Decision Putz

I was honored, to say the least, when former president and WWE champion George W. Bush called me personally and asked me to help him write his book, Decision Points.  I'd be in charge of the writing, and he'd be in charge of the cartoons.  Bush and I go a long way back.  He even gave me my nickname:  Jimmy the Saint.
     We first met during Spring Break in Pensacola, Florida.  I was a sophomore at the University of South Alabama in Mobile, and he was, ahem, on leave from the National Guard.  I beat him in a tequila-drinking contest, and a life-long friendship was formed.
     "Be honest, be funny, just make sure it eats up a lot of pages," he instructed, "and whatever you do, don't write about that guy we killed down in Biloxi."
     It was a more innocent time.  I was chowing down on a plate of beer-boiled shrimp in some dive-bar by the beach.  It sold for 25 cents on a Monday night.  Living close to the Gulf had its advantages. 
     Bush strutted up to me, BMOC.  He had a cute girl on his arm.  She was wearing a yellow bikini.  A librarian, he later told me.
     "You're sitting at my table, buddy," he told me, as cocky then as he is now. 
     I looked at him.  He was taller than I was, but one nice thing about tall guys is that they count on their size to do the fighting for them.
     POW!  I punched him right in the kisser.  He stumbled backward, but didn't fall.  He was on me faster than a White House denial.  The fight itself was a draw, so when he challenged me to a tequila-drinking contest, I couldn't resist.
     "Loser pays, rich boy?" I trash-talked him.
     "Loser pays," he answered, slurring a bit from a swollen jaw.  "Now, get ready to lose."
     Two and a half bottles of Jose Cuervo later he was on the floor, and I was leading his pretty little librarian back to my room at the Motel 6.
     The last time I saw Bush was during Hurricane Frederick.  It was then I decided to move back to my hometown of El Paso, because I discovered that the one thing I require from weather is that it doesn't kill me.  Bush, on the other hand, was heading to the beach for some bodacious surfing.
     We kept in touch off and on throughout the years, but getting together never seemed to materialize.  His mother had warned him to stay away from me.  She thought I was a bad influence.  So when he flew me out to his ranch I was more excited than Rosie O'Donnell at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet. 
     When I got there he was sitting behind the cherry-wood desk in his office.  Just as cocky as I remembered.
     "Hey, Duchene..."
     "Yes, Mr. President?"
     He pulled out a bottle of Jose Cuervo. 
     "...get ready to lose."
 
 

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