Terrorist Sell

OPEN: Still pic of happy, smiling American child. Camera pulls back.

NARRATOR: Suzie is a lucky child. Her parents love her, give her a good home, give her enough to eat. There are millions like her in America -- but you can help change that. For only a few drachmas a month, you can disrupt a happy American child by financing your very own suicide bomber. Won't you help? Give to Osama bin Laden's "KILL THE CHILDREN FOUNDATION" Together, we...

Go to: INT CAVE

OSAMA watching TV. He clicks it off with clicker.

OSAMA: Somehow this isn't working. We make the appeal but the money isn't coming in. Yet it must be going somewhere...

Go to --

BEEVIS and BUTTHEAD in livingroom filled with money. BEEVIS has his t-shirt around his head and has morphed into CORNHOLIO.

BUTT-HEAD: Look at all this money, huh huh huh. Money's cool.

BEEVIS: I am the great Cornholio! I need some teepee for my bunghole!

BUTT-HEAD: We should like go on a plane and be like pilots or something.

BEEVIS: Are you threatening me?

BUTT-HEAD: Chicks dig pilots....

Back to OSAMA -- he's going through credit card receipts.

OSAMA: 8-27, Lap-dance; 8-28, lap-dance, all night escort service, $600 ATM withdrawl from "Diamond Dolls," $10 bank fee; 8-29, $12.75, box cutters and industrial lubricant Ace Hardware...(whacking receipt) Well that explains it!

ACCOUNTANT: (Woody Allenesque) Begging your pardon your worshipful horribleness, but your humble cringing slave did, uh, make a certain suggestion concerning purchase orders...

OSAMA shoots him.

ACCOUNTANT: Teflon-coated bullets...$59.95 a clip....try getting advice like that from Quickbooks. (he falls dead)

OSAMA: Ah shit, I killed another accountant. And now I'm out of money...wha?

OSAMA reacts as two THUGS drag in what looks like a very old Jon Voight -- none other than MILO MINDERBINDER!

MILO: Allow me to...

OSAMA: Kill him.

MILO: Your loss. (shrugs) It's a simple business proposition. Just hear me out.

OSAMA shrugs to indicated "OK." The THUGS release him.

MILO: I think I see a way out of your cash flow difficulty -- you realize the media exposure you're getting? You can leverage that. Some serious bucks...

OSAMA: Which I will use to kill your brothers and sisters.

MILO: I don't have a problem with that.

YOSSARIAN'S GHOST: (appearing next to MILO) It's all illusion, Milo. (MILO briefly reacts, but ignores ghost)

OSAMA: You would betray your own people?

YOSSARIAN'S GHOST: Numbers, Milo. Just numbers....

MILO winces -- as if an irritating bug is buzzing around his head. MILO seems to sense YOSSARIAN -- makes violent effort to will the ghost out of existence. MILO turns his attention back to OSAMA --

MILO: Hey, it's gonna happen anyway. I might as well take advantage, right? It's called free enterprise.

YOSSARIAN'S GHOST: (fading away) Flesh and blood, Milo, that's what's real. Flesh and...

OSAMA: And what if everyone else thought this way?

MILO: Then I'd be a fool to think any differently.

OSAMA: And this idea?

MILO: Two words.

OSAMA: Two words?

MILO: (with an air of delivering a deal-clinching punchline) Product placement. (He waggles his eyebrows triumphantly)

OSAMA mulls it over. His eyes brighten.

OSAMA: It's so evil, it just might work!

Cut to: commercial for COMFORT INN. INT, room.

TERRORIST plops down on bed.

TERRORIST: Comfortable...and affordable! With rates like this, my only problem is wiring my savings back home!

* * *

INT, plane. Turban-wearing TERRORIST tick-ticking away at Sony Vaio.

PASSENGER: What's on your Sony Vaio?

TERRORIST smiles evilly...

