"I will do whatever is possible," I responded evenly, "to convince you that the best interests of America are always uppermost in my priorities, my mind and my heart."
"Well," he said, "you've got a gifted uhh tongue, I'll give you that. Well now, I'll tell you what, you take that uhh Muslim lovin' bumper sticker off yer uhh vehicle, and I'll give you ten gallons of gas, and you can uhh skedaddle out of here real quick like."
I went to the rear of my car, peeled off Obama, and said, "You've got a deal!"
Bushman went to the gas pump, punched in a code, lifted the nozzle, and said, "First that'll be uhh one hunnerd dollars."
I looked up to the sign in front of the station which read: Regular $3.97.
"Your sign says..." I started.
"Look here, mister, you want to uhh get your Muslim lovin' terrorist ass out of Adolpho, it's a hunnerd dollars. This here is uhh capitalism at work, it's the American way, something you uhh traitor p*ssy librals can uhh never come to grips with. You want petrol, or do I consult with my uhh good American friend in the uhh white car down the street?"
Clutching the reality of my situation, I ripped five twenties out of my wallet and laid them in his hand. The mask nodded, the pump sounded its business.
At exactly ten-point-zero gallons the masked man released the lever and hung up the nozzle, then turned to me silently, arms akimbo once more.
"I need to ask you a question," I said.
"What?" came out of the smirking mouth of the George W. Bush mask.
"Now don't be offended, but I need to ask you about the get up, the suit, and especially the mask, here at a gas station in Adolpho, rural Florida -- it just isn't what one would expect. Now please don't get upset, but frankly it's completely bizarre, and runs counter to anyone's possible concept of reality."
His arms shoot up into the air, "Reality," he explodes, "what do you p*ssy libral Muslim lovers know about reality? I'm telling you, very lucky man so far, we here are experts in reality!"
Then lowering his hands to tug at his flag-foulard necktie, then to fiddle fussily with the flag lapel pin, and finally pressing his palms at each temple of the grotesque George W. Bush mask, he blasts a scream through the unchangeable smirking aperture: "This IS the reality of America!"
I didn't need to witness more. Fearing for both my sanity and my safety, I backed myself defensively through the door of my car, turned the ignition key, and moved off down the road briskly but prudently so not to trip the radar of the "good American friend in the uhh white car down the street."
Passing the uninviting speeder-warning signs on the far side of town, I exhaled in relief that I had escaped Adolpho, but my mind could not shed the impact of the suit, the mask, but mostly of: This IS the reality of America!
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