Hello, friends. It's Chas, back from a long trip to the Vatican (not France, Spencer ... like I'd associate with cheese-eating surrender monkeys). I won't bore you with the details of my journey — like flying in my own Gulf Stream V-SP, the most expensive private jet in the world at a whopping $45 million — but let's just say that Christianity and the conservative way of life are safe for the time being and will be for a while after I did a little favor for Joe, aka Pope Benedict XVI. Hey, I owed him for recommending my new tailor. Seriously, it's so hard to find a good one these days that doesn't make you feel nervous when he cups your balls.
Anyway, to celebrate my return home, I was joined for a light lunch by my girlfriend, an overqualified receptionist with a body that would turn Sam Donaldson straight (as if that's even possible).
Seeing as how I've been so busy saving America from demonic atheists and liberals — same thing — I haven't really been able to keep an eye on the Homeland Security's terror level, which happened to be raised that day to Orange: "high risk of terrorist attacks." I read about it in the Union Leader while refueling in New Hampshire (98 percent white).
We were at a restaurant with a name you probably can't pronounce in a neighborhood you only wish you could be seen in, eating watermelon soup with vegetables. It's part of this whole Sonoma diet we're into. The sun was out that afternoon, so baby was wearing a stunning Philip Treacy hat and Matsuda sunglasses, and we were discussing the miracle of carbonated natural water.
All of a sudden, a loud, booming siren sounded, as if a tornado had just touched down, a hurricane was about to hit shore or a meteor was racing toward the Earth, and we were all screwed. Only, the weather was perfect, not a cloud in the sky, and nobody from NASA had called to give me a heads up. I knew something was wrong. Could it be my old foe, Al-Qaeda? It kept going and going, and it seemed to be getting louder and louder. My anxiety kicked in, and I didn't have any Xanax around, because baby took them all before the McCain fund-raiser last week.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a moving van parking nearby, and the driver got out, wearing a turban. Could that be the Al-Qaeda operative? Instead of taking any chances, I took the offensive and grabbed my chilled salad fork and began sprinting toward him and the truck he drove, which very well could have been full of C4!
I tackled him, put the fork to his neck and screamed, "Not today, Barack!" He screamed like a little girl. I was sure it was due to his guilty conscience, but it turned out to be because of the freezing metal. "I no know what'chu mean," he pleaded, and until I checked to see his vehicle was full of chairs, I didn't believe him, and I kept slapping him to try and get some answers.
Eventually the siren stopped, leaving me puzzled and highly embarrassed. Explaining the situation to the cops only got worse when they began laughing at me, because the siren I freaked out over was in fact the weekly Wednesday-at-noon test of the civil defense siren that's been going on since it was installed during the reign of that commie, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in case Japan or Germany got ballsy.
Afterward, I looked at the bumper sticker on my Ferrari 612 Scaglietti and knew I hadn't overreacted and that my intentions were in the best interest of the country, no matter what some hippy, liberal douche might say.
~What Would Rumsfeld Do?~