God Help America!

By Bimbo de Bourgoyne y los Lobos Contreras

When I heard that W. was coming to Europe, the first thing I did was call up Scott McClellan and ask for a White House press pass so that I could get into a dinner hosted by the Président de la République Française. McClellan said that I would have to be recommended for clearance by a fictitious news source, or else a high ranking Republican. So I called Babs Tutwiller, though she never got back. Then I phoned Bill O’Reilley, but he said he was busy interviewing a new executive assistant and would not be able to help until she’d passed the loofa test. Finally, in a fit of total desperation, I put through a text message to a night porter of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, Leroy Otis Larue (LOL), with whom I was once on intimate terms. Leroy offered to help, in exchange for purely mercenary favors, and within twenty four hours, my White House press credentials magically arrived in the mailbox of my Paris Hôtel Particulier.

Off I went to dinner at the Elysée Palace, with enough diamond accouterments to set off metal detectors all over Paris. But that turned out to be irrelevant since I was waved right on through security and up to the head table where the Windbaguette was seated beside W. and Laura - not in her midnight blue Oscar de la Renta gown with crystal embroidery, but in a frumpy brown tweed suit. Madame Chirac wisely chose to avoid red chiffon Lacroix couture with cutouts, following her lamentable experience in the fashion limelight at the time of the Queen’s visit.

Dinner was served and wine was poured. W. drank diet mineral water.

Barely halfway through the first course, langoustines in a sauce derived from emulsified black truffles, the Windbaguette started to lecture W., saying as to how he was happy the elections in Iraq had gone better than expected, but that he had still been right all along about the war, and the mounting deficits and death toll were there to prove it.

W. did not like that tone, and so suggested the Windbaguette keep his nose out of the Middle East and go worry about his own problems in Côte d’Ivoir, though he had been meaning to get around to asking about France’s willingness to contribute monetarily to the cause of democracy.

He wasn’t giving a penny, the Windbaguette insisted, fast on the draw. And furthermore, he’d like to remind W. of the necessity of America contributing to France’s anemic economy by encouraging lowering trade barriers, removing wine and foie gras taxes, and promoting Louis Vuitton’s flagship store in Manhattan.

W. said he’d better stop right there because his dander was getting up.

The Windbaguette said his dander hadn’t been up in years, and this because of a miracle cream one of his mistresses had found while they were on ski holiday near Chamonix one winter.

W. said he’d heard such things existed but had never personally tried the product, though it might be something that the Rovster could be interested in, especially if used to promote his abstinence only policy to Fundamentalist Christians.

The windbaguette slapped W. on the back, and said at last they’d found some common ground on which to build a relationship. Think of it, said the Windbaguette, the ointment was made in top secrecy in a factory near Limoges, and could be produced in enough mass quantity to export to the US, at an exclusive price of course. And he said that W. should think of the implications a successful marketing campaign could have upon his right wing base, and how that would be just the thing for Hillary, and the emasculated Democrats, to vote through Congress for fear of being labeled pro-sex maniacs if they didn’t.

W. said he liked the idea, and he was going to get right on it as soon as he got back to Washington. He then slapped the Windbaguette on the back and said that he was inviting him to his ranch soon for some quality male bonding time.

The Windbaguette said he’d bring samples along, and W. said he’d get a focus group together to test them out.

The Windbaguette and W. shook hands on the deal, and this reporter flew out the door faster than a US Senator running to a Viagra sale.