* * *

Cut to: POV of security cam watching TERRORISTS enter airport. One of them holds bag up to camera. We see the label: L.L. Bean.

* * *


Go to -- INT, plane. Two terrorists in reclining seats.

TERRORIST: When you go to meet Allah go first class.

TERRORIST: Go American Airlines!

STEWARDESS places pillow under one of their heads.

* * *

TERRORIST stands in center of baseball stadium -- he's extravagantly wired with dynamite.

TERRORIST: You have made your choice America -- as I have made mine! Now is the time, America!

Cut to -- Large screen video monitor above stadium magnifying his image to giant-size scale as he lifts Pepsi to his mouth and drinks.

TERRORIST: Take the Pepsi challenge!

* * *

Go to -- BRUCE DERN in Goodyear Blimp.

DERN: (reaching for switch on killer dart machine) They're gonna remember me, oh yeah, they're gonna remember me. (turning to camera) If not, remember GOODYEAR -- first in tire performance!

FEMALE TERRORIST: Get the logo in frame, you fool.

Blimp turns, we see logo -- then the blimp fires over stadium -- which the Pepsi Challenge Terrorist has already blown up.

DERN: Ah shit, the Pepsi terrorists got here first.

***

Go to -- flaming grottos of hell. YOSSARIAN's walking around. MILO appears poking away at handheld calculator...

YOSSARIAN: Yeah, I figured you'd get here.

MILO: Is this hell?

YOSSARIAN: Do you want to go to hell?

MILO: Oh God...oh God...I'm gonna be here forever...

YOSSARIAN: I tried to tell you. It's just numbers, Milo. Numbers...

A DEMON appears and offers MILO some chocolate covered cotton.

DEMON: Cotton candy?

MILO takes it, eats. YOSSARIAN walks off, shaking head, and fades away sadly...

Operation Richard Simmons

Evidently we're dropping food on Afghanistan. What would Richard Simmons say?

INT, PENTAGON

RICHARD SIMMONS addressing RUMSFELD.

RICHARD SIMMONS: (hand on hip) What do you MEAN you’re dropping food -- just indiscriminately dropping food? Have you ever considered the weight problem? They don’t know how to count calories! They need my “Deal a Meal”...!

RUMSFELD's eyes narrow.

INT, C-17 CARGO PLANE – DAY

Army grunts push RICHARD SIMMONS, along with thousands of “Deal a Meals” or fuckingwhatever his latest scam is now called, through the open cargo bay door.

RICHARD SIMMONS falls ...

EXT, AFGHANISTAN – DAY

AFGHAN PEASANT: (stretching out arms and looking at sky) Fuck -- it’s Richard Simmons.

RICHARD SIMMONS crushes him.

Uncle Sam and Santa

Uncle Sam gets stabbed in the back. Now it looks like Bin Laden's next victim will be -- Santa Claus.

Yeah, you heard right.

Santa Claus.

Seeing as how our economy has turned into a warped whipsaw in which 90% of all retail selling depends on "holiday gifting," if you kill consumer spending, you kill Christmas, you send America into a recession, you kick America in the nuts. If Santa dies, the terrorists win. You follow me so far? Great.

So now, it's become our patriotic duty to SPEND. It's like WWII turned inside out. I can see the propaganda short now. A B&W cartoon -- Chuck Jones or somebody doing bit for the war effort -- all old, scratched and skippy. Bad sound....

* * *

Open, title card. Blaring music. . .

ARE YOU A TERRORIST?

Cut to, INT, JOE AMERICAN's garage. JOE AMERICAN kinda looks like the guy on the "Man Show" logo. Bald, beer-gutted, middle-aged, open-mouthed dopey and good-natured.

JOE AMERICAN s tinkering around with a busted radio he's trying to fix. Burning away with the old soldering iron....

UNCLE SAM walks into the garage.

UNCLE SAM: Say, Joe American, are you a terrorist?

JOE AMERICAN: Wha?

