Bubba’s Back In Action!

(Selected Diary Entries from A Not-So-Selective President)

or

Bubba Strikes Back

February, 2000

Dear Diary,

Bubba Here. Can you believe that George Bush kid stole the election and no one gives a shit? I mean I teabag some skank and I’m a criminal, but this guy rigs the only game that matters and the liberal media is silent?! Where’s The New York Times? Where’s CNN, man? What happened to all those sissy f***s on the major networks who scrutinized me like I was a god damn condom at a rape scene?

Oh, maybe you’re right, Diary. Maybe Al deserves it. He deserted me faster than George W. deserted his Air National Guard post in ‘Nam. You know what though? Everyone hates Al because he’s so stiff. Just between you and me…that’s why I liked him.

Dear Diary,

It’s me. I am so glad to be out of that stuffy White House. Man, is it uptight! I left a steaming shit in the top desk drawer in the Oval Office and some f*** juice in a flask by the Red Phone. It’s not revenge or anything, just a prank. I mean I don’t give a poodle dong that I was impeached. Frankly it’s the best thing that could have happened to my love life. I met so many babes in all the Baptist churches I repented at, I can hardly contain myself. And now I don’t have to! I’m getting’ a phat suite up in Harlem! God Bless America!

Dear Diary,

Me again. I’m sad and lonely. Hillary’s home. Gotta run.

Dear Diary,

This Atkins Diet is driving me nuts! No carbs and all protein?—I feel like I’m on the chick-end of my cigar (wink-wink). I left a bunch of instructions for that Bush kid about this mean dude, Osama bin something or other. I don’t remember his name but he’s a mean sumbitch. But then so’s Bush. Lazy little spoon-fed f***er. I beat his daddy like he beat the DUI rap. I beat Dole too, remember? Those were the days.

Hey, remember when I caught Dole sleeping before a debate in New Hampshire and replaced that black pen in his paralyzed hand with a black dildo? It was kinda funny. But I shoulda used a vibrator. THAT woulda woken his elderly ass up.

I gotta get outta here but I just want you to know that the irony of my presidency being followed by a guy named “Bush” isn’t lost on me.

Dear Diary,

Guess who? The Pope dropped me a line but I let the answering machine get it. I sat there listening to him go on and on about something or other—I dunno what.  I was doing armpit farts between breaths every time he said something. It was like sweet music. Like something Roger might sing. God my family is great.

Oh f***ing shit, Hillary’s back. Gotta run.

Dear Diary,

So it’s official! I’m moving to Harlem! Movin’ on up like The Jeffersons! I am gonna get so much pun tang it is not to be believed.

I checked in on Chelsea. She’s doing fine. Her shrink says she’s okay, anyway, so I gotta trust that. Maybe I’ll buy her a car, what do you think? Something fancy with the side paneling. I can’t stop watching MTV. That Carson Daley’s a hoot, man. So dry!

I saw Ken Starr last week when I was kickin’ around Washington. It was uncomfortable. Mostly because the thrill of a confrontation gave me an erection. Yep, I had a big ol’ bone goin’, man. That f***in’ prick. Aw, but I didn’t do nothin’. The glazed over fear in his eyes was enough for me.

I beat off near an ATM machine.

Dear Diary,

So this George, Jr. guy has the nerve to call me at work! He wants to know what was up with the steaming shit and the flask of f*** juice. It had all dried out by the time he found it and the shit lost its stink, so he didn’t really know what the stuff was. I told him the shit was chocolate bark and to go ahead and eat that if he gets hungry. I told him that flaky white stuff in the bottle is a new form of cocaine. I asked him not to rat me out to the media about the coke. He said not to worry, he’d “Take care of it.” I know I heard sniffing before I hung up.

Good one, Bubba!

