The Boy Who Cried WMD

Draft # 1
"The Boy Who Cried Weapons of Mass Destruction"


Dubya: Why the hell am I here anyway?
Interviewer: Mr. Bush, don't be so dramatic, most world leaders end up here.
Dubya: Goddammit, I'm Christian! I know I've made mistakes, but, tell me now, who hasn't?
Interviewer: Charlie Rose.

Mr. Bush sat nervously in a swivel chair. Who in hell was Charlie Rose? And what kind of accent did this queer Interviewer have? It was like British but something else mixed in it. The Interviewer wasn't being so very truthful, but rather being a real cryptic Dick Cheney.

But the Interviewer really thought of himself as compassionate. Despite his role in all of this. Despite all the pain and suffering, and torture that went on here, he at least considered himself to be the one voice of reason in this damned place.

“Mr. Bush on June 3, 2010 you admitted to ordering the waterboarding of Khaled Sheik Mohhamed, and said that you would do it again if you had to.”

“Yeah, well so what?”

“So - waterboarding is an act of torture.”

Mr. Bush blinked.

“A crime of war!”

“'Whoa, whoa whoa, hey now,” Mr Bush said, “the United States of America does not torture.”

“What, then sir do you call it?”

Mr Bush used his fingers, flipping them in the air as quotation marks. “Enhanced Interrogations.”

The Interviewer sighed. “Mr Bush, you understand that by using quotation marks around the words Enhanced Interrogations, you alter its meaning to be something other than what it actually is.”

“Well hold on now, you're going too fast for me there cowboy.” Mr. Bush snorted. “What are you from one of those Oxford Colleges my good friend Tony Blair went to? Or you from like one of those South African countries?”

“I'm Australian.”

“Ohhhh. Ha! Like the dingo. What a fine creature that is. You ever been to Six Flags Of Texas? They had this one thing, it was like a dingo, or wait no, what are those kang-er-oo things called? Anyways, you know how great of hoppers they are, well that's basically the ride itself, it kind of goes in this circle, and then over this hump that dips-down-real-fast like zoooooom! And its probably like the third or fourth best ride there. But shoot – yep, I ain't never been to Australia...”

“Well, sir I'm sorry but I'm afraid based on everything we have here, there's nothing else I can do for you.”

Mr. Bush leaned back in his swivel chair, rocking himself gently, and gazed, looking out past the Interviewer. “You know how I died, Oxford? It was the most, awful, painful kind of way you can possibly go - choking on a pretzel. Yep. Not the same pretzel I choked on before, this was a different pretzel.” Mr. Bush leaned in, displaying a serious gesture. “Now I've asked myself, why do pretzels hate George W. Bush so much, or what have I done against pretzels in my lifetime so that they came after me not just once... but also on a secondary occasion... I mean, they came after me again. I get the feeling, and I know I can't prove it, but it has something to do with that asshole Jimmy Carter. He invented the peanut you know. He was always out to get me, and I think that he, and pretzels, and peanuts have been in cahoots together against me this whole time.” Mr. Bush let out a slight groan. “But those are some of the mysteries of life, I guess. I just didn't have enough time to figure it all out.”

The Interviewer liked this “Dubya” character. He had a dumb kind of child-like innocence about him that had reminded the Interviewer of his own four year old son, who – well God knows how old he was now, or where he was but – he sure did miss him. The Interviewer couldn't think of his boy too often. The pain would be too great. He had instead developed a system of separation from separation. He was three persons removed from himself at all times, which was necessary, only for times of survival.

“Hey! Oxford! Snap out of it!” Mr. Bush was snapping his fingers at the Interviewer, who had been in a brief state of trance. “Let's get this boat on the road. Now, lets talk negotiations here. Do I get to pick who I get to bunk with, because if I do, I want to be with Santa Claus... or ZZ Top.”

The Interviewer regained his senses. Mr. Bush was actually quite an odd fellow. He sighed to himself, and got out the necessary form that was his duty, which was his Hell.

Request For Celestial Transfer Document H667– which he stamped DENIED.