Another, earthshaking scoop about US politics (a 2.5 tremor on the Rorschach scale occurred as Somer wrote this). Here you will learn about a secret society that created the Bush political dynasty, and about its plan to elect a third Bush as President in 2016 (or 2020) by countering the generalized feeling that the first two Bushes were too macho for the job.

Emerging from the Bushes: The first ‘female’ president of the USA?
By: Somer Knight

First a brief note to my concerned public: You will note that the title of this work neither infers nor refers to conspiracy. Thanks to an extensive stay at the Ken Kesey Memorial Hospital in Snake Pit, Oregon, I no longer believe in conspiracy theories. I now know that a magic bullet didn’t kill John F. Kennedy, that Princess Diana didn’t die in a car crash, that a one-eyed general didn’t try to blow up Hitler, that an airplane didn’t hit the Pentagon on 9-11, that aliens (not even Mexicans) never came to Roswell, New Mexico, and that the Japanese didn’t attack Pearl Harbor.

Relieved of all my anxieties thanks to smoking Pepsi, and mindlessly indifferent to the conspiracies that still surround us (flaking tooth enamel concerns me more), I have gone back to work as an investigative reporter. At first, I had no leads. No matter how much I beat the bushes for big game, all I flushed out were small fry that I knew that the biased mainstream media would refuse to touch with a barge pole:

Fox News, which claims to be true-blue American, is owned by a foreigner — by an Australian of all things. Wasn’t Hitler originally an Australian?

The Spanish won the World Cup of (Soccer) Football in 2010 by three clever ruses: first, by distracting Christiano Ronaldo by reminding him that he was on television; second, by urging the Germans to prove that they were “human enough” to be as disorganized as the French and Italians; and third, by enraging the Dutch players (who retaliated with stupid fouls) by telling them that their sisters were too homely to work in an Amsterdam brothel. Reports that the Spanish slowed the English team to a crawl by reminding them to queue up have been debunked; it appears that English soccer players are naturally slow something to do with their breakfast).

The Red Bull F-1 racing team is doping its drivers with a noxious elixir (originally from Thailand — just like opium!) that makes them think that they have wings. US Naval Aviators have been forbidden to ingest this fluid (as of spring 2010), possibly out of fear that they will forget to use an actual airplane when taking off from a carrier.

Justin Bieber is actually a female.

The price of gold is set to collapse because of the recent discovery of the philosophers’ stone (painfully passed by a Red Bull driver).

The National Institutes of Health have suppressed a report that politicians are 10,000 times more likely than the average American to have a two-faced baby.

A hush-hush exhumation has recently revealed that the United States had a FTM crossdresser as President in the 1840s who changed her original name, Joan Katholic Pope, to James K. Polk. As President, she acquired San Francisco and West Hollywood for her peeps by an act of naked aggression against the Mexicans (who fled in horror at the sight of thousands of pallid, flabby, gringo bodies).

American asylums prematurely release mental patients to improve their “success” rate.

Realizing that none of these scoops would interest the editors of the New York Times, the National Enquirer, Big Closet Top Shelf and TGFiction.Net, I searched out Doctor Kermit Krankzinnig, D. Amphib. Let. Since our last meeting, at which he told me the “truth” about Barack Obama’s birth certificate, I have learned that the Doctor is an admitted herpetologist (thanks, no doubt, to his nocturnal pursuits in Holland’s red-lit swamps).

Naturally I avoided kissing Dr. Krankzinnig at our reunion. (Carlotta, my Chinese transsexual, transgenerational lover, has told me that she’ll leave me if I become infectious with another venerable, sexually-transmuted disease.) Dr. Krankzinnig seemed to take in good spirits (he even laughed) when I showed up at his apartment in my red latex bondage gear. I figured it would prevent my catching the herpes virus from the Doctor, who looked a bit green around the gills, but I probably shouldn’t have worn the ball gag. It not only hindered communication., it also caused me to pass out.

What I would look like in latex if I were a model.

I stopped using the ball gag, however, after I awoke to the Doctor’s amorously giving me the kiss of life. The carbon dioxide he was exhaling must have caused global warming of my body, for it was another hour before we had both cooled sufficiently to continue the interview. A word to the wise — although Doctor Krankzinnig has a great mind, he jumps about too much in bed to be worth a herpes infection. Fortunately, the only thing I can blame on the Doctor is a case of warts.

After we had regained our composure, I asked the Doctor for an update on the Obamas. At times I had difficulty hearing him (because of the racket made by his pet crickets), but I believe he was talking about the public relations fiasco known as the First Lady’s holiday at a five-star resort in Spain at a time when so many American families and resorts were suffering economically. I concurred that Michelle was much too intelligent ever to make a bonehead move, and so her Spanish trip must have a hidden agenda.

