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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely satirical.

  Copyright ©2006 by DH News Service, LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc. used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

  Designed by Rick Martin

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN: 1-4165-4240-X

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  For the faith-havers

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction, by Vice President Dick Cheney

  1 Like “Roots” Only White

  2 A Legacy of Destiny

  3 No Bush Child Left Behind

  4 Teacher’s Pest

  5 Campus Radical

  6 Flying High!

  7 Then I Ran Some Companies into the Ground

  8 The Clown-Faced Zombie I Call My Wife

  9 George W. Bush, Congressman from Texas’s 19th District—Got a Nice Ring to It!

  10 My Name Is George W. Bush and I Am Not an Alcoholic

  11 The Greatest Love of My Life: Jesus

  12 George Walker, Texas Ranger

  13 Bush for President: Champion of the Little Guy

  14 I Won! Or Lost, Whatever

  15 9-11: My Finest Hour

  16 It’s a Wonderful War

  17 2004: Another Mandate

  18 My Enduring Legacy: Mount Rushmore?

  Acknowledgments

  Two fine authors made this important book come to life: Peter Hilleren and Scott Dikkers. These were the right men at the right time in a crucial moment in our nation’s history—a time when a book about me needed to be written.

  I thank Susan Moldow, Nan Graham, Beth Wareham, and all the good folks at Scribner for their unwavering support of the Destined for Destiny plan for victory. Special thanks is due to editor Brant Rumble for his honorable service to my vision, and his wisdom of the book-making craft.

  Agent Jonathon Lazear deserves my praise for his steadfast search for the right home for this manuscript, his tireless moral support, and his loyalty to the Bush family. Thanks also to Dan Greenberg for his gracious help in the early stages of this work.

  The combined guidance and expertise of John Ful-brook, Colin Tierney, Marcellus Hall, Mike Loew, and especially Rick Martin were indispensable in culling the archival documents, newspaper clippings, and other images from my life. They did the hard work and the research that I would not. I am also grateful to Colin Strohm for his unparalleled skill in restoring historical photographs. And Brandt Wagner is forever accepted into my heart for his divine grace and superb modeling ability.

  Proofreaders Andy Goldwasser, Laura Wise, and Margaret Meehan have earned my respect for their eagle-eyed attention to detail, which surpassed even that of the sages.

  Thanks to all the good people at The Onion who offered their strong support and understanding during the writing of this book. I do not read The Onion, but I understand it is one of our nation’s leading newspapers.

  I also would like to express our sincere gratitude to my family and friends for patiently enduring the few occasions when the writing of this book intruded on their otherwise happy lives.

  Most importantly, I wish to thank myself. I provided these gifted typers with a rich and never-ending well of material that is certain to leave its indelible mark on not only their lives, but on the lives of everyone on the planet Earth, for generations to come.

  George W. Bush

  Crawford, TX

  July 24, 2006

  Introduction

  By Vice President Dick Cheney

  I’d like to begin my introductory remarks by stating unequivocally that the Bush Administration has not authorized this work.

  I advised the President that this was not the appropriate time to release a book containing highly classified information which may compromise our nation’s security. I warned that the release of a work so revealing could result in another terrorist attack on our country, one that would be many thousands of times worse than 9-11.

  This was my view based on the evidence, and had nothing to do with the fact that the President had still not given me an autographed copy of the book, for which my feelings were deeply hurt.

  Nonetheless, the President announced that he had made his decision—a firm decision—to publish this book, and that was the end of it. I stand by his leadership, regardless of how many innocent people must die.

  It has been my great privilege to serve alongside a leader of the caliber of George W. Bush, without question the finest President who has ever occupied the White House. His fortitude in the face of evil has been, frankly, kick-ass.

  I enjoy a certain amount of objectivity with regard to the President’s record of achievement. The reason being that I have no political ambitions beyond my current duties as Vice President. The fact is, I have no ambitions beyond completing the dictating of this sentence without suffering a fatal coronary embolism.

  Most days I sit in the shadows of my hygienically sealed, temperature-controlled command center, clinging tenuously to life, my tiny black heart squeezing out a cold trickle of blood to my cerebral cortex with every strained and painful pump. I sit stoop-backed over a bank of computers and phones connecting me to every U.S. agency so that I may conduct the affairs of state from this secret location, which is inaccessible except by military pass through several feet of solid lead and tachyon shielding beneath a remote airbase that does not appear on any world map.

  I emerge only for the occasional speech to the Competitive Enterprise Institute, luncheons with the Petroleum CEOs of America, and invigorating hunting trips where my ambulance drives me directly in front of a cowering, helpless bird, which I then shoot in the face at point-blank range.

  I also come out every Saturday morning for my weekend workshops on interpretive dance for underprivileged kids in East St. Louis. I really enjoy working with those kids.

