THE PRESIDENT: Please be seated. This morning, with the stock market and the year 2002 winding down fast, I thought now might be an OK time to put down my war bongos for five or six minutes and turn my attention to happenings right here in my own back yard. And so I looked out the window, and what did I see just past the attack dogs and electrified razorwire fence? Protesters. Several groups of them, in fact. So I pulled out the high-powered sniper's scope I like to use to get a closer look whenever packs of un-American trash gather outside my gate to bitch and moan like a bunch of menstruating women.

Well you can imagine my surprise when I trained my crosshairs on one particularly boisterous group and, expecting to see a pack of tie-dye wearing peacenik vegetards chanting Joan Baez songs and braiding each others' armpit hair, instead found myself gazing upon my dear friend Pastor Fred Phelps and his Spirit-filled parishioners from the Westboro Baptist Church. They were plenty angry, too - working themselves up into a right frenzy while gay-bashing Massachusetts Congressman Barney Fag, I mean, Frank in effigy with a brick, a plunger handle, a cage of squealing gerbils, and a Stihl chainsaw.

Well friends, I must tell you that at first I was delighted! At last, a group of decent Red State family values Christians contributing a much-needed dose of fair and balanced Bible-based political discourse to the leftist crybaby circus that usually dominates that sidewalk. But then I saw them - off to the side - the signs, the awful horrible Westboro protest signs suggesting that my administration bends over for the homos.

(Gasps.)

Believe me for a minute when I say I was as shocked as you are. Now as I've said many times before, I'm a loving kind of guy, and I want people to know that it pains me down to my compassionate conservative pelvis when folks are displeased with me for things that I've done (unless of course it's something righteous like easing up on drinking water arsenic limits or wasting all those darkies and retards on Texas' death row). And since the things I've done since moving into this White House can be counted on this one hand, it hurts like the dickens to be criticized for any one of those three things I've accomplished. But I have to tell you, it's downright agonizing when folks are mad at me for things that just aren't true. And that was exactly the case here. Sure, I may have spent a few minutes talking to those hop scotching Log Cabin Republicans a few months back, but really and truly, my administration and I are about as cozy with faggots as your average Arab is with a stick of deodorant. And as a loyal Republican and former cheerleader, the only thing that makes me recoil behind closed doors quicker than a Negro who forgets his place is a homo who shows up at my place!

But at the end of the day, even though I know that the upstanding America-lovers of Westboro Baptist Church may be wrong about me personally, I still support their Constitutional right to make small factual errors while pursuing the greater good of their holy campaign to cleanse these United States of immorality and pigheaded minorities that demand to follow their own stupid ideas about how they should live their own lives.

You know, some people say that my administration doesn't tolerate dissent. Of course that's not true, but my pollsters are nevertheless sensitive to that perception, which is why today, in the spirit of the strong inclusiveness the Republican Party realized it always had once that mean old coon-hater Trent Lott stepped down, I wanted to offer a little olive branch to these dissenters.

Now, therefore, I, George W. Bush, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Supreme Court of the United States, do hereby pardon this particular group of ill-informed yet loving protesters, thereby exempting them from Attorney General Ashcroft's standard dissenter regimen of secret wiretaps, drugged abductions for subcutaneous GPS tracker inplantations, and aggressive annual tax audits until 2014. And this isn't just because Reverend Phelps and John Ashcroft are friends who have passed countless venomous reptiles between each other in cinderblock churches and revival tents over the past twenty years.

(Applause.)

Thank you. Tis the season.

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