Doctor Krankzinnig hypothesized that Michelle made a flashy trip to Spain to divert attention from Barack, who may have been having a secret operation for one of those “female problems” attendant on menopause (which even transgenders can’t entirely avoid). I thought the hypothesis plausible. Stranger things have been known to happen in the White House.

However, I hadn’t come to the good Doctor for gossip about the Obamas. After all, I didn’t want to be put on a list of haters by writing about them twice. So I asked Kermit (we have been on a first-name basis since the kiss of life) if he had any juicy news about a Republican.

However, I advised him that I wasn’t interested in learning about another married, Bible-punching, “homophobic”, polygamous Mormon Congressman from West Hollywood (it’s always out west somewhere!) being arrested for goosing male Congressional pages or picking up “traps” in the women’s toilet at the airport. “That sort of sex scandal is old news,” I said. “Surely, you know something more novel.”

After chiding me for calling him Shirley (he feared that I had already forgotten his name), Kermit asked if I knew anything about Skull and Bones, a secret society at Yale University.

Did I know about it? Well, can a frog swim? If I still believed in conspiracies, I would have replied that Skull and Bones were linked to the Bilderbergers, the Davos Forum, the Trilateral Commission, Bohemian Grove, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Business Roundtable, the Freemasons, Jesuits, Hassidim, Salafists, Queen Elizabeth and Wal-Mart in a plot to rule the world.

More cautiously I replied: “Not much, but I do know this : That a U.S. court just ruled that the Club’s skull and bones, which seem to be those of the great war chief Geronimo, don’t have to be returned to the Apaches for proper burial. Intriguing decision, that, for it’s unusual for Native Americans to lose a case like that these days.”

The Skull & Bones of Geronimo?

“Yes, yes,” Kermit replied testily. “This fact is already well known. Did you also know that President Obama and Robert Gates, the Secretary of Defense whom he inherited from the second President Bush, are descendants of Geronimo, according to Ramsay Clark, who was Attorney-General in the 1960s? It’s Clark who sued fin 2009 for the return of the skull and bones. The chief research archivist at Yale actually believes the bones are those of Geronimo.”

As I couldn’t let Kermit have the last word, I pointed out that they may actually be those of Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary and bandit, whose skull has definitely gone missing; rumor has it that Skull and Bones bought Villa’s head in the 1920s at a Head store in Haight-Ashbury.

Pancho Villa’s head (the hat cost extra)

Kermit snorted: “A Yale graduate debunked the Pancho Villa story back in The New Yorker in 1989. You know that The New Yorker is a definitive source, its humorless cartoons making it almost a journal of record like the New York Times. No, it’s Geronimo’s head the Bonesmen have, I’ll wager.”

Tired of this jawboning, I played my trump card in this game of one-upmanship: “You must know that both presidential candidates in 2004 — George W. Bush and John Forbes Kerry — were Bonesmen, as were Presidents William Howard Taft and George H. W. Bush. It’s indeed a small world after all, considering that the Bones only add fifteen members a year and there’s not more than six hundred of them alive at any one time.”

I winked knowingly several times.

Kermit replied testily: “I know all that, as well as the fact that Montgomery Burns, Homer Simpson’s boss at the nuclear power plant, is a Bonesman. But you’re missing the big picture, Somer. You’re unable to see the Bushes for the trees. Do you not find it curious that Skull and Bones, a secret society founded in 1832, the year in which the Democratic Party was founded, the year in which the first truly “democratic” election (for white guys, anyway) was fought in the United States, waited until the 1970s to start keeping its membership list a secret? Why then?”

If I still believed in conspiracies, I would have attempted a reply, but knowing that my cure depends on maintaining my silence, I waited for Kermit to use the “C” word first.

In any case, Kermit wasn’t going to wait for me to grope for an explanation, as opposed to a body part. So he began an hour-long lecture on the economic crisis of 1973-1982, which in the interests of keeping my last four readers I can summarize thus: the American economy went into the toilet and hasn’t resurfaced since.

Sure, there has been the illusion of economic growth — thanks to borrowed money, first from Japan, Hong Kong and Taiwan, and more recently from China; but personal incomes, after rising quickly for the first four decades after World War II, have been flat and losing ground to most of the world since the mid-1970s. As a result, Americans have become increasingly disillusioned, and the political system itself is at risk.

