NO VAGINAL DELIVERY FOR THIS BUSH

The scene is tense in the operating theater.

The president's contractions are coming faster.

Pearl-size sweat-beads slide down the length of his athletic body, and characteristic monosyllabic runts slip out of his mouth.

Oh George! Oh Double-U! Oh Bush!

He can think only of his good friends: Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and Jesus Christ.

Wolfowitz, the OB-GYN, thinks a vaginal delivery will not be possible. Twins can be tough.

During the pregnancy, the president had nicknamed the two Romulus and Remus, and joked that Wolfowitz ought to nurse them. The president still can't believe the Lord blessed him with a man-womb.

Wolfowitz is already thinking about his next delivery.

A Caesarean section for the imperial man-womb at hand it will have to be.

Oh George! Oh Double-U! Oh Bush!

Luckily, Wolfowitz has already summoned Perle, who dutifully administers the anesthesia. The president sighs, and drifts out of consciousness. Our anesthesiologist, The Prince of Darkness, has cast his gaseous spell again.

Incision. Nothing beats the feel of a cold Bard-Parker on human skin.

Oh George! Oh Double-U! Oh Bush!

The first baby's scalp has been sliced, and droops off the cranium, like an orange peel.

The baby is brown, with black hair, and a disappointingly low APGAR score. This one goes to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, possibly Morgue.

The second one is also chocolate.

Oh George! Oh Double-U! Oh Bush!

This one cries. He's a fighter. They can't help but notice. He looks a helluva lot like his father Osama.

Congratulations, Mr Bin Laden and Mr Bush, they're boys!