UNCLE SAM: Well, what do you think you're doing?

JOE AMERICAN: I'm fixing this radio.

UNCLE SAM: "Fixing"...?

JOE AMERICAN: (puzzled) Yeah, that's right.

UNCLE SAM: You're "fixing the radio"...? Not buying a new one?

JOE AMERICAN: Uh...no.

UNCLE SAM: Well, I guess that makes you a terrorist!

JOE AMERICAN: Huh?

UNCLE SAM: Don't you see that's exactly what Osama bin Towelhead wants? If you buy a new radio, someone else will have to make that radio...

JOE AMERICAN: It's a Sony.

UNCLE SAM: OK, uh. But someone in America will still have to SELL that radio. Which means someone on the dock to take that radio off the ship from Japan, someone to drive that radio in a truck to Best Buy, someone to stock the radio, a bored clerk who ignores you until you buy it, a bored old guy on a stool who checks your package on the way out to make sure you're not shoplifting, a bored techie on the help-line who ignores you when you call to say the radio's broken, a bored clerk at the Best Buy customer service window who also ignores you, a bored techie in a Dungeons and Dragon t-shirt in the little corner of Best Buy where they fix stuff under warranty assuming you've paid for another warranty who, after insulting you, finally fixes your radio, not to mention the bored old guy on the stool who once again checks your package on the way out to make sure you're not shoplifting when you take your radio back home.

JOE AMERICAN: Wow!

UNCLE SAM: But if you fix that radio yourself -- you're putting all those people out of work -- you might as well be working for Osama! You might as well be a terrorist. Imagine!

A thought balloon pops over JOE AMERICAN's head. Inside, we see a quick fantasy clip of JOE AMERICAN driving monster truck full of dynamite through the Best Buy barriers and into the store where it explodes with vicious intensity.

Thought balloon disappears.

JOE AMERICAN: (throwing radio to garage floor and stomping on it) To hell with that! I'm buying something I don't need RIGHT NOW!

UNCLE SAM salutes him. JOE AMERICAN salutes back and skeedaddles out of the scene. UNCLE SAM then turns around and addresses us...

UNCLE SAM: But what about YOU, America? Are you...

(Go to montage to illustrate --)

Saving your money?
Making do with less?
Repairing old appliances or clothes to make them last?

....then YOU might as well be a terrorist!

(In a 3-way split frame, various cartoon Americans react -- spending, consuming, throwing away)

UNCLE SAM: Are you sitting around on a quiet Sunday afternoon playing Scrabble?

Go to -- AMERICAN FAMILY doing just that.

AMERICAN FAMILY: Uh-huh, uh-huh.

UNCLE SAM: Then YOU might as well be a terrorist! Get in your car and go someplace! Ask yourself, "Is this trip really necessary?" If the answer is "no" -- then "go!"

Go to -- AMERICAN FAMILY. They react. Get in the car and go. Horizon before them dissolves into rippling American flag...

Back to --

UNCLE SAM: Do your part, America! Throw some sand in Osama bin Towelhead's killing machine!

(Cartoon illustrates; America throws sand in gears of killing machine, exaggerated Tojo-like caricature of bin Laden reacts with fury)

Back to UNCLE SAM -- SANTA appears right next to him.

SANTA: (rubbing eyes) Why...I can't believe my eyes! Christmas is saved.

UNCLE SAM: The country is saved.

SANTA and UNCLE SAM turn and salute each other. They turn back to us.

UNCLE SAM/SANTA: Join the fight, America! Osama has his weapons; we have ours. Credit cards! (UNCLE SAM and SANTA whip out credit cards and aim them at the audience) And you do too! You and you and you, America! Credit cards! Millions and millions of credit cards! It's in your wallet, in your pocket book - yours, mine, all of us, the arsenal of democracy, unstoppable. PRESENT ARMS, AMERICA!

Quick clip thousands of hands thrusting credit cards to the sky.

