Mitt had come into DC for a campaign when Junior, drunk as usual, drove up to him as he stepped out of his limo.
“Hic! Mitsy! Wanna go cruisin?”
“Well, of course, Junior. Can I bring my Irish Setter; the one who replaced Shameus II, who replaced Shameus I: Shameonme?”
“Why Shhhuuuurrrreee, Mitsy. Just tie em to da roofsy in his CURrier…”
“Thanks, your hinneyness. That’s a family tradition, you know. Ever since Shameus I covered our car on the way to Ontario from Boston with his ‘presents.’”
“Goody, he cun keep Barney cumpany. He’s up dere too.”
Door slam. Tires rub rubber all over the road, leaving a lot behind…
The two had a pleasant conversation, despite the horrible howls of protest from the roof. Junior took out five soldiers while driving, serveral African Americans from New Orleans, left many children without fathers and mothers… but he did avoid a petri dish of dying embryonic cells on a table in a lab as he crashed through the building.
“Must be kuntcurned about da unborn,” Monkey-boy said with an evil grin. “See, see, Is respects life… wans Is thinks its puliticully cuntvenyunt!”
No one dared to get him off the road.
“Des knows I’ll eider anthrax dem, Swift Bloat dem or Wellstone dem,” Junior explained to Mitt.
“I like your style, Junior.”
“Wull I lurned it fum you, Mitsy. Yous my haro… whats with driving on the way to Ontarrhiho wid ya dog tied to da roof. Didn’t even stup to wipe of da poop!”
Meanwhile, on the roof, Barney and Shameonme were howling and slamming back and forth in their cages. A voice spoke…
“What the hell are you two bitching about? I’ve been stuck up here for seven years!”
Poor Uncle Sam.