ADDRESS BY AMERICA'S OWN QUEEN MOTHER, BARBARA PIERCE BUSH, TO CONCERNED WOMEN FOR AMERICA ANNOUNCING NATIONAL CLITORIDECTOMY DAY
Statement by the Executive First Lady
BARBARA BUSH: Good afternoon, dear sisters of the CWA. On behalf
everywhere who look like retired Teamsters, I want to thank you Christian ladies for your tireless crusade against our common
enemy: the shapely, young jiggling tarts that roam free in this country, enticing our husbands with boobs as hard as croquet
balls. I know that over the years, you gals have waddled over to phone banks to hound network executives about the disastrous
consequences of showing firm female flesh when the more sex-crazed gender might be watching.
I've long believed that censorship is our only hope in our ongoing war against young girlies who actually look good to our
always-horny husbands. I know I speak for all of you when I express my disgust with those svelte little sluts who flip their
wondrously highlighted blond hair, proudly flaunt pert, bouncing ta-tas and short skirts that reveal trim, creamy thighs
that don't look like leaking bags of tapioca. Some of these gals look so ripe and luscious that it is no wonder that our
hubbies visually peel off their tube tops and mentally plunder their moist, inviting, Brazilian-waxed entrances of sublime delight.
Oh, dear me. Bev, may I have some club soda?
BEVERLY LAHAYE: Yes, Bar. You're starting to tremble like Michael J. Fox, dear.
BARBARA: In case any of your nosy hens are wondering, this golden elixir (POURS) in this flask is for my Graves disease.
The medicine should kick in any minute now. Ah, there we go! Right as rain.
Now, like I was saying, you gals are doing wonderful work here to crusade against our nubile nemeses who don't need girdles,
a plus-size pantsuit or an Eva Gabor wig to leave their apartments. I commend you on your recent efforts to get magazines
with attractive women on the covers like MAXIM out of Wal-Mart – that place where people who actually have to
work like to shop. I know that I, like all of you, look forward to the wonderful day when the sirenic images of comely girlie-girls will be
obliterated from the view of men who can otherwise be distracted by double-cheeseburgers and rider lawnmowers. The more we
can stamp out the sight of women with health club memberships, the more likely it is that our spouses will be more satisfied
with our more porcine configurations. But not satisfied enough, of course, to actually pester us for that nasty sex they're
always thinking about.
It's like I always used to tell Poppy: the Lord didn't give you a right hand just to sign executive orders, dear.
As most of you know, I have suffered the pain and humiliation of my husband having more attractive women on the side.
Honestly, I had nothing against that Jennifer Fitzgerald. She was trashy enough to do that one thing Poppy had been asking
me to do for about thirty years. I think all of you know what I am alluding to. (MAKES GESTURE USING MICROPHONE AND HER MOUTH)
So, in a way, I enjoyed not having the pressure of worrying about whether the Polident would fail me at the most
embarrassing moment possible and I'd end up with tufts of gray public hair stuck to my upper gums for a week. But I still
had to go through the indignity of that rhymes-with-punt Nancy Reagan telling everyone in Washington about that time on
March 18, 1981 when George got a DUI
while driving around town with one of his bimbos.
Well, I am pleased to say that I got back at the rhymes-with-shunt at a state dinner in 1983. Nancy Reagan and Frank
Sinatra were rhymes-with-pucking under our table and Ronnie kept asking me, "Where is Mommy? Where is Mommy?" People say
that he had Alzheimer's back them, but that is a lie. It had only set in about forty percent before we took over
that house. Anyway, every time I was about to reach for my wineglass, Ronnie would grab my arm and say, "Where is Mommy?"
I wanted my damned wine so it was pissing me off, so finally I said to him: "She's under the table fucking Frank. And
she's just gnawed through my only good pair of dress shoes!" Which only goes to show that even the old skinny ones
are not our friends, girls.
So what are we aesthetically challenged women of America going to do? While I applaud your efforts to stop hot little
numbers in high school from saying "yes" with your unflinching support of
"Abstinence Only," I don't think it goes far enough.
We need to get to the root of the problem. Because most of these gorgeous, troublemaking dames actually seem to like sex!
It is with this problem in mind that I am appearing before all of you carefully culled supporters of my son George W. Bush to
announce that He has declared May 17, 2003 to be our country's first annual Clitoridectomy Day. Starting Saturday, gynecologists,
dentists and TV repairmen throughout the country will begin performing this surprisingly economical procedure on
potential harlots throughout America without charge or warning.
And, contrary to what you may have heard, a clitoridectomy is not that hard to do. In fact, I gave my son Neil's
soon-to-be-divorced wife Sharon one myself with a pair of cuticle scissors and a shoehorn I just happened to have in my
purse when she told me she was going to write a "tell all" book about our family. And well didn't that just do the trick!
So please join me in giving a warm round of applause in celebration of the
first annual National Clitoridectomy Day!
(APPLAUSE AND THUNDEROUS STAMPING OF SENSIBLE SHOES.)
Thank you, and God Bless America.