It's no big dial - Beaver fever feared as 'nordern buddy' rings up Bush on 'da hot line'
By: Gary Dunford, Toronto Sun, 10/12/03

HIGH TIMES: "Georges!" cries the prime minister, calling his doubtful pal and sounding very unlike himself. "You never believe what I've got in one hand while I hold telephone in da udder." "Who is this?" asks George Bush.

"Who else call on da hot line, Bushie?" laughs Chretien. "Guess! Hokay, I tell you. Da Nordern Buddy--dough you never come see me, never invite to west Texas ranch to ride truck, shoot beef. Coo coo cajoo."

"President Crayon? Are you drunk?"

"I yam walrus," the PM says. "Oh yes, day try kill walrus, hit wid club like seal. Bang bang baby. Nobody split hard walrus noggin. Old walrus go nowhere. Walrus put feet up, eat Doritos til caucus cows come home."

"Beaver fever!" curses Bush. "Are you high, Crate? Whacked out on the demon weed? Rollin' yer own? Sniffin' ashtrays? You swore you wouldn't try pot til you retire! What kind of tinhorn ranch you runnin' up there?"

"I never retire, Georges. It is hoax. Can you get gum off linoleum? Spots off monkey? White off rice? My peoples luv me and da Grit party. We got Ontario too, now! Beaucoup dinners, fine tributes, everybuddy tell me how day luv Da Legacy. Stay, everybuddy beg! Don't leaf! Hokay, I stay."

"That's funny," says Bush. "Canader's other president calls every day. Beggin' for my attention. Wants to be buds. Thinks continental. Golfs. Fishes. We don't take his calls yet cause he ain't in the Rolodex."

"I yam still walrus, Bushie. Why you never invite me down to Texas, Georges? Bury hatchet. Bale hay. Kiss hand of lovely Laura, like Chirac. Where did tings go wrong for us? I love you, man ..."

"Don't go startin' that kinda talk," warns Bush. "I know what Canader's up to. Two grooms on a wedding cake? Same-sex shenanigans? Pot reform? Hey, I read Newsweek. And now, I'm takin' stoner calls?"

PLAYS HARD TO GET

"Georges," comforts Chretien. "Sometime Canada play hard to get. No double date to Iraq. Shoot mouth off for fun like old married couple. Bitch when you bomb us. But I love you, man! Da mountains may tumble, Gibraltar may crumble, dare only made of clay ..."

"Crate, this is your brain on drugs," warns the president. "Just say 'no,' like me and Laura. Weeds are the primary cause of brain fart. You know what I'm talkin' bout here? Down at the ranch, we tear up pot weeds, destroy 'em before the big black helicopters have to come and kill us."

"I don't know marijuana," Chretien chuckles. "Yip yip yip yip, mum mum mum mum, get a job ... sha na na na ..."

"Get rid of yer stash," Bush instructs. "Democracy good. Pot bad. Especially Cancon cave weed. Are you guys nuts? Bin Laden tried to grow pot in those Gannerstan caves. You know, the al-qeed-dah? You need sunlight for plants, Crate. That's how plants grow. Am I makin' myself clear?"

"Ever lay on back and look straight up at ceiling fan, Bushie? Round and round and you start to float ..."

"You know who grows weeds?" Bush asks. "Evil Doers. A lot of these plants you see growin' in foreign countries, you know what they do? They grind up the seeds or bark, bake 'em into whoopee pills. Condoleeza told me. That's why I'm against forests. Plants are drugs on the hoof. President Crayon, are you listening?"

"Here we live," hums the PM, "a life of ease. Every one of us, has all we need. A sky of blue, a sea of green. In our yellow ... cracked ... submarine."

'CONK ON HEAD'

"The Evil Ones want us weak," Bush says. "Tom Ridge says so. Fat. Sleepy. Full of Oreo double fudge. Munchies. Weed is where it starts. They hate our system, you see. Ask yourself: What's Canada's role?"

"A tickle of joy on da blue belly of da universe?"

"Crate, you gotta quit it or I'm changin' this number."

"Please!" begs the PM. "When walrus finally get conk on head, no more king of caucus, I need Georges chat more dan ever. Who knows, da weapons of mass distraction never turn up, maybe you have free time too!"

"In a pig's ear," snaps Bush. "Like I told Tony Blair -- you know him? -- stick to the story. Gotta go. Putin's on the phone."

"Will you still be sending me a Valentine?" sings Chretien. "Birthday greetings, bottle of wine? Would you lock the door? Send me a postcard, drop me a line, you'll be older too ... will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm ..."

"Just keep sendin' us that syrup," the president says. "And quit headin' the wrong way. Don't make us put you on our list."

No Mounties were involved in today's phone call.