Not content with merely being an infamous scumbag and notorious very bad man, President Dubya Monkeyface took an extra step this week toward his true aspiration - becoming a monster. While clenching his gnarled claw inside his iron gauntlet and turning a jaundiced eye on the members of the Fourth Estate, he slammed the heavy oak table in the Roosevelt Room with his fist, vowing to veto once again any legislation for poor sick children, while demanding more money for wars and the mechanism of government, heckling the congress with childish rhetoric for not giving it to him. Furthermore, he posited that any poor sick children left without health care could be given cheaply made knives and would fend for themselves in the spirit of a free market, or could be made into meat pies and fed to other poor sick children as a delicious and nutritious meal. When it was pointed out to the President that this would be unnatural, horrifying, and an abomination, he scoffed openly while stroking a luxuriant white cat, and replaced his monocle, saying;
"Being the President's a hard job - but I want more. Being a outright monster, well, that means denyin' genocides, keepin' poor sick kids under your thumb, which in turn means keepin' 'em around, torturing people in dank, forgotten, secret places...and lying to the rank n' file about absolutely everything. Anybody who won't step into line with my agenda, or heck - threatens me and anyone who falls under my shadow - we'll launch a blood-soaked Crusade and bomb the shit out them and anyone who looks like them, take 'em right back to the stone age. I truly believe humanity, and America, and friends of mine who profit from war an' strife, can benefit from the crucible I will create. Still got more than a year, people. Heh."
It is believed by many at this point in his life that the President has been allowing radioactive pit vipers and crack addicted cobras to nip and gnaw at his exposed genitals while he rests upon a throne made of polished bone, in an effort to cultivate superpowers, or at least, life eternal. He snorts the ashes of Eva Braun at the full moon and drinks Blackbeard's high alcohol content (and black - so black) blood from the socket-fucked skull of Caligula, while reading aloud the secret Enochian writings of Aleister Crowley from a codex bound in the bullet hole-ridden and cyanide-cured skin of Rasputin, his feet propped on a series of naked Iraqi boys who are kept for this purpose, among others. Then, on his way to press conferences - like this one referenced above wherein he backhandedly announced his intentions to pursue monsterhood - he touches the cold, dried lips of John Wilkes Booth's preserved and partially mutilated corpse - you know, for luck.
But I want to know what you think - 737-ROCK, 737-ROLL, our switchboard is open.