I wrote this when Bush was President.  The current state of the Union could have been avoided if this game had been played.

My friend Dill recently suggested we play drunken beach volleyball for domination of the world’s oil rights. I thought the idea hilarious and immediately began imagining such a game.

The rules to my fantasy drunken beach volleyball game are rigid. I get to pick both teams. No professional volleyball players or professional drinkers will be allowed. Obviously, Dill is a teammate. Tim Duncan, the seven foot power forward of the World Champion San Antonio Spurs basketball team, will play the net. Next to him is George Clooney, not because he has a fine ass, but because he’s a political activist and seems athletic. Truly, I have no interest in his exceptionally fine ass. On the other side of Clooney is the only other girl on my team, my übergay friend Moses. He probably sucks at volleyball, but he’s a vicious bitch and would be the designated hurler of invectives at the other team. My final teammate and ball server throughout the entire game is Jesus Christ. The official cheerleader for our team is Lewis Black, who refuses to wear shorts, sweats a lot, and rants more than usual. My teammates all look very attractive in their Hawaiian print shorts. I'm wearing a bikini and temporarily using Angelina Jolie’s body out of respect for my teammates' delicate sensibilities.

The front line of the other team consists of a pasty white Dick Cheney, clad in a red, white and blue Speedo and nothing else. Next to him is Hugo Chavez, who even in my fantasy, refuses to give up his red shirt. King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia is the final player on the front line. He is wearing a flowing white kandura and a keffiyeh on his head. The remaining three players are Abdullah’a bodyguards, all dressed in westernized business suits and carrying automatic weapons manufactured in the United States. George W. Bush is the cheerleader for the other team. He’s wearing nothing but a short pleated red cheerleading skirt and cowboy boots. He enthusiastically shakes pom-poms made of hundred dollar bills.

The referee and line judges are scantily clad male models who aren’t there to call the game so much as to keep my team supplied with beer.

Half the stands are filled with drunken slackers who save their loudest cheers for the vendors handing out free beer. The remaining seats are filled with anal retentive neocons whose ersatz faith in Jesus is shattered as he serves ace after ace over the net. As good an arm as he has, our superiority isn’t all about the holy service. Chavez is rendered useless because Dick Cheney has him in a headlock. King Abdullah sits on a throne pouting because everyone else is drunk and he’s not allowed to drink - at least not in public. His bodyguards mistakenly think the purpose of the game is to blow the shit out of the harmless volleyballs hurling toward their charge. They fire their weapons wildly and often, occasionally taking out a conservative right wing spectator in the crowd.

At one point during the game, Jesus loses his temper and serves one right into Bush’s face to keep from hearing “Is we winning? Yes we is! Is they losing? Yes they is! Bush goes down and Secret Service agents tackle Jesus, stirring up sand which gets in my beer. As the referee declares us the winning team, I pull Jesus out from beneath the pile and then turn to observe what appears to be a rugby scrum rather than beach volleyball.

On her way down from the top of the stands, an outraged Barbara Bush trips, rolls and bounces all the way to the beach, causing almost as much destruction as the day she gave birth to her eldest son.

Moses pauses in his flirting with Clooney long enough to perform a dancer’s high kick which instantly gives Cheney a deeper understanding of enhanced interrogation techniques. As the Vice-President releases the throat of one of America’s biggest enemies and clutches what are left of his testicles, the hapless Chavez finds his relief is short lived. Followed by his bodyguards, the Saudi Arabian king uses the Venezuelan as a red carpet to exit the game.

To the delightful sound of the wailing of a bunch of sore losers, my team triumphantly staggers off the beach to open a keg and celebrate the new world order. Mission accomplished.

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