Burt Johnson: Good evening, I'm Burt Johnson. As Commanding Officer for all Presidential and Vice Presidential Secret Service details, I'm personally responsible for guaranteeing the safety of the two most powerful and morally exceptional people on Earth. My duties also extend to protecting the immediate Bush and Cheney families, as well as ensuring order on the White House grounds.

Tonight, I have been asked to participate in this Internet Q&A pertaining to Executive Branch security. Of course, all answers are CLASSIFIED and TOP SECRET. You go repeating them, and I'll put you down pronto. I've done it before, too – once took out this shifty lard-bag S.O.B. with a single melon-shattering headshot. Turned out he was just a lost tourist. But hey, you never know. NEVER!

On that note, let's get rolling here.

Burt Johnson:
Sorry, can't disclose that information. But if we did carry weapons, which we may or may not, just trust that we are noble patriots who are armed to the teeth. We could have bulletproof briefcases with concealed MAC-10s in them. We could have two 9mm's strapped under each arm, a locked and loaded TEC-9 down each trouser leg, and even a couple semi-automatic .22 snub-noses velcroed up behind our nutsacks – right there on the man taint.

And Boy Howdy, somebody makes a move on POTUS – hell, even on one of his yappy-assed retard dogs – and it's the Iraqi Highway of Death all over again – charred ragheads dead on their knees holding piles of ashes that were once their own stinking guts. I was there! I was in the S-H-I-T! TRY ME AND YOU WILL SEE!

Burt Johnson:
Ma'am, I don't mean any undue disrespect, especially to an expendable civilian such as yourself – but each Secret Service agent is a dedicated automaton whose sole purpose is to protect the President and Vice President of the United States. Were we to actually release any of our evildoer-smiting seed, our sharp concentration and psychotically violent reflexes might be compromised. And then: Enter the Dragon... of Armageddon. Dig?

Sure, I rutted with a South American whore once during a secret mission where I was dispensing aide to cocaine-trafficking Marxist rebels in the form of white-hot, larynx-imploding bullets. Afterwards though, I was so loony with post-coital nausea that I mistook a gaggle of crippled grandmothers approaching on foot from the North for a heavily-armed squadron of low-flying MIG-17's. I wasted a lot of good Napalm that day, and for that I blame the whore. And by whore, I mean women in general.

Burt Johnson:
HO! HO! HO! Of course we can't and won't, as you're just a regular old American of suspect heritage, race, and financial standing. But son, let me tell you that the President is there for you, as he is a One Man Secret Service – protecting Americans from themselves with a $550 Billion dollar tax cut. This important and necessary tax cut, although not immediate relief for formerly working class trash like your daddy, will nonetheless fatten the noble coffers of the corporate elite, who have every intention of thinking about maybe someday at least talking about helping out so-called people like you instead of stuffing their jockstraps full of Fabergé eggs.

In the meantime, think about joining the Marines. You can get paid to travel, have madcap adventures with your best buddy's severed femoral artery, and did I mention – earn phat cash. Hell, in twenty years or so, you could grow up to be my assistant!

Burt Johnson:
Yes. We are required by law to investigate all threats made about the President, and if the threat appears genuine, to terminate the offender with extreme prejudice. We are famous for showing up at your house for stuff like that one time at Frank's party when you said that thing you shouldn't have said about you-know-who. You hear me, Jane from Albuquerque? Catch my drift, bitch?

We're also expanding the definition of threat. Current definitions of threat include: not saving the President's speeches on TiVO; protesting; satirizing; tell-all books by cheap bleach-blonde ex-sisters-in-law; environmentalism, and generally subverting the GOP agenda – even if only at the water cooler.

Burt Johnson:
I don't think I quite understand your question, sir. "SS?" As in the "Secret Service?"

You better check yourself, mister. If I get wind that this is some fancy liberal insinuation, I will personally crack your leg in half, drink your marrow, then stab out your mascara-encrusted San Fransissyco eyes with your own splintered femur bone! I've done it before, and that Somalian brat deserved it too, puking up that Snickers bar – like he was SO HUNGRY he couldn't hold down chocolate, caramel, peanuts and creamy nougat. Little bastard didn't seem to have any problem keeping down fistfuls of blowflies!

Burt Johnson:
While it technically depends on when I first get a solid visual on said Arabiac in the sites of my rooftop 25MM Gatling canon, 1.4 miles is generally as close as one of those crazy ragheads can get. It's pretty much the same as liquefying civilian-impersonating Talibanese from the skids of a Black Hawk chopper.

On a related note, you know, brains is a lot like egg yolk. And when one of those canon rounds hits you upstairs, your top will pop and FLING – yolk's flying everywhere! Only it isn't yellow. And it's more like oatmeal.

Burt Johnson:
The aircraft carrier was not a prop – it was a legitimate military destination in which to hammer home the essential fact that only George W. Bush can save America from the A-rab hordes.

You know, back in Panama, shit went down, and where were you when it was just me, a fully-loaded M60, and fifty unarmed soldiers trapped in an alley? Where were you when I kissed them lovingly with 500 rounds of American lead? Oh that's right – you were in pansy Canada, taking it up the ass from a moose!

So thank you, and good night.

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