My Fellow Americans,

Now that those old fuc-- er ah, now that the Supreme Court in its undisputable senility -- er ah, wisdom -- has ruled against me, it is clear Mr. Bush is President.

This is a time of great emotion. The American people again and again have pleaded with me to show some real emotion. After careful consideration, I have selected the emotion of Anger.

My Fellow Americans, you suck. How could you elect some sauced-up Texas cow-puncher to the highest office in the land over me? I'm more experienced than Bush, I'm a better statesman, I've done more for this country, hell, I'm even better looking than that pasty-faced mamma's boy. Not to mention the most important advantage, I'm not from Texas. They say only queers and steers come from Texas. How is it going to look to visiting dignitaries when they see a pair of longhorns on the hood of the presidential limousine?

Although I wish Mr. Bush success as President, and ask that everyone now support his Presidency, I do wish him considerable personal harm. In fact it would sure be nice if he was to fall into a large pit of tar. And perhaps that tar could be lit in a smoldering flame.

Of course, Joe Lieberman and I would do nothing to encourage anyone to throw Mr. Bush into a vat of smoldering tarry muck, but we would not rule out chuckling if it happened.

The man is a lush, folks. Do you really want some boozer throwing keggers at the White House and cruising around D.C. half in the bag and running into lightpoles? Well, that's what you're going to get.

And I'll tell you something else. Bush has got a small dick. It's true. Laura told me. That's right, Dubya, I banged her. I banged her like a screen door. What do you think about that?

I deserve this presidency, damnit. I earned it. I didn't spend eight years kissing Bill Clinton's doughy, white ass and tucking chinamen into the Lincoln bedroom just so I could go back to divinity school. Where's my reward? Where are my blowjobs? Do you know I haven't had oral sex since 1993? It's no Mardi Gras curling up next to the Prozac princess every night and interns don't do favors for the V.P. Those are the kind of sacrifices I've made for this country. And what do I get in return? "Thanks a lot Al. You can go back to Tennessee now." Well, no thank you M'am.

A Democratic administration wasn't so bad. Look at everything we've accomplished: we had a few laughs, we had a war, we balanced the budget, we had an impeachment, in my book that's good politics. Do you really want to go back to a Republican White House? Well, you can read my lips, you morons are all fucking insane. Nobody in their right mind would elect Bush.

To the American people. This may have been obvious, but I don't really like you all that much. In fact, I'm much smarter than you. This is a stupid country of 50 stupid states broken up into many stupid counties full of stupid voters with broken voting machines and stupid punch cards that people are too stupid too punch all the way through.

I'm going to move somewhere else, like Luxembourg or France. Like so many artists, poets and David Hasselhof, I now hope to trade in my American shame in order to "make it big in Europe."

To the soccer moms who gave me so many votes this election. Thank you. But I must make a confession at this time. Despite my attacks on the NRA. I actually do like to fire guns. Love to shoot em for no reason at all. Near schools, sometimes. Just for kicks. And I'm not really a big enemy of tobacco. I dont' smoke, of course, just kinda chew on the leaves and spit, you know.

To the rotting justices of the Supreme Court, you can go to Hell -- go to... Heck --sorry kids.

To the residents of my home state of Tennessee, thanks your utter lack of support for me and your crushing denial of my election hopes. I never liked the place anyway. It's a dumb state. Its even shaped weird. Kinda like a big log. You can kiss the Gore Vice Presidential Library, and all the business it would have brought to Tennessee, goodbye.

But now I must leave you for my most immediate project. You see, a bunch of the guys -- Walter Mondale, Mike Dukakis and I -- are going to start a little club were we beat the heck out of each other and then feel better about ourselves, you know, kinda like the Brad Pitt movie.

Thank you.