UNCLE SAM: Ready!

SANTA: Aim!

UNCLE SAM: Fire!

Go to quick fantasy sequence of credit cards falling like bombs and exploding on Osama.

UNCLE SAM/SANTA: (in unison -- both pointing at us) Spend your money, America!

Dissolve to end credits over rippling flag logo. Patriotic music plays. "Spend your money, America."

Jesus is coming, look busy

OK, we gotta do something. Nobody asked. But here's some ideas.

OPERATION LET THEM EAT SAND

Why are we even in the Middle East?

Oil.

Basically, that's the only reason we have any connection with these fuckers whatsoever. Their main natural resource is oil. After that comes psychosis. After that comes sand.

If it wasn't for the oil we could tell them all to go jump up a stump.

That would be a good idea.

Because these people are crazy.

They're all a bunch of lunatics who've been out in the hot sun too long.

I know what sun will do to you.

I remember when I worked at the concrete yard out in the sun all day. Everybody was constantly hostile. The Do-the-Right-Thing effect. "Where's the fucking drill fuck you where do you fucking think it was goddamnit you got fucking shit for brains". Fuck, fuck, fuck - every sentence was like that. There was a constant baseline of hostility. You figure that's what happened to the people there. All that sun fried their brains. Look at Lawrence of Arabia. Typical English closet queen.

Put him out in the sun for a year and he's like, "EAGGGHH! NO PRISONERS!"

These people have been out in the sun for hundreds and hundreds of years.

It's turned them into a whole region of Yosemite Sams.

--OOOOOO, YOU OFFA MY GOLDURN PROPERTY, VARMINT. I'M A COUNTIN TO THREE!

--IT AIN'T YOUR PROPERTY IT'S MY GOLDURN PROPERTY.

--WELL IT WAS MY GOLDURN PROPERTY FIRST.

--WELL YOU KILLED MY DAD.

--WELL YOUR DAD KILLED MY GREATGRANDAD.

--WELL YOUR GREAT GRANDDAD KILLED MY GREATGREATGRANDAD.

--LISTEN YOU DAGNAB HORNY TOAD, DON'T THINK I'M FORGETTIN HOW YOUR VILLAGE KILLED MY VILLAGE BACK IN THE MIDDLE AGES.

--WELL I'M GONNA KILL YOU RIGHT NOW.

--NO I'M GONNA KILL YOU YA DANG VARMINT!

We've tangled ourselves up with a buncha Yosemite Sams with centuries old feuds because they happen to be sitting on top of a sea of oil. It's like buying gas at Charlie Manson's filling station. CRAZY CHARLIE SELLS FOR LESS! "I'm Crazy Charlie! I'm slashing prices to the bone! I'm slashing everything to the bone!" America says, "Shit, I know he's crazy - but you can't beat those prices!"

We need to stop going to Crazy Charlie's. If oil is the reason we're involved in the Middle East in the first place, we need to find something else. We need to develop other forms of energy and let them eat sand.

Fuck them. Fuck the Middle East. Fuck Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Turdistan...

Fuck all of them.

If you had the best brains in the world developing efficient solar panels, fusion, whatever, we could say fuck them.

We need an alternative energy Manhattan Project.

We need to create a hydrogen economy. Get some cheap energy source - solar and wind at first, eventually fusion - and use the energy to extract hydrogen out of water. Use that to create self-contained hydrogen cells that don't blow up to run our cars and power plants. Create a society where you don't use gasoline at all and everything runs on clean hydrogen - that turns into water when it burns.

Sure, it'd cost a shitload of money.

But that money would be a fraction of all the money we've spent since, say, the oil embargo of 1973 when we should've figured this out in the first place. All the money we've spent propping up various regimes, all the money we spent on the Gulf War, the marines killed in Lebanon, the destruction of the WTC, the money we'll spend on the next war, not to mention all the money down the fucking toilet creating a total surveillance society.

