CHARLTON'S BOOTS

George had to think quickly. The body was stinking and the smell of blood would make Shania aroused. So he jumped out the window and landed head-first into a puddle of saliva of unwnown origin. An unorthodox Presbyterian lemming from the wrong side of the tracks claimed responsibility for the mess several seconds later.

"This is a right mess," George sighed. "And it's high time I stopped rubbing this blood all over my face. It sure does feel nostalgic though." George thought only for a moment before returning to his normal self. The resulting transmogrification could have turned him into that axe wielding maniac, Nixon.

Clearly, the experiment he was a product of was spiralling out of control. Colin had assured him that the chair they had built, allowing him psychic access to all former presidents, would aid him in his otherwise disasterous second term. But now the breast milk was turning sour, and that Clinton episode had left him with a bloodlusting country singer for a wife, a bad rap in the tabloids, and an unholy desire for human blood.

George spat: "When in doubt, whip it out and scream!" So he did just that, but promptly clamped his wide mouth shut when he heard heavy footsteps getting louder and louder on the other side of the hedge. A tear drop of sweat slipped off his forehead and sloshed against his polished shoes. With a sigh, he clenched his buttocks as his stomach imploded. "I've been shot," George whimpered.

Shania loomed over the limp body. Although she was a Republican, she still held the key to many of life's unspoken treasures - such as passing gas whenever accelerating in a diesel truck. She had also mastered the often ignored art of massaging testes so they explode like eggs on the bonnet of a brilliant white Dodge Ram at the hottest part of the day. She reached down and with Ginzu knife-like precision sliced through George's superman costume to expose the whole wound. She reached inside, her hand moving easily through the slippery intestines that felt like oiled snakes. She stopped for a moment, allowing the final pulses of the simpleton's life force to rush through her arm and into her heart. Once she was sure he was dead, she called out to her accomplice. "We need a shitty pun, like 40cc's of urine, STAT!"

Her accomplice lit a cigarette, tossed a hand-towel to Shania and duly noted the rubber coating on the extremities of George Bush's body. "He's still alive," she said. "Look!"

Shania stood up and coughed. The tingle in her pubic region sent shivers of delight throughout her entire body. "This cannot be," she said, wiping the mess of tar slobber from her tantalizing lips. "But it is," said the mysterious accomplice, whose one boob was hanging out of her Wonder Woman costume.

This was beginning to feel all too familiar.