In response to this crisis, Skull and Bones became determined, according to Kermit, to take more direct control of the Presidency; their chosen conduit was Bonesman Preston Bush, a investment banker, who represented Connecticut in the U.S. Senate in 1953-1963. He might have been chosen because of his business ties to Averell Harriman (who played a dominant role in the Democratic Party from the 1950s until his death in 1986, whereupon his wife Pamela became the party’s chief fundraiser until her own death in 1997).

“Or maybe,” Kermit added, “Preston, an intelligence officer in World War I, whose son George H. W., would become head of the CIA, was simply regarded by Skull and Bones as the ultimate Bonesmen, who’d guard its most precious secrets with their lives — or at least, with someone’s life.”

I thought it high time to let Kermit know that he wasn’t telling me anything new; so I challenged his reason for the choice of Preston Bush: “I doubt it’s got anything to do with keeping secrets for the United States. It’s more to do with Geronimo’s skull. You do know,” I asked with a hint of sneer, “that CNN television has identified Preston Bush as one of the six Bonesmen who ‘probably’ stole Geronimo’s bones from Fort Sill, Oklahoma in 1918? Do you think it’s possible that heist is the secret the Bush family has been protecting for 83 years?”

“Does it really matter?” Kermit replied. “My point is this: in response to the economic crisis of the 1970s, a crisis from which the United States has never recovered, Skull and Bones formulated a secret plan for direct control of the Presidency, rather than indirect, as in the past. You do know, don’t you, that 1971 was the last year that the United States had a favorable balance of payments — the last year, you know, in which it didn’t have to write IOU’s to the rest of the world?”

So what? This was all ancient history as far as I was concerned: “Okay, okay, if as you say, Skull and Bones decided some time in the 1970s to take direct control of the Presidency through the descendants of Preston Bush, how come there have been three Democratic presidents since then, and one of them the aggrieved descendant of Geronimo?”

“Interesting coincidence, that fact about Obama,” Kermit mused. “It may explain why there are so many people determined to deny him a second term.”

“Either that or they’re afraid what the Oil Sheikhs will say when it comes out that Barack was born a woman,” I said. “If Skull and Bones leads a conspiracy as powerful as you intimate, why the Democrats in the White House? Why were the Bush presidents so unpopular with the ‘mainstream media’, which must to some extent be ‘influenced’ by Skull and Bones? Time Magazine (TimeWarner) was founded by two Bonesmen, was it not?”

Kermit handed me a photograph of George W. Bush at his ranch: “This will help you to understand why Skull and Bones had difficulty keeping a Bush in the White House.”

I didn’t know what to make of it. How could he work like that in the Texas heat?

Kermit then asked: “Have you ever seen a more masculine-looking president? Search your memory, if you like, but I predict you will be hard-pressed to find a more macho image, even for a war hero like John F. Kennedy. Compare, for instance, these iconic photos of JFK and George W. Bush”:

“In the first, Kennedy looks like a kid, not a warrior. He could be yachting off his family’s compound at Hyannisport, Mass. Instead, he’s posing in his torpedo boat during WWII just before he became a war hero for saving his crew after the Japanese sunk his boat. By contrast, George W. Bush looks very much the warrior in this photo, taken after he jetted in to congratulate the crew of an aircraft carrier (which is bigger than a PT-boat) for “winning” the second Iraq War. Isn’t he fairly oozing testosterone?”

“And who,” Kermit asked rhetorically, “looks more macho here — George W. Bush, the weekend warrior for the Air National Guard, or Al Gore, his opponent in 2000, photographed when he was serving in Vietnam?”

I could see that the tilt of Gore’s fedora and droop of his rifle made him look like a toff heading off on a fox hunt at a Vietnam country club; whereas, George W. Bush, photographed back in Texas, looked ready for action with some foxy ladies.

Kermit then asked: “Doesn’t George W. Bush look three times as military as Al Gore? And has there ever been a more macho president than his dad, the first President Bush, a hero in WWII seen here skydiving at the age of eighty?”

Looking at the photograph, I had to admit that George H. W. Bush must be one of the butchest Presidents ever. Kermit rammed home his point by showing iconic photos of Presidents Clinton and Obama. The first shows President Obama orating Dr. Seuss, a children’s book, to his two children, who are visibly pained that their father doesn’t know they’re now old enough to read Dickens, Tolstoy and Toni Morrison.

“In the second photograph,” Kermit advised, “you will see President Bill Clinton holding his little pussycat Socks (not Tiger or Fang, but Socks). Don’t they both look apprehensive? Imagine that — a President afraid of a house cat!”

I was tempted to remark that every cat I’d ever encountered with those black and white markings had been a psycho, prone to attack small children; consequently, I’d never let one of those hellcats get that close to my face. But I figured that Kermit was on to something, so I bit my tongue.

