Memoirs of a Magnificent Moron

An Excerpt from Pointless Decisions by George Diddleya Bush

Since I’m the decider, I figured I’d bester make some decision points, which is what my ghost rider got me to call this book.  I like drinking apple cider, so I guess you could call me an apple-decider, sorta like Adam in the Bible, even though Eve was the one who decidered to eat the apple the snake made for her on the apple-snake tree.

And that’s how Adam, Eve, Cain, and Abel became the Adam’s family.  And Michael Caine went on ahead and killed Abelham Lincoln, the Lincoln lawyer who drived his Lincoln-Continental across the continent, chauffeured by Lance Link, Secret Chimp, no relation to Ronald Reagan’s hero James Bond, notwithstanding what Charlie Darwin writed about it in his book, “The Orange and the Feces.”

Abe was out working in James Madison’s square garden when Yahweh, who got called that ‘cuz whenever he telled people to do stuff they didn’t want to do and they said, “Nuh-uh,” he sayed, “Yah way.”  You just couldn’t argue with the feller unless you didn’t want to turn into a pillow of salt.

Anyways, before my digrestion, I was tryin’ and sayin’ to tell you about what happened to Abe Vigoda when Jehovah’s witness found him out playin’ with Tonka trucks and his son in the Garden of Barbara Eden.

God told Abe he wanted him to kill his son for him.  Abe said, “I’m skeered, God–get Cheney to do it.”  So dick Cheney comes in with Rumstud and says, okeedokee Mr. Jeep Cherokee, let’s give the troops pin-ups of Betty Grable for them to decurate the walls of Abu Ghraib, named after the guy who played “Welcome Back, Carter,” a TV show about Bill Clinton, Ghraib Kaplan, you know–the fellah who closed every show with a scene in bed with his wife, who talked like Groucho Marx and looked like Wooden Alley’s mother.

So God called Noah on his cell phone and said, “Hey, Mr. Know-It-All, if you’re so smart, why don’t you build a Golden Arches to put all the animal crackers in.  I’m getting ready to drown everybody anyway, but I like you, Knower, and your wife’s kinda cute too.  What’s her phone number, buddy?  No, that’s okay, I know she’s already going steady with that guy from Gomorrah Never Knows.”

And God destructed the Power of Babel bicuz people were gettin’ too towerful and they all wanted to speak English as a Second Language by globalizin’, singin’ “It’s a Small World After All,” with Walt Prisney leading the band.

But God felt gilltea for killing everyone, so he made a covernment with Noel Chomsky and said he’d stop murdering peeple, ‘sept he was still kinda sore at Abraham for not looking more alive when the time came to kill his own kid for God’s sake, so Yahweh decidered to upstage him by pretending to knock up Mary Magdalene and getting her preggers with Jeeziz.  

So as soon as Cheez-Wiz gave birth, three wise camels came smoking into the stable bearing gift certificates of golden Frankenstein from the myrrh store, where mysteries are stolen and sold.  They new We-Jiz was imported because the North Star follered him from Heavenville and he was born with a full beard and a halo made of hay.

When he growed up he helps healed all the sick people who voted for him by attackupying a rock and Africanistantana, making the world safe for Halloweenburton and the Gulf of Blackwater before he got screwed to a cross by Hurricane Kastratina.

The reason my middle name is Walker is that if I’m ever indicted for war crimes by the Al Hague Herald Tribunal, I’m gonna walk.  These boots were made for walking, baby. Pardon me, Morocco Bomber.  I know how hard it is being black.  But you know something?  When the lights are off at night, everybody’s black.

My mother Barbaria doesn’t like Africkin’ American people very much, maybe because she’s so white herself.  You may have read about her biograffiti, The Whiteness of the Whale.  I had to help my Dad, Forty-one, with the speling.  He’s always lookt up to me for my litterary prowice.

Anway, when the poor African-Amaricon viktums of Hairycane Katrino mygreatered to Texas, she basically said, “There goes the neighborhood.  Besides, why are they coming to our state?  I thought they lived in the Souper Doam back in Gnu Oilins.”

It’s like the time the TV asked her how many people she thought were deaded by the rock war–mine, not Dad’s–and she said, “I don’t want to trouble my beautiful mind with such dreadful questions.”

Well, if she’s got a beautiful mind, it’s news to me, folks, ’cause I’ll tell you, her face is no great sheikhs.  She’s like the love child of Angela Lansbury and a sharpei, with a hairdo like George Washington, D. C.  I’m just ribbin’ ya, mama.  Happy Mother’s Day.

Syphilian Body Count 

The news folks heckled Colon Power about how many of the bums too cowardly to wear the uniform of the Unitled Stakes Killerscary getted deleted in the first Arak war, the one Poppy gave us (‘course, to be fair, the reason they wasn’t wearing military duds was bickuz they was arackies–I mean arachnids, just like Superman).

General Colon said, “That’s a number I isn’t terribly interested in.”  I guess he was nostalgic about his time in Vietnam when he joined the rest of the boys in torching a village full of huts with a Zippo lighter to help the poor air force save money on napalm.

A cupple years lader some other news monkey axed Medellin Allbrite if the U. N. sankshuns against Iraq were worth the deaths of half a million Iraqi kids.  

She said, “Hell yeah, bro!  This is war.  After all, Sodum Hussein tried to kill my daddy.”

Thanks, Matelin.  I’ll never fergit the night we spent together, no matter how drunk I was.  I’m sure you won’t either, toots.

And now some MIT rabble-rouser named John Tirman has a book out called The Deaths of Others.

Well, listen, Johnny Boy, the only deaths that I care about are the ones of the people who died at 9:11.  Everyone else is either cannon fodder or chicken feed.  Now, if you can’t join in on the chorus of “God Bless ’em, Erica” and show how much you love yer  country music, I’ve got a Toby Keith song I’d like you to hear instead, about a man who’d gladly risk his laugh to save the oil companies he loves.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go whack a golf ball into space.

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