  I’d like to reflect, if I might, on the first time I met George W. Bush as a young man. In his father’s White House he was the sharp understudy who showed great curiosity for carrying out the perfect practical joke on old man Cheney. I didn’t particularly appreciate it, but I witnessed a certain bold resolve, a talent for innovative thinking, when he lodged a pork wiener in the fly of my slacks so that it flopped straight out just as I stood to greet the Chinese Premier at an important state dinner.

  And I shared in his delight, retrospectively, for the many times he placed a tack on my office chair. He displayed a tremendous amount of joy and zest for life when I jumped out of my seat, clutching my behind and howling like a wounded animal. There was also the exploding of the beer keg in the East Room, and the numerous circumstances in which he displayed his formidable instincts with a whoopee cushion, most notably as it related to senior administration officials during high-level cabinet meetings.

  Suffice it to say, I knew this was a future world leader of extraordinary promise.

  When then-Governor Bush handpicked me to screen myself for the position of vice-presidential candidate in 2000, I felt what I believed at the time to be a genuine surge of excitement. Either that or I had suffered a major pacemaker malfunction.

  Before recommending myself for the role of the Vice Presidential candidate, I l
ooked at myself very carefully, asking all the tough questions. I recall that I fared pretty well under my scrutiny. I gave me a tough but fair hearing. How’s my heart, I asked. Do I think I can stand the stress? Yes, I believe I can, I answered. Will you serve the President, loyally, faithfully, honorably? Absolutely. My loyalties are clear, I said confidently. The office would come second only to my service to Christ and the Halliburton board of directors.

  The day I received the phone call from myself announcing that I had accepted the job was the happiest of my life. I felt a faith in humanity—a feeling of warmth I hadn’t experienced since the days of the Vietnam War, when I bonded with my fellow men, men who also had other priorities besides fighting.

  Throughout the years, I have been impressed with George W. Bush’s quick wit and keen intellect. When we first met, he smirked broadly while we were shaking hands, then made up an enduring nickname for me right on the spot. Quasimodo. For the last 30 to 35 years that’s what the entire Bush family has called me. Frankly, I’m a bit tired of it.

  But this is neither the time nor the place to air such grievances. This is the time to express my deep and lasting respect for George W. Bush, a Commander in Chief of exceptional capabilities, and to extol this great autobiographic work, which is destined to become a classic of political writing—a “must read,” if you will.

  One thing is clear. I am confident that the President’s beautifully written tales of heroism and triumph over adversity herein will inspire, in significant measure, laughter, thrills, and even weeping in a vast majority of readers.

  Candidly, I found myself moved to tears by these inspiring accounts of a great man’s life and leadership. Rather, I would have been, had my tear ducts not been stapled shut as part of a radial keratectomy procedure I underwent in 1994 for an advanced case of degenerative myopia.

  Now I must conclude my remarks, and turn my attentions back to my official responsibilities here in the underground bunker, where, hunched over my high-tech control console, I am working diligently to perpetuate the permanent state of war and unlimited, almost monarchical rule that our Founding Fathers envisioned, stopping only occasionally to cough up some liver bile and open a shareholder letter informing me of my cut of another quarter’s record Halliburton profits, with which I intend to purchase nothing but precious, life-giving saltines, the only form of sustenance my brittle and cancerous insides can digest.

  Now, please go fuck yourself.

  1

  Like “Roots” Only White

  In the great American TV program “Roots,” author Kunta Kinte traced his ancestry back to the early times in our history.

  My heart was touched by this great drama of history. That is why I intend to embark upon the same journey in this chapter. It may not be as interesting as “Roots,” since it will not be filled with the rich tapestry of culture enjoyed by our blacks, and it will not feature all of the wonderfully colorful slave names which are so entertaining to listen to when the old-time blacks say them with their funny accents. But it will reveal the history of the Bush family, from the pre-historical times of my grandfather all the way to the present times.

  To understand a leader, one need not necessarily look into the past to that particular leader’s noble forebears to gain insight into that leader’s qualities and the “stuff” that he is made of. History has no bearing on the present. One must only look at the kind of man he has grown up to be. Is he likened to the great oak, which will not waiver in the face of the winds of the opposers? Or is he like the mighty rock, which steadfastly governs his fellow man with immobile resolve and the wisdom of the stones?

  In this first chapter of my autobiography, we will take a momentous ancestral journey through my life in which new facts may come to light, creating a context to understand the man who leads our nation.

  But let there be no misunderstanding. I will not do any research for this book. That is not the kind of journey I am talking about. I believe that if a book is to be an accurate account of a man’s life and times, it must come from the heart, and not from dusty old volumes with a lot of complicated words and pages yellowed by the eons.

