up on my desk and blocking the light from the windows, but I haven't the heart to tell him. Which is why he won't be coming along on this mission.

Ivan Nacutchacokov? See cowards, above.

Omar Bricks. Omar's not stupid, and far from a coward. As for being a dope fiend… well, if I loosen up my definition of dope fiend considerably, he's a prime candidate.

Stu Umbrage? Stu has guts in abundance, and brains in abundance. There's no man in the building I would trust my life with but Stu Umbrage. Still, I don't like him, I don't know, just something about his accent or something. All haughty.

Clarissa Coleman? Weren't you listening when I said the things about women? You're stupid for even bringing her up.

Raoul Dunkin? Yeah, right. There's nothing that ingrate would love more than to get me alone while he's fully armed. Not on your life, or mine.

Griswald Dreck? He's a great candidate, but Griswald's actually proved on a piece of paper with Sharpies that if he leaves the building he ceases to exist. At least that's what he told me when I asked him to cover the court beat one day, and I'm not about to test his vast knowledge.

Ramon Nootles? Not with all those paternity suits still pending. It would cost me more than I could bear parting with.

So as you can see, I'm up a creek in sewer-flavored water with a boat-moving device. I'll have to get this all sorted out, and soon, since imminent death is calling. Wish me luck, readers—or better yet, come with me. Women need not apply.

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Usually I prefer to uncover global conspiracies, to shine the light of justice on the hidden ugliness of the world as only journalism can. The cover-ups and shams so big they affect all of our lives. The big time, in other words. This time I turn my red laserlight of truth on the small movie screen of a local shyster. His name is Kurt Benworthy.

Mr. Benworthy is the most unscrupulous con-man I've ever encountered, and I've met Don King, readers. I went to Kurt Benworthy from an ad in the paper. I print it in its entirety here:

"Dogs for sale. Puppies, pooches, hounds, mutts, and bitches. Perfect for the kids or the wife, or the wife's husband. Dogs, long considered man's best friend by those in the know. Now experience dog ownership as you've only dreamed. P.O. Box 1584. No refunds."

Hell! "No refunds." So it was in the ad. I guess I owe Mr. Benworthy an apology. Well, there may not seem much reason to go on, but I don't care about the money. Even if I never see a dime of my $10 again I want to reveal Kurt Benworthy for the rip-off artist he is.

I went to Post Office Box 1584 and, sure enough, Mr. Benworthy was living inside. Fortunately it was a rather large box. He had rented several and in each he had several "dogs," all of which he espoused the virtues of while telling me glorious stories of dog ownership. Maybe I'm a big fat sucker with a white stick up my ass, or maybe the white stick up my ass just leaves people with that assumption, but either way, Mr. Benworthy sold me a shoddy bill of goods.

The dog I picked out, "Putnam P. Puppy," was adorable at first sight. I purchased Mr. Puppy and took him home, looking forward to all the fetching and ball biting we would do together, or allow him to do while I watched. First thing when we hit the Bagel backyard, I threw a ball and… as you can already guess perhaps, Putnam Puppy did not go after the ball. I was sorely disappointed, and it's then my eyes opened to the dirty side of dog sales.

Putnam P. Puppy was in actuality a long-haired cat with certain prosthetics in place and falsified documents to make him appear to be a dog. I took him to my doctor, no expert on animals, but a generally smart guy who I trust for legal advice, and he assured me I had in fact been sold a cat. A cat disguised as a dog. Putnam Puppy is a long-haired meowing cat and Kurt Benworthy is a goddamn dirty liar.

What am I supposed to do with a cat? Enter a dog show? Guess again, the rules are strict on that, I've found out. Sit around the fireplace, writing poems about my beloved old dog? Fuck that, I've got a cat, thanks to that bastard Benworthy. I'm the laughingstock of my kennel club and all those issues of Dog Fancy I bought, well, they're basically slick toilet paper now. Thank you again, Mr. Benworthy.

It may be too late to do anything. When I returned to the post office I found out Mr. Benworthy had vacated his post office box with six months back rent due, leaving behind only a few chiahuahua-sheepdog mixed puppies. So I may have lost my shirt in this scam, revealing my chubby love handles and spare tire for all to see, but I stress to you these important tips when inspecting a dog for purchase:

• Check for a zipper down the underside, or failing that, a prosthetic dog beak.
• Drop the "dog" from a high place, like the top step on a ladder. If it lands on its feet, it's a cat; if it dies instantly, it's a dog.
• As you're walking away, turn suddenly and yell, "Hey, cat!" If the "dog" looks at you, you've found a no-good cat in disguise.

Here's salutations to all the future dog-owners out there. I wish to be one of you someday. Preferably the tall one.

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