President George W. Bush sighed. His mind reeled with indecision as his hand rested on his desk telephone’s handset. His entire nervous system vibrated in a mild fit of jitters. Should he or shouldn’t he? He stroked his jaw line with his other hand. He could feel the late day stubble returning to his chin. His mind was trying to distract itself with other things and he found himself continually pulling it back. It was a difficult decision, but he had to get it over with. The weight of it was almost overwhelming, this thing he was contemplating. The aftermath of it could have a profound effect on his character, his job, his family, and his relationships with the other individuals in his inner circle. It might even alter the course of the entire nation.
”Dammit,” he cursed under his breath. He was a lame duck president and he was fully aware of it. It was one of the reasons he was contemplating what he was contemplating. He sighed again. He knew that there were many people that disagreed with his decisions; perhaps more people disagreed with him than any other President in history. The silence in the Oval Office on that day was eerie. It’s as if it was also in quiet contemplation.
He sighed yet again. Well, he decided, if he’s going to do it, might as well do it now. He picked up the handset and proceeded to dial a number. His heart raced as it rang once, twice, three times… finally on the fourth ring he heard a click and a familiar voice.
”Hold on, Condi, it’s George. Uh, hey, Mr. President, what’s up?”
”Dick,” Bush said to his Number Two, the Vice President, “this Iraq thing, we’ve gotta do something about it. Once and for all.”
”W-wait,” said Cheney, “Mr. President… George… are you? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
”Dick, I think… I think we’ve got to use the buttfer,” Bush said quickly.
”The… the, uh… the buttfer?”
”Yeah, the buttfer,” Bush said as he nervously tapped a pen on his desk.
”What’s… what the hell is a ‘buttfer?’”
Bush grinned from ear to ear. “It’s for poopin’, stupid!”
Bush giggled almost like a school girl as he hung up the phone. He swung around in his chair and clapped a few times. He fell for it!! Yes!
Then he tried to regain his composure and stop giggling as he picked up the phone again. He began to dial another number…
General David Petraeus wiped some sweat off of his brow as he grabbed for his phone. He looked at the caller ID. “Hey, boys, it’s the Chief!” he happily yelled to the soldiers nearby. He answered it. “Hello, Mr. President! … uh huh… oh really? But I don’t… Well, what kind of weapon--? What?” His face crinkled in confusion. “What’s a dickfer?”