George W. Bush Inaugural Address


Dubya’s Debut

The inaugural address you won’t hear on MSNBC

By Stephen Kessler

MR. CHIEF Justice, Mr. Speaker, Rev. Graham, Mom, Pop, Clarence, Tony, my fellow Americans: Today we embark together on a great adventure–my presidency. I know it’s incredible, but I am your president, and for the next four years there’s nothing you can do about it. During that time I promise you I will do my darnedest to get the hang of this job, and don’t you worry, I’ve got plenty of people on my team with enough experience that they can practically run the country in their sleep–or in my sleep, which I guess is more likely, heh heh.

Why, Vice President Cheney alone has more energy on his deathbed than I do throwin’ Frisbees to my dogs. I mean, this is a man who’s had four heart attacks, and it doesn’t even slow him down! We were eatin’ some cheeseburgers and French fries the other day–just to give his cardiologists something to chew on–and he said to me, “Dubya,” he says, “I’m so hungry for power not even death can stop me.”

Now that’s my kind of tough son of a gun.

And just in case Dick does kick the bucket while in the saddle, so to speak, I’ve got a lifesaver up my sleeve, yes sir. You all remember Dan Quayle, don’t you? Well, you can bet your potatoes that my old intellectual sparring partner is ready to return to the Bush administration at a moment’s notice, just like most of the rest of my babysitters–I mean Cabinet members.

Now, I know I didn’t exactly win this latest election, but that’s what I love about America. It’s a place where just about any rich white boy with the right connections–it doesn’t hurt if his pop was president, heh heh–can goof his way through school, achieve head cheerleadership, get into and out of Yale without reading a book, avoid having to go to Vietnam–not out of any principles or convictions but basically to save his own ass–get drunk for 20 years, lose a bundle in the oil business, get bailed out by family friends, buy his own big-league baseball team, be elected governor of a great state, run for president, lose by half a million votes, and still wind up in the White House!

I tell you, my friends, that’s my kind of country. And I am truly humbled by this terrific opportunity you’ve given me to be, well, let’s shoot straight here, basically the most powerful person in the world.

You all know from my stump speeches what I intend to do in office–mainly avenge my daddy’s honor, drill like hell wherever we can for whatever oil’s left in the ground anywhere, and give back to the people, the rich people especially, as much of the federal treasury as possible, but I’ve got a few policy jokers up my sleeve, heh heh, that you’ll be happy to hear about, I’m sure.

My good friend Charlie Heston had it wrong when he said the NRA would have an office in the White House–dead wrong. Their office will be down the street where the NEA used to be. What a difference a single letter can make, heh heh. No more desecrational anti-American postmodernist pornographic effete intellectual jackoffery in the name of so-called art, no sir and no way. From here on, friends, in this administration, it’s all guns all the time.

I’m proud to announce here for the first time our Saturday Night Special Self-Defense Initiative. As in my great home state of Texas, only more so, citizens over the age of 12 will not only be permitted to carry a gun, concealed or otherwise–I know how hard it can be to conceal an assault rifle–they will be required to. Anyone caught not carrying a gun will be subject to arrest and possible deportation to some unarmed sissy-ass country I haven’t even heard of, geography not being my strongest subject.

But I do know one thing, even though that whole controversy about evolution is a little over my head: I’m pro-life 150 percent, no buts about it. And that’s why you can look forward under a Bush administration to a Supreme Court packed with strict-constructionist right-wing minority religious fundamentalists, if I have anything to say about it. We’re gonna protect those unborn babies if we have to lock up their mothers to do it.

And that goes for all those other criminals, too. I mean I’m pro-life, you bet, but only up to a point. Beyond that, death.

When I push the plunger on those worthless scumbags clogging up our prisons, why, they won’t even know what hit’em. That’s what I call compassionate conservativism–or however the heck you say it, English not being my best subject, heh heh.

Which brings me to the Remedial English Initiative, for all those Americans who are verbally challenged when not under the influence of a speechwriter, TelePrompTer, or other artificial means of linguistic assistance. By executive order, I am hereby abolishing grammar. It’s just words anyway, know what I mean? So everybody should just feel free to talk however they like, like I do when I don’t have a script in front of me.

My record on education speaks for itself.

Finally, all you sore losers will be pleased to hear about my Ralph Nader Memorial Environmental Cleanup Initiative. As a gesture of tripartisanship, reaching all the way across the Democrats, I am appointing my good friend and secret weapon, Ralph Nader, to a vital position for our collective moral hygiene: Oval Office Carpet Cleaner. With his own toothbrush and a bottle of Mr. Clean, grumpy old Ralph will be on his knees scrubbin’ those rugs till their spic-and-Hispanic. There’ll be no semen stains on this presidency, I promise you, and Ralph will be my personal watchdog on that.

Well, jeez, all in all this whole experience of getting to be your president has been a lot more complicated than I expected. If I knew anything about history I might even say it was historic. But I’ll leave that to the histrionics. For me personally, as our friends the Israelians might say, it’s been sort of like a big bar mitzvah–like really becoming a man. Better late than never, is what I say.

And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what the Supreme Court has done for me.

Thank you, and God bless.

OK, let’s party!

From the January 18-24, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.



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