Forgot to ask if he saw the Osama bin whatever memo. I gotta remember that dude’s name. Bush’s daddy stuck me in Somalia with bin Blowjob or whoever. Fuckin’ guy pardons all of his Iran Contra buddies then his son hires ‘em back, no one says anything. But I’M an ass for pardoning one little crook before I leave? Hey, Diary, I don’t have to tell you—We’re ALL crooks to some extent and judging by that standard, Marc Rich isn’t such a bad guy. A bad guy, sure, but not SUCH a bad guy.

Dear Diary,

Me. Al called, crying. I could practically smell the whiskey through the speakerphone. Yeah, I admit it, it wasn’t right to put him on speakerphone in the middle of a pep talk with the office staff, but I wanted them to hear what a loser sounds like. I wanted them to know that things could be worse, they could be working for THAT guy.

Could you imagine wasting your whole life trying to become something you were never meant to be? Oh shit, Diary, you’re right! Got me again! He DID become president, it’s just that it was stolen from him. It’s easy to forget because no one talks about that and when they do they’re marginalized. Marginalize the voters and marginalize the vote. That’s what this country has turned into. God, back in my day, we ONLY marginalized the vote so the voters wouldn’t turn out. There was no need to rig anything.

But whatever, man. Bush is Born Again Evil. All his speeches are peppered with biblical quotes. It’s like listening to that Osama guy’s videotaped rants. Oh, that reminds me. I’ve got to call Born Again Bush and ask him if he got the Osama memo. I would have done it sooner but as you know I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m meeting with Russell Simmons today. If he doesn’t show up with a bevy of BET babes, I might just f*** his leathery black ass.

Splootch!

Wow, man! Onomatopoeia!

Dear Diary,

Called in sick today. Roger’s over. I’m gonna punch him in the face for a hundred bucks. It’s just a game we play. What he does with the money is his business.

Dear Diary,

Can you believe I’m the one with the fast food problem, but Dick Cheney is having heart attacks left and right???

Yeeeee-haaaaaaw! Take that, Religious Right!

That dude just plain looks like Dr. Evil, doesn’t he? Knowing him, he’ll replace his black heart with a solar powered one and still sell us oil. I’ve got to remind myself to talk to them Saudi Royals about looking into alternative energies. I mean that’s the future, not oil. Oil’s dead and we all know it.  Looks like Cheney is too. Memo to Ken Starr: Ya can’t keep a straight face for that long with all them skeletons in yer closet or else the ol’ ticker conks out. At least when I lie, everybody knows it.

Or maybe not. “Define, ‘is?’” That was a f***ing joke and no one got it! They thought I was serious! Washington needs a deep dish enema.

Dear Diary,

Is it me or is Hillary growing a moustache? I hear from close sources that she may run for Senate. Ugh. Then what? The White House? Fuckin’ bitch always stealing my thunder. How I long for the days when I could father illegitimate Negro children and Hill would just smile n’ wave, smile ‘n wave. Thank God we only speak to each other when there’s a Chelsea issue.

I wonder who has a tighter pussy, Hillary or Socks? Where is that darn cat anyway?

Dear Diary,

Thursday night, and you know what that means: Poker at Sharpton’s! Oh, we had fun, man! I broke even but I didn’t care. Just to hang with the boys was great. Al was there, of course, Russell Simmons, Flava Flav, Chris Rock, Jay-Z…. All my homies. Chris says I should open for him at the Apollo, play saxophone or something as a goof. I’m like, “Nah. I don’t open for anyone. Unless their name is Monica and they’re wearing a strap-on.”

Everyone laughed, including Sharpton. He got blitzed off a forty Jay-Z brought him. I convinced him he should run for president someday because his name is “Al” and we all know how successful that name is.

They laughed again. I think he might do it.

Later on, Flava Flav did a freestyle rap about Condoleezza Rice that went something like, “My name is Condi, I’m a stuck up bitch/I’ve got your ear cuz I ain’t no snitch/Think I’m a bore/Ain’t loose like a whore/If your ass bleeds oil I’ll make you rich.”

Something like that. It seemed funnier at the time. Anyway, we all agreed we’d take her to the bridge, so to speak. I told Al, if he ever balled her, I’d suck his dick just to taste her. That one went over better than I thought.

