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President Bush is SO my bitch
Sep. 10th, 2004 10:19 amLast night I kicked President Bush's ASS.
Well, not really. It was a dream. I went to a very lame costume party. Patton Oswalt the comedian was there. Alan Cumming was there, though there was none of the intimate gazing across the room I love so much. And Dubya was there in his jet fighter costume, acting as "security" as the halls were dark outside and people were nervous about walking through them.
I was sitting right next to the open front door making a snide remark about Dubya (which I am wont to do, even more so now that I am reading Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (which I would resoundingly recommend to anyone who hates filthy liars and filthier right-wingnuts, apparently not mutually exclusive categories, not by a long shot)), which he caught the tail end of. He came in all puffed up and demanded to know who made the jab at him. I figured he knew it was me, so I jokingly pointed to a couch full of people and said, "It was.....her." He swaggered over to my mother at the end of the couch and pretended to spank her. Understandably horrified, I jumped up and challenged him to fight. It wasn't fisticuffs, we just grappled like wrestlers. For awhile we were evenly matched, but then we both slowly realized I was stronger than him. His eyes widened as I picked him up a little ways off the ground and then dumped him on his side as hard as I could, with the delighted partygoers looking on. That's when I woke up.
I gotta lay off the steroids before I go to bed. *
* That's a joke. I don't take steroids. I do, however, appear to have a not-so-subconscious desire to kick a little presidential booty.
Well, not really. It was a dream. I went to a very lame costume party. Patton Oswalt the comedian was there. Alan Cumming was there, though there was none of the intimate gazing across the room I love so much. And Dubya was there in his jet fighter costume, acting as "security" as the halls were dark outside and people were nervous about walking through them.
I was sitting right next to the open front door making a snide remark about Dubya (which I am wont to do, even more so now that I am reading Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (which I would resoundingly recommend to anyone who hates filthy liars and filthier right-wingnuts, apparently not mutually exclusive categories, not by a long shot)), which he caught the tail end of. He came in all puffed up and demanded to know who made the jab at him. I figured he knew it was me, so I jokingly pointed to a couch full of people and said, "It was.....her." He swaggered over to my mother at the end of the couch and pretended to spank her. Understandably horrified, I jumped up and challenged him to fight. It wasn't fisticuffs, we just grappled like wrestlers. For awhile we were evenly matched, but then we both slowly realized I was stronger than him. His eyes widened as I picked him up a little ways off the ground and then dumped him on his side as hard as I could, with the delighted partygoers looking on. That's when I woke up.
I gotta lay off the steroids before I go to bed. *
* That's a joke. I don't take steroids. I do, however, appear to have a not-so-subconscious desire to kick a little presidential booty.
