THE PRESIDENT: Good evening. Wow, it's great to be back here at the White House correspondent's dinner. It's a great tradition — the one night all you media lackeys pretend you're not seethingly bitter I evade you like my past, and I pretend I don't despise you for almost pointing out how all my programs are Orwellian-named plots to gang-rape the poor. (Applause.)

But you know what's so extra great about this event? I get to be funny! (Lifts up glass of water.) Hey, I don't see any WMDs in this here glass!

(Looks under podium.)

Nope, no WMDs under here neither!

(Unbuttons fly. Peers down front of pants.)

Oh, there's one! I knew there had to be a weapon of mass defucktion around here somewhere!

THE FIRST LADY: Oh please. Not that old thing again. I just threw up my tequila flip in my mouth a little. Mass? I think he got confused when all those Mexican hookers in Tijuana took one look at that thing and said they wished there were "mas." Ladies and gentlemen, we are after all talking about a grown man who still pulls his pants and tighty-whiteys down to his ankles just so he can find his little boy business every time he uses a urinal. (Laughter.)

Now, I've been attending these dinners for years and just quietly sitting there, but tonight I have a few things I'd like to get off my Maidenform underwire. And this is going to be fun, because George has no idea what I'm going to say. Of course, Karl Rove does. He started vetting everything after the 2004 convention, when my darling twin daughters impishly helped millions of TV viewers conjure a vision of my tubby old monster-in-law Bar heaving and grunting in the throws of flapping, fibrous coitus.

Get the GODLY New Book!

Anyway, I'm just surprised my hubby — Mr. Excitement here — is still awake. Even above the waist. Most nights he's in bed by 9:00, and I'm up, alone, with absolutely nothing to do but suck down ciggie after ciggie after margarita after Xanax after Quaalude and call up Hilary Clinton every ten minutes just to hang up on the bitch. So sometimes I watch a little TV — like that Desperate Housewives.

(Laughter.)

With Lynne Cheney.

(Riotous Laughter.)

Well, truth be told, that only happened once. I think when she heard the title of the program, Lynne might have misinterpreted the intent of my invitation — because when I came back from the little girl's room during the first commercial, she had shed her smart Liz Claiborne pantsuit, slithered into a black leather harness, and began feverishly groping at my upper thighs while screeching Indigo Girls lyrics.

Another night, after George went to bed, Lynne Cheney, Condi Rice, Karen Hughes and I went to Chippendale's to watch all those muscle-bound homos gyrate their steroid-engorged flesh around and thrust their hulking bikini-waxed salamis in our faces. Naturally, Condi fell right to sleep. And boy was it awkward when two of them recognized Karen from some drug-addled Fire Island rave. I won't tell you what happened next, but after Lynne downed a whole bottle of Malibu rum I had had sent to the table courtesy of the generous taxpayers, her Secret Service codename was changed to "Felcher" and, thanks to her, we are no longer welcome at Chippendale's.

But you know, George and I are complete opposites — I'm Lifetime, he's Cartoon Network, I'm Clorox, he's bacteria, I can pronounce the word "nuclear," and he can unilaterally flush nuclear non-proliferation treaties down the toilet!

(Laughter.)

The amazing thing, however, is that George and I were just meant to be. I was a librarian who wanted to snag a rich hubby, get pregnant, and never work another day in her life, and he was a trustafarian whose fertility was strenuously vouched for by every black market abortion doctor in Houston.

We met, and married, and I became one of the regulars up at Kennebunkport. All the Bushes love Kennebunkport, which is like Graceland, except without the tasteful interior decorating or the convenience of having your host dead. People ask me what it's like to be up there with the whole Bush clan. Lemme put it this way: First prize — Noelle and I toss back a case of Robitussin DM and take a Chris-Craft out for a 60MPH spin through the nearest yacht club. Second prize — Neil steals your purse and maxes out your credit cards on a sex tour of Thailand.

Speaking of prizes brings me back to my monster-in-law. So many mothers today are just not involved in their children's lives — Not a problem with Barbara Bush. People often wonder what my mother-in-law's really like. People think she's a sweet, grandmotherly, Aunt Bea type. She's actually more like, mmm, a total fucking bitch.

(Laughter.)

My in-laws were just down at the ranch over Easter. We like it down there. Of course, George didn't know much about ranches when we had it built special for his first Presidential campaign. No, they don't teach the finer points of ranching at Andover or Yale. Which I guess is why no matter how many times I tell him not to, I still find him out in the barn trying to milk stallions. (Laughter.) Though come to think of it, he probably did learn a thing or two about that on the Andover cheerleading squad. Or maybe it was that time he roomed with that homosexual prostitute in New Orleans. Or maybe it was the time — well, honestly, who knows? (Laughter.)

Now, of course, he spends his days dressing up in jeans and cowboy boots and Stetsons, or as the girls call it, Steer Eye for the Potentate Guy. These days, George's answer to any problem at the ranch is to hack it to pieces with a chainsaw — which I think is why the economy and Iraq are doing so gloriously under his thoughtful stewardship. (Laughter.)

But actually, in all seriousness, I do love living in all these fancy houses and having married into a family with more money and power than God. Because if you're a gal like me, I think when you marry someone, it should be someone whose career and fortune are handed to them purely by virtue of having sprung from the pampered loins of a public service profiteering dynasty. Someone who will let the dogs out — even the ones who aren't called "Mother" — in the morning so they don't mess on the carpet because you've got a crushing hangover migraine. And that's George.

So in the future, when you see me just quietly sitting up here, sporting a frozen perma-smile with my eyes glazed over and staring out into space just waiting for the next pill to kick in, I want you to know that despite appearances, I am sentient — and so enjoy joining the crowd in each rousing game of "applaud for the cameras when told."

So thank you for inviting us for the free chicken dinner, and thank you all so much for devoting 95% of your news coverage to murdered pretty white women and Michael Jackson, instead of boring, negative political stuff which, if investigated properly, might reduce demand for my hubby on the six-figure-a-pop post-White House lecture circuit.

(Applause.)

And thank you Shecky Greene for all of my fabulous wit!

(Applause.)

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