Full Metal Jack-Off:
The night before his speech to the Veterans of Foreign Wars, President George W. Bush needed some inspiration for the words he was going to speak. Yes, he knew he was taking a risk in revising the conventional wisdom on the Vietnam War, that it was a war that should have never been fought, that Americans should have withdrawn long before we were neck deep in the Big Muddy. Hell, he himself had spoken with those well-worn notions as a backdrop. But his presidency, he knew, had been about nothing else but turning all conventional wisdom on its head, to say that those things the nation believed were true, those rights Americans believed were dear, those ideas of equality they thought were foundations, to say that all that supposed "truth" was actually lies.

Determinedly, his administration, like a pack of plague rats seeking a garbage dump, had gnawed away at it all, the liberties, the laws, the separation of powers, telling Americans they had been fed lies all along. Bush knows he's not so much a visionary as a revisionary, showing America how the last half century of its existence was premised not on liberation and progress, but on the existential crises that too much freedom precipitates, how history is actually a vindication for American triumphalism. And that, like the God he believes in, people just need a strong hand to guide them to his promised land. If only the faithful weren't so hard to convince.

He had the Secret Service bring around a small car for him Monday night. Weary from his trip back from Canada, Bush still knew he needed to commune with the dead in order to feel fully confident in his words. "The Memorial," he told them. And at first they headed over to the giant, seated Lincoln they had taken him to many times before on these late night jaunts. "No. 'Nam." One of the agents flinched, unnoticed. He hated it when the President called that war "'Nam," for his father had lost a leg over there, and the agent had been taught that only those who went could call it that.

At the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the wall, you know, Bush walked along it, his fingers skipping over the engraved names. The Secret Service established a perimeter, getting any homeless people or lingerers to move on. They rolled their eyes to each other, knowing what was about to happen. It had happened to marble Lincoln so often. And Jefferson a bit less.

Bush pressed his face against the black granite. "Cold, like dead grandpa," he said to an agent, whose back was turned. Eventually, he traced his way to the center of the memorial, the bottom of the V built into the earth. "Like a hard pussy," he thought, and he leaned in and licked the cleavage between the walls. "Tastes dry, like Laura," he muttered, laughing to himself, then he announced to the agents, "Ya'll keep your backs turned, ya hear?" They knew the drill.

Unzipping his pants, President Bush took out his half-tumescent cock and rubbed it on the wall. "Yeah," he said as he became fully rigid. To him, the wall at that moment was just a pair of spread-eagled legs, like the legs of a slave girl, the haunches of a rotting corpse in the jungle, held open, just calling for a fucking. Propping himself awkwardly in the cleft, hands pressed against the sides, he began thrusting away, fucking right into the heart of the names of those who, to him, lost the war and disgraced America, yeah, they just had to lay there and take it, 'cause this goddamn wall should be twice as fuckin' large so that we could have taken down Pol Pot, Pol Pot, Pol...

"Shee-it," he exclaimed as a surge in his cock yielded only a dribble of cum, but, still, at least it was something. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped himself off, put his limp, scraped dick away, and tossed the dirty hankie to an agent. "Take me back home, boys," he said. "I got a speech to practice."