Not to mention the untold trillions we're going to spend.

OPERATION ACID RAIN
Like I said, these guys are boiling with adrenaline. If only the CIA could invent some kind of chemical that'd make people turn peaceful.

Wait a minute. They already did.

It's called acid.

They were testing it on college kids back in the early 60s. A few of them decided they liked it and started making their own. This is the source of the entire "Peace and Love" revolution.

So....

Drop massive amounts of acid in the water supply of various hateful countries. They'd all be dropping their weapons and going, "Everything is so beautiful." Bin Laden would start shaking like a washing machine with a towel caught in the agitator. "That...that map isn't real. The pins. Killing people, not pins. I'm so full of...hate...ohmygodohmygod." He'd either explode, like the Nazi in "Raiders of the Lost Arc" who couldn't look at the face of the angel
without seeing death. Either that, or he'd fall on the ground and remain totally helpless until the Mafia got him.

PS: Yeah, I know this shit ain't funny.

Mafia, not Marines

Like I said, it's a trap. We need to resist the urge to blow the shit out of people in huts with towels on their heads in some massively futile symbolic gesture. This is not a time for emotional retaliation. This is a time for cold revenge. We need to put a hit on Osama.

We don't need the marines. We need the Mafia.

This is what they're good at.

I think there was even a guy named Genovese who got killed in the WTC. This shit is personal. They fucked with us, now we need to fuck with them - on a personal level.
Subcontracting the assignment to the mob would be cost-effective.

Just call in Tony Soprano.

The government could say, "Here's the deal, you guys get to own Liberty Plaza. You get to rebuild the Trade Center, the Mafia gets to own it. We also let John Gotti out of jail. Just kill these fuckers. Stop 'em. Be creative."

So one morning Bin Laden gets out of bed and there's a camel's head under the sheets. "Ahhhhhh!" Robert DiNiro's in the tent. "Nice fucking tent you got here, nice fucking map. You think you're some big shit, huh? Let's dance. You want to fuck with me? No, you're not dealing with the army now, it's just me, you're dealing with me. You wish it was the fucking army. Hey - here's Joe Pesci with his pen. He wants to talk to you!"

So, just like "The Godfather," you wipe all the fuckers out no matter how long it takes. Ten years later somebody's falafel stand is blow to bits. That's OK. These guys can be very, very patient.

Last Day at the Office

INT, OFFICE -- DAY

The office is somewhere halfway up the WTC North Tower. It's still early morning. JEFF and TIM -- two guys in their early 20s -- are fooling around, throwing Nerf football. ANN, meanwhile, is trying to get the copy machine to work.

ANN: 47...47. I want one copy, not 47. Why's it stuck on 47?

She makes a groan of frustration. Turns machine off and on.

TIM: 53, 22, 47 - HIKE!

Just as TIM shouts "47" the machine blinks back on. The copy quantity readout says 47. It blinks on the exact moment TIM shouts "47." ANN notices this and makes a face.

TIM hikes the ball back to JEFF then makes run across the office. JEFF throws the Nerf football to him, a totally wild shot, no chance JEFF will catch it. The screaming purple foam football boinks off cute little King Kong display on wire shelf over copy machine. (There are King Kong dolls and posters all over the place. The big old ape has been the office mascot ever since the remake -- in which Kong climbs the WTC -- came out in the 70s.)

ANN reaches down and picks up football off the floor. She straightens up KING KONG display, talking to it, dusting him off.

ANN: Sorry.

Cut to KONG's eyes. In a weird way, he almost seems to react.

ANN: You guys should show some respect.

JEFF and TIM make ape noises.

ANN: You're so immature.

JEFF: Lighten up. It's Monday.

ANN: It's Tuesday.

JEFF: Well for me that's Monday. Could we have the football back.

ANN: No.

She says no but throws him the football anyway. Reflexively, he catches it.

JEFF: Jesus, I knew you're going to do that. It's like I've been having this weird sense of déjà vu all morning. Anybody else?

