George Bush and the Chili-Dog-Eating Press Conference:
Let us say, and why not, that yesterday George Bush, President of the United States, decided at the last minute that he was hungry for some chili dogs. In fact, he was so hungry for chili dogs that he invited the White House press corps to a hastily arranged press conference. And then, after telling the gathered fine members of the media about how super-terrific the economy is, how mean ol' Kim Jong-Il is, and how splendiferous amazing Iraq is, he finished his prepared remarks by having Chief of Staff Josh Bolten bring out a giant silver platter of fresh-made chili dogs, all steamy and chili and cheese covered. Then George Bush told the reporters for the many fine publications and networks, "Ya'll ask me questions while I show you how many chili dogs I can eat."

So, someone like Terry Hunt from AP could ask a question about one of the most important issues of our time, something like, "Is your administration to blame for letting North Korea get this far?" And George Bush would chow down on that tube meat, chili pouring down his shirt, cheese stretching out of his mouth, and he'd say, "Goddamn, these are good chili dogs. Spicy, but not too much. Glad I hired a team of special chili dog chefs from Tyler, Amarillo, and Waco to cook these for me." And then he'd finish one chili dog and immediately grab another.

Perhaps a reporter might try another issue, a way of finding out when our seemingly endless engagement in Iraq might have some conceivable end, maybe asking, "Do you feel in some way that there is some shift going on in terms of the general support for the war in Iraq, and your strategy specifically?" By that point, George Bush would probably have gone through six or seven chili dogs, still chowing strong. He'd call out to his Chief of Staff, "Hey, Bolthead, bring me a glass of water. I'm gonna show America that it's my job to show everyone that no Asian man can eat more chili dogs than the President." And then he'd start dipping chili dogs in the water to make them easier to swallow, shoveling those bad boys in his stuffed maw, chili and water and crumbs coating his face, his hands, his suit.

The reporters might sigh, they might want to give up, walk away, turn their backs on this display, but more than likely they'd just figure they may as well keep trying, maybe even challenging the rhetoric of the admnistration, perhaps with a question like, "Do you think the administration and our government runs a risk of looking feckless to the world by issuing these kinds of warnings regularly without response from the countries?"

And at that point, George Bush might pause, with a distressed look on his face, grabbing his stomach. "Oh, damn," he'd say. "Condi warned me that chili does this to me. I gotta rip one." And then he'd drop his pants and turn his ass to the microphone to release what he believed would be a huge, stinky fart, but in the middle of expelling gas, Bush would start blowing shit out of his ass, blowing a shit storm of chili all over the reporters, over their nice suits and outfits, over their equipment, the leader of the free world having explosive diarrhea in front of, hell, on the media and the nation. When he was done, he'd say, "Well, guess this is over. Thanks for your interest. But I gotta go wipe my ass." And then he'd exit, dripping shit behind him, shuffling out with his pants around his ankles.

Karl Rove would realize, of course, how horribly wrong it had all gone. He tried to convince the President just to eat plain hot dogs, but Bush had to go with the chili. Rove would make a phone call, to a specialist in these matters. And perhaps as a result, a small plane with a semi-well-known athlete piloting it would crash into a couple of apartments in New York City. Then everyone would forget about the display they had just seen at the White House.