"Mr. President, thank you for proving that

"Mr. President, thank you for proving that speaking well has nothing to with real leadership. We should have went with Hillary." TV cameras caught Obama's face. Biden hit pause on

the TiVo remote and turned to Gore. "Who thinks up this shit, Al? Why am I a character at all?" Gore, of course, knew better. "Joe," he began, "you have to understand that

trailer park living is not for everyone." He continued, saying that life propped up on cinder blocks took a special kind of person, the kind that

yard was anyone's guess. But one lawnmower that he'd trashed after three years whom he lovingly called Christine was possessed and lurking in the yard. On his yearly mow with a new

mower, he could feel Christine watching him with envy as he checked the dip stick. Christine wasn't going to let him ride that grass-fed cutting machine, no, she was going to

have him do other things. "Hey baby, can you teach me how to check the dip-stick?" Christine said it in a low, sultry voice even as she let loose with a giant

belch-fart combination. He just gave her an odd look. "There isn't really such a thing as a dipstick," he said. "You fucking MORON, Christine. Don't you know about cars AT ALL?"

"You push the pedal and they go, that's all anyone needs to know." Her smug satisfaction was disrupted by a tire iron ruining her facial features. He

stood aghast at his own unmitigated violence. He was in a PG movie, how would this ever get by the censors? He heard the sirens and knew too late, "Oh F#%@!"