This diary entry was sneaked out of the White House by a mouse who prefers to be known only as "Deep Throat II". After some bartering (which involved an undisclosed amount of oatmeal and cheddar cheese), I obtained the diary pages. Here is the entry. The illustrations are my interpretations of first-hand descriptions of certain incidents told to me by Deep Throat II, who secretly taped Barneys conversations with Lulu, a mouse that lives in the White House kitchen.
Dear Diary,
Well, it's been another long and bizarro day at the White House. I don't know how much longer I can stand it.The stress is making my hair fall out and I think I'm becoming bullemic...I can't stop making myself throw up. But then, maybe I'm just getting an ulcer.
I never asked to be a celebrity dog. Give me a few trees and parking meters to sniff in the city or a patch of stinky mud in the country to roll in and I'd be happy as a clam. (Are clams happy? I'm skeptical.)
But here I am, stuck here at this big pile of limestone with a lunatic and a pack of uptight suits who could use some primal scream therapy. That ballon-faced guy, Karl Rove, especially, makes my skin crawl. He's all cute and lovey dovey with me whenever G. W. is around (as cute and lovey dovey as someone who looks like an evil version of the Staypuff Marshmallow Man can be, anyway). But the other day when G.W. went down the hall to ask Condi a question, he kicked me and told me I looked like a yak someone had cut off at the knees.
Laura's not too bad, but I don't think they can raise her Prozac dose anymore without killing her. But G.W. - the lunatic I referred to earlier - is my biggest problem. He's getting creepier all the time.....
FOR THE FULL STORY (couldn't figure out how to insert images in the text here at the UK site) go to
http://baltimore.indymedia.org/newswire/display/5006/index.php
Well, it's been another long and bizarro day at the White House. I don't know how much longer I can stand it.The stress is making my hair fall out and I think I'm becoming bullemic...I can't stop making myself throw up. But then, maybe I'm just getting an ulcer.
I never asked to be a celebrity dog. Give me a few trees and parking meters to sniff in the city or a patch of stinky mud in the country to roll in and I'd be happy as a clam. (Are clams happy? I'm skeptical.)
But here I am, stuck here at this big pile of limestone with a lunatic and a pack of uptight suits who could use some primal scream therapy. That ballon-faced guy, Karl Rove, especially, makes my skin crawl. He's all cute and lovey dovey with me whenever G. W. is around (as cute and lovey dovey as someone who looks like an evil version of the Staypuff Marshmallow Man can be, anyway). But the other day when G.W. went down the hall to ask Condi a question, he kicked me and told me I looked like a yak someone had cut off at the knees.
Laura's not too bad, but I don't think they can raise her Prozac dose anymore without killing her. But G.W. - the lunatic I referred to earlier - is my biggest problem. He's getting creepier all the time.....
FOR THE FULL STORY (couldn't figure out how to insert images in the text here at the UK site) go to
http://baltimore.indymedia.org/newswire/display/5006/index.php
