PRESIDENT BUSH CONGRATULATES NASCAR CHAMP CLETUS DICKEY ON HIS STUNNING VICTORY IN THAT DRIVING AROUND IN CIRCLES THING THE YACHTLESS RABBLE SEEM TO CARE ABOUT
Statement by the President
THE PRESIDENT: Good afternoon. Thank you. Good to see you all. Please be seated.
We're here today to pay tribute to this fella at my left here who apparently did real good in something called the
NASCAR Wal-Mart/Clear Channel Cup. I'm told that it's something about car racing, and that millions
of red state folks who almost got their high school GED diplomas just can't get enough of it.
Well that, and watching all their lousy manufacturing jobs get handed over to pre-teen Chineses.
(Laughter.)
Uh-oh, Karl Rove's waving his pudgy paws around back there because I'm straying from the
script. Alright Mr. Brains, pick your Dockers out of your crack and let me talk here.
To Mr. Cletus Dickey, driver of the champion Cheez-Wiz Halliburton Car, I hereby congratulate you on
behalf of all Americans. For whatever you did.
CLETUS DICKEY: (Spits tobaccy.)
THE PRESIDENT: Now maybe you can clear something up for me, Cletey-boy. In the elite
clubhouse world of thoroughbred horse racing – where I'm totally at home – most of the
kudos go to the steed that wins, not the sorry-assed, bow-legged midget clinging
desperately to its back. But in car racing, the bottom 99% seems to get all worked up over you
crackers who drive the cars, when if you really break it down, your life isn't worth 5% as much
as a well-bred stallion! I mean, aren't you racecar jockeys just glorified cab drivers – except
in your case, with even worse breath?
CLETUS DICKEY: (Drools.)
THE PRESIDENT: Well, whatever you are, congrats again.
You know, I've hosted champions from many sports here at the White House – the pet Negroes of
the NBA, the superiorly vanilla-tinted Quarterbacks of the NFL, and the chubby Bambi slayers of TV's
Buckmasters. But this is the first time we ever parked stock cars in the South Lawn. And
man, would you just look at those rigs! They're what I call real turbo-charged, fuel-injected,
logo-festooned, petrol-chugging, Earth-bound cock rockets!
Now that I think about it, this ASSCAR thing is quite a sport! It takes a real athlete to sit behind
the wheel of a souped-up hotrod and go loop-de-loop while thousands of working class inbreds swill beer
and inhale carcinogenic exhaust fumes while incurring permanent hearing loss. But that's America,
gosh darnit: a place where gluttony, Penzoil, pollution, and fabulous explosions and death
congeal to form a deee-lish tub 'o microwave chili.
(Applause.)
Mind you, I'd never be caught dead at an actual NASCAR race myself – unless I like, had to campaign
in a toss-up state or something – but I have to say I'm having fun here today. Never let it be said
that yours truly won't force himself to slum it with our cherished, dog-loyal voting base of piss-ignorant
rednecks. I mean, so long as the press pool gets plenty of shots of me leaning on the hood of one of these
sweet automobiles, count me in! That way, Harry and Harriet Hotpocket see that while I may be a
multi-zillionaire, I'm also a real stand-up guy who's not afraid to act like Uncle Jethro the moonshine
bottler for a few minutes before crawling in my limo and scrubbing off all that rabble grit with
antibacterial handi-wipes.
In closing, I'd like to thank my poser corporate couch confederates for being here for yet another of
my whooping yee-haw costume balls. Because as you know, sometimes we wolves have to dress up and pretend
to be the sheep, regardless of how many little baa-baas we're secretly intent on skinning and
devouring alive.
Alright, enough with the gee-shucks folksy porkchop talk. I've got big business special interests to be
kowtowing to. Show over. Goodbye.
(Applause.)
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