ANN: Yeah, it's weird.

JEFF: Like synchronicity, is that the right word?

TIM: That's an album by the Police.

JEFF: Yeah, but I think it's the right word.

TIM: Sting is such an asshole.

ANN: Like you said "47" right when the copy machine went "47."

TIM: That's called a coincidence.

JEFF: I knew you were going to say that.

TIM: I don't believe in that Miss Cleo shit...

The second he says that a TV comes on. We hear MISS CLEO saying "Hi, I'm Miss Cleo! The cards can reveal..."

ANN runs over, turns it off. TIM whistles "Twilight Zone" theme.

TIM: Who turned that on?

JEFF: This is definitely getting creepy.

JEFF throws the football across the room. It lands, exactly, inside a King Kong basketball hoop which lights up.

JEFF: See, normally I couldn't do that.

TIM just kinda looks at him.

JEFF: Now the boss is going to open that door.

TIM: Yeah. Like he does that every morning.

BOSS: It's time people.

JEFF puts his fingers to his temples in a psychic see-all gesture. ANN laughs. TIM shakes his head, tries not to laugh. They all go into the meeting. TIM's the last one in -- muttering "Why can't we have a 9 am meeting like everybody else....no I didn't say anything..."

Door shuts.

INT, Meeting Room - Day
BOSS, ANN, TIM, JEFF and BOSS's silent secretary are all sitting around a long conference table with panoramic view of New York City skyline outside the windows.

BOSS: (gesturing with his hands) Wireless internet.

JEFF: (uninspired) Wireless internet.

BOSS: Come on, people, work with me. Wireless internet. How can we make that sexy?

JEFF: Put another hole in it.

BOSS: You're funny, you know that, you're pretty fucking funny, you should get a job as a comedian. (gesturing again) Wireless internet -- come on people, you had your fucking coffee yet? Free associate, OK? Gimme something.

TIM: (tiredly) Wireless...tireless.

BOSS shakes head in disgust.

JEFF: (looking out window) Jesus, that plane's coming in kinda low, isn't it?

TIM: Reddy Killowebb.

BOSS: Come on, let's focus, OK?

JEFF: Jesus, he's turning.

BOSS: Hey, stop looking out the window...hello! Focus! (he does an eyes front gesture with two fingers) Wireless web. I want everybody to really think about it.

JEFF: (turning away from window) Web, web...don't get tangled in the web.

BOSS: Yeah...no. There's something there, but...

JEFF: You know, web, spiderwebs, wires, traps. Tangled web we weave. There's that whole association.

BOSS: That's clever, Jeff. Too fucking clever.

JEFF: (nervously stealing glances out window) But that's what people hate. Plugging in, wires, Ethernet cards, LANs and all that...Jesus, does anybody else see that?

TIM: Wireless sets you free like...

BOSS: (cutting him off) Don't anybody say butterflies. Gates already did the butterfly with that MSN thing.

JEFF: Anybody else see that plane?

TIM: (rubbing eyes) What, yeah. There's a plane there. So ...

BOSS: (pissed) Enough with the plane.

JEFF: The plane isn't supposed to be there.

BOSS: Then it'll turn around. Enough about the plane. What about wireless internet?

JEFF: I don't know. Get wired? Got wireless?

TIM: Get unwired. The Internet unbound?

BOSS: Somebody did that.

TIM: You sure?

JEFF: (looking out window -- can't believe what he sees) It's not...

TIM: Pinocchio with his wires cut?

BOSS: I like.

JEFF: It's not turning around.

BOSS: (curtly) It's got to turn around.

JEFF: It's not.

BOSS: Could we stay on topic here?

JEFF: It's coming right for us.

TIM: (mocking -- because this is a line on "South Park") 'It's coming right for us.'

JEFF: No, seriously, it's coming right for us.

TIM: (finally looking) Shit, it's coming right for us, shit. This isn't happening.

