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George W. Bush Dreams - Dear Hanzy

John R. Killion
Jan 21, 2011
Illustrator: Tris Mast

Mein Hanzy:
Since consuming your aunt's wonderful mushrooms, I've been plagued by some rather bizarre and quite troubling dreams and last night may have been the topper. It started out innocently enough. I was in the room at the track that we use for our driver's meetings, when I suddenly realized that I was in the company of former President George W. Bush. I also saw the tall, shapely and otherwise nocturnally welcome Condi Rice off to one side, fully dressed, casting sinister looks my way. Any hope I had of incorporating her into one of my preferred dream settings completely vanished when I saw her tap the shoulder of Dick Cheney, who slowly turned and gave me The Evil Eye. I suddenly felt like toast.

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They were laughing at the established rules the track master was laying out, and I was in a state of extreme distress as the driver's meeting concluded. My 944 had nothing more going for it than a recent oil change when I saw what the Bush/Cheney Team intended to campaign. It appeared to have once been an early '70s 911-very, very early-made horribly grotesque with Hummer fenders welded on and the whole hideous mess can-sprayed a lifeless shade of battleship gray.

We were staged at the start/finish line. I looked to my right and through a fog of raw, un-burnt fuel hanging in the air surrounding the 911, I saw Dubya in the driver's seat, wearing a baseball cap backwards with Cheney riding shotgun and grinning at me under his Darth Vader racing helmet. The track master was clearly as frightened as I was when we both heard them laugh as he called for a fair race, then Cheney suddenly hollered, "Let 'er rip Georgy-Boy!"

Dubya started digging for a gear but produced nothing more than the sound of grinding steel when the track master pleaded to me, "Go. Go Man! RUN!" And I popped the clutch and spun my mighty 143 horses for all they were worth.

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The former President eventually got his rig in gear and I knew it was only a matter of time before they'd catch me. I intended to be a gentleman and give them plenty of room to pass. They were charging down on me fast, obliterating everything behind them in a fog of half-burned fuel, hydrocarbons, and solid filth. I gave them a clear passing signal but they hit me from behind, hard, and I saw shards of yellow and red plastic fly from the rear of my car as my taillights exploded.

I completely missed the turn-in to the infield, so I mashed the gas pedal and pointed my wounded car toward the NASCAR oval, blowing through a line of once-sacred orange cones. I looked in the mirror and they were right on me, and, deepening my horror, Mr. Cheney was now doing the driving and Dubya was in the back seat, practicing his rock, paper, scissors moves. They immediately pulled up beside me and I heard Dubya holler, "Stay the course, Mr. Cheney, we gonna stay the ..."

And then they slammed into the side of my car, flattening the fenders so severely they left the reverse impression of Hummer fenders stamped into them. I still had power, but they moved out ahead of me, splattering my windshield with partially burned fuel and petroleum byproducts, and my vision all but disappeared. But it really didn't matter. As soon as the Bush/Cheney juggernaut got in front of me they locked up their brakes, and when I stabbed at mine the only answer I got was a pedal to the floor: I slammed hard into the back of their abomination and barely put a scratch on it as they sped off to glory, Mr. Bush cheerfully waving goodbye to me from the back seat.

I unbuckled my harness and got out. I could smell fuel in the air and wisely backed away as flames erupted from somewhere underneath her, and within moments she was completely engulfed in a vigorous funeral pyre. I could see the corner workers rushing to my aid, extinguishers in hand, but there was no point; this was as dignified an ending as she ever could have hoped for, and I silently blessed her for the time we'd shared together.

I looked across the track and saw the 911/Hummer parked at the starting line. I could see Condi happily bouncing around in her short, pleated skirt and bobby socks, and I wondered how a dream could come so close yet go so horribly wrong. I saw Dubya straightening his cap while attempting to collect a massive trophy, and reading from a card he said into a microphone:

"We just stayed the course. Works every time."

By John R. Killion
13 Articles



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