Dear Diary,

It’s me. Down in the dumps for the first time in a long time. I just got done doing a buncha motivational speeches at these banks and stuff and the media is all over me. For what?! Can’t I live my life? I created all this wealth for this f***ing country and they’re STILL talking impeachment!

I’ll be dipped in shit! Ungrateful sons a….

What the f***, man? They know I’m made of Teflon!

George Will, you bowtie cunt! You’re like a movie reviewer who criticizes because he’s never made a film in his life. Plus my film was actually GREAT! Oscar-worthy performances all around for the last eight years, you mealy mouthed bastard!

And then I see Tucker Carlson, that runt, on CNN and his stupid bowtie collection and it hits me: These guys are asexual. Of COURSE they have to come after me in spite of the prosperity I’ve created. My sexual prowess is too much for them. It’s like the nerds tearing down the jocks in a high school newspaper.

God, what is truth? Is it what we want to see or is there something absolute? Something objective?

Sorry, Diary, I don’t mean to get all deep on ya. I’ll bet OJ Simpson feels like killing again just to piss everybody off. That’s how I feel. Not killing, but…you know, the other stuff. If I didn’t love Chelsea so much, I might suck on one or two or all of her girlfriends. That would really give the press something to talk about!

Speaking of which, Hillary’s locked herself in her bedroom with that Rosy O’Donnell again. We have that in common at least: It seems like every week we make new celebrity friends.

Rosy is sexy. Big boned gal. Hill’s smart to keep her out of sight.

What else?—Let’s see….Spielberg keeps harassing me to invest in some holocaust project or other.  It’s not that I don’t want to it’s just that maybe the Europeans are right. Maybe it’s best to forget about that whole WWII era altogether. Times have changed. There could never be another Hitler. We’re a global village, who would stand for it?

Dear Diary,

Where is Colin Powell from? What kinda name is “Colin,” anyway? He looks cute and cuddly, like a koala bear, but he hangs out with people who probably call him “nigger” and would definitely enslave him if they had the chance. Why? Is it all that God and Country crap they teach in the army? Doesn’t he realize that’s just to brainwash young poor men so they don’t mind losing half a testicle for their country? (Wink-wink…You know I mean “corporation.”)

Seriously, Diary, man—What’s the deal with this guy? He’s playing for the wrong team. On paper, at least. I guess I did kinda f*** things up for liberals by stealing the Republican Agenda. I absorbed so much conservatism into the Democratic Party we’re all guilty of something now. That’s why the neocons hate me with such venom—I stole their entire platform like a damn repo man. Fuck them. They should have caved to Hill’s healthcare reform. You want to play ball, you’d better wear a cup because I aim for where it hurts!

Dear Diary,

Is it just me or is Bush TRYING to destroy the economy? This is crap! There’s no need for it! I heard through the grapevine Bush is gonna tap Alcoa CEO Paul O’Neill to play Treasury Secretary. I say “play” because you know it ain’t gonna last! They ain’t gonna really put him in charge, it’s just for show! Everything with this Administration is for show! That dog’s gonna go ape shit when he sees how the Bush crew runs things.

Take me away to better times; take me away to a year ago.

Dear Diary,

Where the f*** did my party go? I mean this is ridiculous, man! I couldn’t have scarred them this badly could I? It’s one thing to give up on Al Gore, it’s another thing altogether to blame Ralph Nader for his loss. Loss??? HE WON!!! Jeb Bush and Kathleen Harris stole the Black vote! Last I knew, that was illegal and amoral!—all the things them ‘publicans claimed I was! And then the conservative Supreme Court sweeps the whole thing away like so many hanging chads.

Buffalo chips, man!

What’s so important that Bush HAS to get into office? Why, to pay back all of daddy’s business buddies he lost money for? Man I’m steamed! (Sorry to keep harping on this, Diary. But someone MUST take notice eventually. I should never have gone off on the liberal media in that Rolling Stone interview way back when. Maybe I pushed the media to the Right too.)