BOSS: Goddamnit, guys, it's not --

He looks out window, sees plane, shuts up, freezes.

JEFF: I dreamed this. I know I dreamed this.

TIM: This isn't happening. He's gotta pull up.

JEFF: He's not pulling up.

For a few more seconds they all sit there at the conference table -- all of them frozen, deer-in-headlights style. The plane gets closer and closer, coming in straight on.

Some authority-figure gene kicks on in the boss. He stands up, takes charge, starts barking out orders.

BOSS: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, COME ON PEOPLE, LET'S MOVE IT, MOVE IT, MOVE IT...

Everybody except JEFF runs out of the room. He just stands there, frozen at the window as the plane gets closer and closer. Then something seems to tug him. He turns around. Sees ANN watching them.

Seconds left. They exchange looks. Both know they're going to die. It's suddenly, blindingly clear to JEFF that he loves her and she loves him, one of those office undercurrent things, though they never admitted it. They knew it all along, of course -- but they danced around the fact, both assuming there'd always be time for the dance.

Less the last second left and the barriers fall. He smiles, she smiles back. Each knows what the other is thinking -- barriers gone now, not that they were ever real in the first place -- time for one last look, eyes exchanging infinite knowledge just like Bonnie and Clyde yeah, exactly like Bonnie and

Rightface March Dept.

All of a sudden, everywhere I look it's flags, flags, flags. Eagles and flags. Support the President! United We Stand! An overdose of patriotism. America -- rightface, march! Hut, hut, hut! Understandable response, OK. But is anybody else uncomfortable with this shit? We're one step away from martial law. The right has been a little too damn quick to use this as an excuse to clamp down and control the agenda. It's like all they can do not to start smiling. It's exactly what they want.

I picture a George C. Scott-type Four Star General appearing on TV and addressing the American people on 9-12.

GENERAL CARNAGE: This has been a great tragedy for the American people. This has been a sad day for all of us. As a result, we're going to have to stop worrying about shit like "lock boxes" and all that egghead math stuff like plus "two equals four." The Pentagon's gonna need a whole lot of money. Oh yeah. We're gonna need all the money America's got, and then some. And we're going to have to beef up the CIA. All this shit like, "you can't kill leaders," "you gotta get search warrants" -- the bill of rights all that crap - we'll have to throw all that shit out. We'll need to send lots of money to the military so we can buy cool shit to kill people. Remember, if we'd had Star Wars we could've sold Bin Laden a missile and shot it down. But no! He was forced to use low-tech shit that worked! That's why we need more weapons systems, more military power, more spies, more finks, more surveillance, more police. It's been a sad day for all of us, but, together, the American people shall prevail. Thank you."

Then he goes into the next room. He starts saying "YES...YESS!" under his breath and pumping his fist. "YESSSSSSSSS!"

Meanwhile, the American people responds ...

"Let's lurch to the rightwing! Let's go to war! Let's support our leader!"

It's like there's a hypnotist with a watch on a chain. "Don't think about George W. Bush. Think about the war! See the pretty, pretty war! The President is not an idiot! You must respect your leader! Support the leader!"

America's like Homer Simpson with drool coming out of his mouth. "Support....leader. Must support leader."

Uh, you mean Bush?

George W. Bush?

HOMER: Support leader. Aggghhhhh.

This guy's a leader? Jesus. They're comparing him to FDR.

FDR was like "A date which will live in infamy."

That's a leader.

GWB is reading the teleprompter. "They did stuff to us so, uh, we're gonna do stuff to them. And to ourselves together. Or something."

He's an idiot.

Let's face it, if John McCain had been elected president nobody would've fucked with us. The terrorists were probably watching the election returns. "The wimp is president! They elected the wimp! Hahahaha! Not even the wimp - the son of the wimp!"

And, like any wimp, GWB will be tempted to do some dumbass thing just to prove he's not a wimp.