Bush sleeps in

On Monday Aug. 8, 2005, President Bush signed into law an energy bill that extends daylight-saving time by four weeks. Instead of waking to the light of day, now we’re back to groping in the dark for the damned snooze button.While Americans struggle out of bed cursing the time change, Bush is still snoring in the Herbert Hoover bed with the John Adams quilt pulled up around his ears, the quilt made from bloodstained American flags tattered in battles of the Revolutionary War. The presidential alarm clock chimes “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but there is nary a stir from the somnambulant leader of the free world. Laura comes stealing into his room. “Georgie,” she coos gently into his ear, “breakfast is ready. It’s time to get up and rule the world.” But Georgie hears none of it. He pulls the quilt tighter around his head and nuzzles down into the William Taft pillow, the one stuffed with feathers from the last passenger pigeon. “Come on, honey, you’ve got a big day today,” admonishes Laura, tousling George’s hair as he squirms to get away. “Your favorite breakfast is ready – hot chocolate and Froot [Fruit?] Loops. Come on, now, George. Time to get up.” “It’s still dark out! Leave me alone!” comes the muffled reprimand. Laura glares at the lump of inert chief executive flesh beneath the quilt, snorts in disgust and storms out of the room. Five minutes later, the door creaks open, and Barbara Bush enters bearing the Richard Nixon commemorative silver tray with hot chocolate steaming in the Harry Truman teapot. The Lyndon Johnson cereal bowl, decorated with the Texas flag, is heaped with colorful Froot Loops. The Teddy Roosevelt milk pitcher, with an image of San Juan Hill, sparkles with beads of condensation. “Georgie? … George!” A low groan comes from the bed. Barbara sets down the tray. With determination she reaches for the quilt and tears it off of her indolent son’s rumpled form, revealing his full-camo PJs and the Rambo action figure he clutches in his arms. “Mom!” George yells. “I don’t wanna get up yet! It’s too early!” Barbara shakes her head with despair as George sits up, seizes the quilt and pulls it back over him. His fingers latch tightly to the quilt, and Barbara knows it’s no use. “George W. Bush!” she lectures, “Get up and take command of the universe before your hot chocolate gets cold. You know how petulant you become when that happens, and we don’t want a petulant demagogue lording over all humanity. It’s just not the way we Bushes do things.” “Oh, Mom!” moans George in exasperation. “Why did I make daylight-saving time so freaking early?” Barbara pats her son on the head. “You thought you were doing the right thing, dear. Now, would you like me to turn on the radio to help you get up?” George growls threateningly. “I HATE the radio! I HATE the media! I HATE my job. I don’t wanna go to work today, and that’s final!” “Now, now, honey, you know that Uncle Dick might not take this so well. I’ll tell him you’re a little testy today, but just remember, George, Uncle Dick can get a little testy, too. Well … bye for now.” Barbara eases the door open, and Dick Cheney stands at the threshold in a dark suit and red tie. A twisted grimace creases both sides of his mouth. Barbara shrugs apologetically as the vice president glares past her into the presidential bedroom. He sighs and enters. “Get out of bed, George! Another day has dawned on the Great American Empire, and it’s time for you to face the mess you’ve gotten us into. We have wars to fight, nations to plunder, dictators to spurn, evil empires to squash, liberals to impugn, politicians to buy. NOW GET YOUR SORRY ASS OUT OF THAT BED!” George looks up beseechingly at the VP. “Uncle Dick, will you handle things today? I’m just too sleepy to be president right now. You take over for a while, OK?” Dick nods, and just the slightest grin spreads over the VP’s countenance. Paul Andersen’s column appears on Mondays … when he’s not sleeping in.