Oh, I finally put that call in to the little shit. Beady f*** probably whacks it left-handed. That’s as close as them fundamentalists get to creativity. I told him about the Osama memo. Bin Laden, that’s his last name. Came to me in the shower the other morning. I was trying to piss through morning wood when Osama bin Laden flashed through my mind.  Man, that shit stings!

So, yeah, Shrub knows. Shrub. That’s what satirists call the fake president now. I can’t even remember what they called me when I first took office. Probably at least some of them called me, “Mr. President.” This dingle berry better not get that respect. I hope he choked on my dry ass loaf.  Know what he said to me when I warned him about Osama?—NOTHING! I just heard a snot whistling on the other end. It was like five long seconds of breathing and then a rustling sound and then he handed the phone back to Karl Rove who said, “Thank you, sir, on behalf of the president and I.” Then *CLICK!*

HE HUNG UP ON ME! ME!!! THE LAST LEGITIMATE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!!!!!!!

Karl Rove. There’s another one. He’s a goddamned herpes if ever there was one. Fuckin’ disease, man.  “…On behalf of the president and I.” What a twat. But then I guess someone’s gotta be in charge. If Bush isn’t up to the task, Rove to the rescue.

Ugh. Hate politics today. I gotta call Snoop Dogg back. He needs to know if I’m gonna do camera for some video project at Mardi Gras this year. I told him I don’t know much about cinematography but he was “down” with that. I love how those people talk, man! I might just say yes!

Dear Diary,

It’s the Bubster. Diary, man, what’s the deal with these priests boning alter boys? I mean I’m no Catholic, but aren’t there any alter girls? That’s just sick and wrong. What’s happening to the moral fiber of our country? Is that my fault too? You know, maybe if we all adopted the Playboy Philosophy, this country of ours would be in better shape. Nothing wrong with hedonism, it’s just when you struggle against your natural impulses that shit hits the fan. Or when you don’t but your wife does. And if she’s a lawyer, that’s a problem there.

Diary, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret I learned from a Bilderberger meeting: From the enlightened mind flows true morality. All this religious, puritanical shit is a bad imitation of morality and since the imitator is amoral, it’s meaningless. It’s acting. We’re animals in clothing so why not take off the clothes and just be animals? That and consumption are what we do best.

Wow. I just gave myself a hard-on, man. I gotta take care of this. Where’s my Anne Coultier scrapbook?—I’ve  got a feltching fantasy to squish out.

Dear Diary,

It’s Bubba. Know what’s funny? It’s not my speaking fees, per se, but the fact that I make the same damn speech over and over again at these corporate functions and they keep paying me for it, man! I mean it’s just the one speech! It’s like being paid to read the same book you only wrote once! I’m thinking about videotaping one of them so I can send that out instead of traveling. Then I’d get paid for nothing!—Just like when I was president!

Speaking of which, the more I watch Bush, Jr. in action, the more I realize he is by far the biggest puppet president the U.S. has ever installed. I mean worse than Reagan, worse than Noriega—maybe even worse than Pinochet. Not as much blood on his hands, sure, but that’s only ‘cause as Governor of Texas he couldn’t execute more than one person at a time. Me, on the other hand… Well, let’s just say I was smart enough to know I had blood on my hands.

That, and my monster manhood, are what separate the likes of me from the likes of him. And now that I mention it, I guess I shouldn’t send out tapes of my speech because that would reduce the amount of “special perks” I receive at the hotels. And behind the hotels. And in that dumpster behind the Marriott that one time. Two times.

Okay, sixteen times!—god, I can’t pull anything over on you, Diary, can I?

Fine, twenty-three times including San Fran. Happy now?

Look, we can play the memory game all day but I have “work” to do. I’m thinking about opening a Jennifer Flowers Botanical Garden just to keep my name in the papers. I gotta stay fresh in the mind in case I run for NYC Mayor. I mean if what people keep telling me is true and Hill’s running for Senate, I gotta do something to trump that, right?

Fuck her. (I would if I could.)

