Barbara Bush, though dead, still had enough common sense to know the difference between a dog collar and a cat comb. "Listen!" She commanded in demoness form: "I'm a dude-worthy ex-lady who has talons for finger-nails and more ***** friends than I need!" Later, after a million rectums were examined by ex-proctologists who rafted to Key West from Havana, Papa Bush laid down some mean jazz grooves that made dead skanks want to live again.

“You'll not butcher this kitten!” She exclaimed forcefully. The butcher looked at her with steely eyes. “I will **** that kitten and drink its blood!” He said. “Hold on there a minute!” George Bush hollered. “My wife will **** you if I tell her to.” Barbara lifted her leg to scratch where it was itchy when Jeb walked in. “What's going on?” Jeb asked. “This butcher thinks that he can butcher kittens in front of me!” Barbara explained. “That's not right!” Jeb whimpered. Barbara took Jeb's manly hand. “Son,” she whispered, “your father and I have always been deeply in love with each other a lot.” Jeb looked directly into Barbara's 2 eyes. “I know, Mother, but I have the hots for ******* women.”