Phuquing Photo Phodder.

Of course this was just another human-prop-filled stunt.

And an exercise in raw, thug “I can make you stand there and listen to my silly-ass blather” power.

And so that Bush’s speechcrafting sea-monkeys could jam a line about “bipartisan consultation on Iraq” into the State of the Union speech.

That much is obvious and has been widely reported.

What was not mentioned was the meeting he went to after he shit the rug up and cut-and-ran from this one.

In attendance, at great fiscal and psychic expense, were the conjured spirits of the greatest dead comic geniuses of the 20th Century. Pigmeat Markham was there, and Lenny Bruce. Groucho. Lucy. Richard Pryor. Redd Foxx. Hicks. Gleason.

The roll of honor was long, and so astounding that when word got around that The Call was going out, both Carlin and Newhart said they’d be willing to shoot themselves if that’s what it took to get them a seat at head table.

The clever boys and girls at JPL had somehow conjured back into existence for a one-time-only, once-in-many-lifetimes jamboree. A Gig for the Ages.

And for 40 minutes, Dubya forced them to sit through his repertoire of “knock-knock” jokes.

And fag jokes.

And “Isn’t Kerry a girly pussy” jokes.

And “What about that dyke Hillary?” jokes.

And “John McCain’s Sambo baby” jokes

And his “Me No Rik-ee” Chinese Banker impersonation that knocked the vicious, inbred drunks dead back in Skull ‘n Bones.

And the Lords of Funny looked around at each other, horrified, and wondered who this dimwitted child was that had summoned them from the main stage in Heaven, and what in the Hell he could possibly want?

Advice?

If he wanted advice, why didn’t he shut the fuck up and listen?

When Jack Benny ventured a hint about timing, Bush brushed him off.

When Groucho suggested that if Dubya had, say, some funny brothers, they could maybe do something zany with that…Dubya told him to zip it.

“I’m the God Damned, President,” he shrilled, “and I know what’s funny. I decide what’s funny. And when I tell a joke people laugh! Everybody laughs! Right, Scotty?”

And Scott McClellan laughed and laughed and laughed.

Laughed until blood started seeping out of his ear.

“See?” he said, dropping the mike like Condi had told him to. “Now peace out.”

Dropping the mike and saying “peace out”, his advisors all agreed, was very cool. Very manly.

Very "Misson Accomplished".

And with that, George W. Bush took his leave: He was already late for yet another meeting further down the hall.

The CDC people had pulled together the finest medical experts in the world and Dubya was scheduled to lecture them on how to make fart noises with his armpit, and how a little Dewars in the oatmeal can chase all the blues away.

I mean, after all, in addition to being a world-class funnyman and foreign policy genius, didn’t sitting in the Big Chair also make him the World’s Most Brilliant Physician?

“Soooo,” Dangerfield asked no one in particular, “Anybody wanna guess how many Presidents it takes to screw up a country?”

And with that, they vanished. In a hurry.

Word had it that Moms Mabley was warming up the midnight crowd in the St. Peter’s Room with her unbelievably filthy version of “The Aristocrats”.

And that was some funny shit.