  What I know is this: In the beginning, the universe was a formless void. Then on the first day, God created Adam. Next there were a series of generations that came and went upon the Earth. Finally, some 100 years ago, my grandfather, Prescott Bush was born.

  Prescott Bush served with distinction as a United States Senator, I am told. His son, George H. W. Bush, also heeded the call of public service and was elected President in the last century, serving one term in which a Great War was begun with a bold code name and determined theme music.

  In contrast, I am now a two-term President. Will there be a third? It is a hypotheoretical question to which only the prophets can know the answer.

  It is worth noting that each new generation of the Bush family achieves more accomplishments than the last.

  Who knows where it all will lead? Will my brother Jeb follow my success with an accomplished administration of his own? Will my daughters serve as twin Presidents who will reign for eight years after that? Or perhaps, one of my daughters will be President, and the other will be Vice President, and then the Vice President will become the President, and vice versa, so that there will be a Bush in the White House for seven generations. Would the constitutional lawyers allow such a scenario? No one can say. The sheer number of possibilities are enough to confuse the mind.

  One thing is clear. There will always be members of the Bush family ready to answer the call to serve their country and steer it off the cliff of greatness.

  But that is not what this first chapter is about. This is not a chapter about future-times. It is one about the times of history. The history of the Bush name.

  As I have said, Prescott Bush lived in an ancient and simpler time, a time when we were not fighting a global war against the enemies of freedom like today. It was a long-ago time of peace and tranquility, the 1930s and 40s.

  My grandfather demonstrated my family’s high ideals and business sense in the area of entrepreneuring. He was a successful banker and merchant who made his fortune by wisely investing in a promising foreign country. It was a country whose fortunes were changing for the better, and who had a promising future under the steady hand of an inspirational leader.

  The proud troops of this country marched through the streets of the cities in gleaming uniforms and shiny black boots that would goose-step high and proud. The great leader was hailed by his people with outstretched arms of awe and wonder.

  Journal page from unknown Bush ancestor, circa 1800

  It took a savvy investor like my grandfather to see that this was an excellent business opportunity—a country that was going places. An industrious nation that operated with military-like precision, tolerating nothing but pure perfection in all of its undertakings and citizenry.

  This strong and patriotic country grew to become one of the leading economic and political powers in all of Europe, eventually surpassing all the world in its manufacture of fine automobiles and electric shavers.

  Prescott Bush also was a devoted family man, passing along his talent for business and politics on to his eldest son, George H. W. Bush, who would become my father.

  My father met my mother at a debutante party when she was 30. He was immediately enchanted by her horse-like beauty, her forceful nature, and her immense stature. She loved his gangly limbs, and his rugged, upper-crust Connecticut standing.

  Barbara Bush, who my mother is also known as, was a good-hearted and strict woman, descended from hardy stock. She was sired and fed to an impressive girth by a wealthy family, led by her father, whose hard work had built a fortune in the doily business.

  Life was not easy in Doily Country. Many families worked all day to create the fine doilies, often suffering from frillyitis of the forearms and fingers. This of course is caused by the repetitious and exacting movements required to manipulate the tiny threads into one-of-a-kind doily pa
tterns.

  My mother narrowly escaped this fate, as her stump-like fingers were unsuited for doily weaving. She found a place in the family business, not as a mill worker, sewing the lacy, ornamental napkins and coasters, but in the parlors of customers, placing the doilies on armchairs and Victorian fainting couches throughout the land.

  It was a hard life, but a dainty one. My mother would survive the great trial of her doily-placing toil, inherit a great doily legacy, and live her life surrounded by doilies. She would be consumed by the lacy ornaments, wearing them around her neck and her face. During lean times, she would be forced to boil doily remnants in water to make doily soup, or put them on stale bread with doilyonnaise to make sandwiches to feed her children.

  My mother wears doilies to this day, and insists they cover every surface she touches. The doily is the proud symbol of her family’s history.

  Yet it conflicted with her inner nature, her true heritage of eons past.

  Family legend tells that Barbara Bush’s genealogy goes back to the Visigoth hordes, a strong and unwavering clan of warriors who laid siege to the Lands of the Ancient Kings. With their battle-axes and lances, they would leave nothing but ruin and blood in their wake, taking donkeys as their brides.

  Apart from my mother, my father, George H. W. Bush, is the finest man I ever knew. He was born in a mud hut, in Kennebunkport, Maine. His father, the modest state senator and landowner of whom I have already written a great deal (see preceding pages), taught him the value of hard work.

  My father hauled bank notes and securities by hand through the New England snow, carrying buckets of money from his father’s banks all the way to the family’s makeshift estate in the Kennebunkport, Maine territory. His spirits refused to be daunted by the hard work, and as the sun set, you could often hear his lyrical and beautiful money-hauling song float across the countryside.