Okay, Bubba out.

Dear Diary,

Bubba’s Back! Oh man you’re not gonna believe this! 60 Minutes wants me to do a he said/she said kind of segment at the end of their show. But instead of a she, they get Bob Dole! I practically laughed myself to burping, man!

We were in this conference room, right? Big roundtable thing. And I lean over to Dole and whisper, “You a top or a bottom?” He didn’t get it. Or at least I thought he didn’t cuz he just sat there all tight lipped and paralyzed. Then he reaches into his pocket and quietly pulls out a medicine bottle. He opens it underneath the table and takes this pill out and hands it to me. He says, “Break this in half.” So I’m like, “alright,” and I do. I try to hand it back to him but he waves it off saying, “You eat half.” I’m looking at him like he’s nuts. Like he’s Oral Roberts or something. He gets all impatient and rips one of the halves of the pill from my hand and swallows it.

Now you know me, Diary, I’ll try just about anything once. Okay, not just about…I’ll try anything once. Fine, twice. Okay, twenty-three times! Fuck man, that’s not even the point!

The point is, I shrug and pop the other half of the pill in my mouth then ask him what we just ate. Is it Quaaludes or something? Then I hear a dull knock sound underneath the table. I look under there and Dole’s sprouting this gigantic full on erection, man! I can’t believe my eyes! I whisper, “Wholly shit! This is Viagra, isn’t it?” And he just giggles like a hoarse schoolgirl.

He doesn’t say anything but he motions with his head, like a nod, over across the table. I’m looking and I say, “Morley Safer? Are you f***ing kidding me?”

Dole grunts at me a little and nods emphatically to the left of Safer. And—duuh, Bubba!—there’s that dirty mule, Lesley Stahl. IMMEDIATELY, there’s another, louder, authoritative, gigantic thud under the table. I mean everybody could hear it, man. It was like a fart in a church. It was like that time I nearly shit myself during the silent prayer for Ron Brown. And that other time I farted in the synagogue. And the time I met the Dalai Lama and pooped just to break the ice.

So, without moving his head, Dole eyeballs my lap under the conference table. I watch his eyes bulge like Ted Danson in black face, man. I mean he must have heard stories but he couldn’t believe it was true. I am hung like a Redwood, man!—Like ghetto laundry.  I practically lifted my end of the table with it. I thought it might tear through my slacks and tap out an S.O.S. in Morse Code on the f***ing thing, the way it was throbbing.

Dole’s jaw drops. (He’s got a lot of cavities, Diary!) He turns to me and I’m grinning. Then I purse my lips to a full on smile and in between my clenched teeth is my half of the Viagra pill.

I didn’t think Dole could turn any whiter! I spit it out at him and he practically had a heart attack right there in the meeting! The other bozos at the table had no idea what was going on! Zero! But Dole knew. He knew then what I’ve been trying to teach him since the bitch-slapping incident of ’96:

BUBBA  …  ALWAYS  …  WINS!!!

I’m sure Dole didn’t see this as a contest.

And that, Dear Diary, is the reason WHY.

Dear Diary,

Made up a new word today.

Pung.

Don’t know what it means yet but I hope to use it in a sentence someday soon, maybe in a speech at the U.N.

Meanwhile, I’m watching FOX News just to see how bad news can get. BAD. I mean those guys just plain LIE. The premise is a lie—Fair? Balanced? I wouldn’t let half those so-called newscasters gum the vein on my shaft. And that O’Reilly guy…What a whiner! Wasn’t he the host of some shit show like Inside Edition or something? What the f*** does he know about journalism?

Since when are Catholics Republican anyway? He has no clue where he came from. Where would he be without the Labor Movement?

Why are morons always the ones shouting loudest? Maybe when you’re THAT wrong, you’ve got to block everything else out so you can sound right to yourself. And isn’t that the worst lie of all?

Know what, O’Reilly?—eat my pung!

Yeah! I knew I’d find a way to use it! (Note to Self: do NOT us “pung” at U.N.)