George Bush Updates Anxious Citizens on Status of Welfare Reform
November 6, 2003. Speaking to a small gathering of needy billionaires, George W. Bush delivered an informal speech regarding the status of his welfare reform program.
“Now, I'm sure you're all wondering whether Uncle Sugar is gonna take care of you after all your hard work serving this great nation. I mean, it takes courage, determination, and real stamina to spend Daddy's money in failed business ventures like me—or even to shuffle Daddy's money around into successful business ventures, like all of you. So, first of all, don't worry—Uncle Sugar has got your goodies ready, and you can rest assured you'll get what's coming to you—just like the poor, stupid peasants we all exploit to get where we are today.
“Creative corporate bookkeeping has been the rage for a century, but it's really gained momentum in the last hunnert years. Especially in the last twenty or so years. Just look at the 'dead peasant tax' that that immoral pinko commie subversive puke Michael Moore bitches about in 'Dude, Where's My Country?' I mean, how can a poor corporation what's barely scraping by on a few measly several billion a year expect to keep cake and caviar on the genuine Louis XIV table without taking out inexpensive insurance policies on workers and collecting and pocketing the proceeds when those workers die? It's honest, upstanding, deceitful dirty little tricks like that that help poor, struggling corporations make ends meet, just like putting a P.O. box off shore in sunny Bermuda so that they can demand a few extra measly million in tax refunds they're not really entitled to. So, Uncle Sugar has smiled on these rape-the-peasants-as-early-and-as-often-as-possible class war battle tactics. But what is he doin' for all you deserving poor corporations lately?
“Well, it turns out that Uncle Sugar has something rather nice up his tricky, gold-plated little sleeve, and I tell you, my friends, it's a cute little private perk that's just for you. By now, y'all know all about our mission from God to privatize Iraq—everything from the roads to the water to the electricity to the phones to anything and everything else any self-respecting right-wing American corporation could possibly claim past, present, or future expertise in, just to keep it out of the hands of them immoral pinko commie subversive pukes. And here's the deal. I'm sure y'all know that Iraq isn't exactly a safe place for Americans these days. And I'm sure y'all know that all it'd take would be one good self-elected governing body in Iraq to take all them nice uncontested unbid secret contracts we've been putting together for the Halliburtons and Bechtels and Kellogg-Brown-and-Roots of the world to blow all them contracts to hell so they wouldn't be worth the paper they're written on. So, how could Uncle Sugar in good conscience tell y'all it's A-OK to go over and buy your very own piece of Iraq to exploit and profit from?
“It's actually very simple. So simple that even I understood it after they explained it to me the third or fourth time—I forget. But anyway, here it is: alls ya has ta do is take out a political insurance policy. That's it—that's all there is to it. Of course, Uncle Sugar makes the premiums cheap so's you can afford them without having to spare a single solid-gold deck screw from whichever of your beloved yachts it takes your fancy to ride that day. And here's the best part: guess who pays up on your policy when the Iraqis finally boot us out and revolt and take back their country what we've stolen from them and cancel all our lovely nice contracts? Did you guess 'the peasant taxpayers'? You did? Then you guessed right!” Mr. Bush cackled, rubbing his hands together avariciously. “I defy those stupid peasants to get in on this one! Man, they are sooo screwed ...” he laughed.
“Anyway, it's all going according to plan, so don't forget to send me my campaign kickback when y'all get your checks,” he grinned, absent-mindedly scratching his crotch as he dismissed the small crowd so he could resume playing with his tanks and toy soldiers laid out on the desk in the Oval Office. “Die, peasant toy soldier, die—but brang me my oil blood money first,” he was heard to say as the crowd dispersed. (For details on this story, refer to http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=03/11/10/159203)
