Somehow I don't think he'll be crying at his birthday

The First Chick - I call her LB, short for Laura Bush of course, because me and the president's main squeeze are tighter than Angelina Jolie and adobtable Eastern Asia kids - sent me an e-mail today reminding me that Georgie's brithday is coming up. July 6 to be precise.

Since the last e-mail from my buddy George, I hadn't heard from my favorite power couple. I thought maybe they lost my address, but quickly realized that couldn't be the case. I'm sure they have it on file somewhere. Really, they're system of filing has to be better than mine. I don't imagine they write e-mail addresses down on strip club receipts that just happen to be on the oval office desk or inside matchbooks from D.C. techno clubs (don't tell me that Yale frat boy inside Georgie doesn't need to be fed every once in a while). Then, I thought, maybe they were just too busy to send a little "how ya doin', pardner" e-mail. But c'mon, what the hell does the president really do? I bet download porn on a secure Internet connection. Where's the threat? Do you want to be the joker who checks the Prez' computer cache to see what sites he visited late last night, when LB was asleep and little Bush wanted to play? Anyway, that's why he has his minions. They do all the shit and he just sits on TV, using words that would get you a high score in Scrabble. Finally, I decided I must have said something to piss the leader of the free world off. I know, I'm surprised as you are, but believe it or not, I do piss off folks from time to time with the things that come out of my cake hole.

So, when I saw my reminder note from LB I figured whatever I said was forgotten (I'm sure it was something like: Hey, ass schmuck, why don't you fix the gas prices. And look, he heard me and acted, reluctantly, I'm sure, but that 15 cent price drop means my cats can eat Science Diet again instead of that processed Purina crap.)

"Dear Republican," the e-mail starts (I'd remind her I'm not, but it won't work. After a while, it's like when someone thinks your name is Bill when it's really Dick, you just go with it and give up correcting the error), and right there I know this will be a friendly, conversational e-mail. If it began "Dear Democrat" it would be followed with slime or ass clown or butt monkey. Hence, another reason why I don't correct LB. Nothing's worse than to hear the words "shit bird" come out of the First Chick's mouth.

She goes onto say Georgie will celebrate 61 this year - the same age as the Old Man - and that they always party with family and close friends. Well, hell, that's me. If they're sending me personalized e-mails like this, we must be BFFs. I'm planning already. If they like to celebrate with friends, I'll bring the beer and the bong (beer, it is ... the other bong was for those wild Clinton parties in the '90s). We'll tear the White House up, and no one's going home until we see Georgie pull a Tom Cruise in Risky Business across the main foyer.

She asks for gifts, and is even forward-thinking enough to give me some ideas: "Your secure online gift of $61 or whatever you can afford - $25, $75, $100, $500 or even $1,000 - will go a long way toward helping the RNC lay the foundation for electing more Republicans in the 2007 state and 2008 national elections." Now, I'll admit I was a little miffed that my present was going directly to Georgie. Heck, I figured with the five bones I was going to send him he could put that toward Michael Moore's movie, or Al Gore's Academy Award winning movie (at least he can win something). Then I figured, my pressence alone, along with a 12er of Georgie's favorite suds, would be gift enough. I can see it now, me and him tossing back cold Old Milwaukees while looking over the Rose Garden on a sweltering D.C. evening. That's before LB comes out in her Princess Lea "Return of the Jedi" outfit to announce that cake is being served.

And maybe they'll have Britany Spears sing for him.