Kermit then challenged me to Compare Clinton’s cat with Simba and Nala, George W. Bush’s pet lions (see picture below). “They’re a lot bigger and tougher-looking than Clinton’s pussy, aren’t they? And do you think Clinton would dare to get as close to a Tiger as George H. W. Bush did in this remarkable photo? Look — Bush doesn’t even have a chair or a whip even though the Tiger is baring his teeth!

What could I say? Kermit had the photographic evidence (and my readers know how much faith I put in photos); gulping, I replied that there could be little doubt that the Bushes were the butchest post-WWII Presidents. (As I wasn’t sure about nineteenth-century presidents, who fought against savage Southerners and cavalier Indians, and as I vaguely recalled that Teddy Roosevelt roped cattle in New York City and hunted lions in Cuba, I couldn’t honestly say that the two Bushes were the most macho Presidents in US history; even so, I remained open to new evidence — so long as it was as trustworthy as an Internet image.)

“Still, even if it were true that the Bushes were the most masculine presidents ever, how could their virility have cost them votes,” I asked. “Don’t people want their president to be an Alpha male, top dog in the pack?”

Kermit had a ready answer: “Somer, to some extent, you’re right: Voters do like their Presidents to be manly men, not clumsy oafs like Gerald Ford or rabbit-fearing swimmers like Jimmy Carter. However, there are limits. Voters worry that a President with excessive testosterone will, like one of those guys with an extra Y chromosome, be constantly looking for fights. They will,” he said, his hand squashing another cricket like a bug, “be tempted to invade Iraq.”

“But why Iraq?” I queried.

“Have you ever looked at a map of the Persian Gulf?” Kermit asked, rhetorically as ever. He knew I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what the Gulf looked like; so he provided the map below.

“It resembles a woman’s uterus, does it not?” Kermit said more than asked.

After I admitted that it might look like a uterus to some people (the sex-obsessed, I did not add), Kermit explained that a truly macho President would inevitably want to plunge deep into the Persian Gulf with a view to depositing his sperm in Iraq at the far extremity.

“The two Bushes couldn’t help themselves,” Kermit said; “being he-men, they had no choice but to fuck Iraq.”

“Let me get this straight,” I responded. “You’re saying that it was testosterone, male hormones, rather than geopolitics, Kuwait, family revenge, or oil, or weapons of mass destruction that caused two Iraq wars since 1991.”

“Precisely, which is why the American people, keenly regretting their choice of a hyper-masculine President, elected a ladies’ man in 1992 and a lady man in 2008. They hoped that a metrosexual President would be less likely to attack another country. While it is true that Clinton bombed Serbia and Obama has been bombing Pakistan with predators, neither of them has felt a compelling need to screw Iraq.”

“The Persian Gulf isn’t the only body of water that resembles a uterus,” I objected. “What about the Gulf of Mexico?” (See drawing.)

“I’m amazed,” said Kermit in a mocking voice, “that you think that the Gulf of Mexico looks like a uterus. But then you have been known to become “chummy” with seventy-year-old prostitutes. Okay, but even if I accept your contention that the Gulf of Mexico looks like a uterus, my argument is strengthened, not weakened.”

“How so?” I asked warily.

“First, admit that Louisiana is, like Iraq, at the head of the Gulf. If you shot an arrow, Cupid’s arrow, into the Gulf from western Cuba, wouldn’t Louisiana be the spot you’d hit? Isn’t it the logical place for a hypersexual male to deposit his sperm?”

I could see that Kermit was right, but neither Bush had messed with Louisiana. Right? But then it struck me that at least one had. I remembered the Federal response to Hurricane Katrina during George W. Bush’s watch.

Seeing the light turn on in my eyes (for the first time since our conversation began), Kermit quietly said, “It’s true, isn’t it, that George W. Bush truly fucked Louisiana?”

I nodded, but felt obligated to add: “And so too did Barack Obama during the BP oil leak.”

“All too true, my girl. For some reason, possibly the alluring shape of the Gulf, the old whore known as Louisiana is still getting regularly screwed by American Presidents. Indeed, Louisianans now know that Obama has more testosterone in him than conservatives generally admit. They do feel quite ravaged by his policies. Still, there are limits to the amount of Presidential rape and rapine that Americans will tolerate. They earnestly want their President to heal the Wasteland in the heartland. No more attempts to stick it to Iraq or Louisiana, even if the latter does speak French, sort of.”

“Okay, I’ll agree with you that a majority of Americans were displeased that the two Bush Presidents invaded Iraq. But this does not mean that the Bushes were too virile to be a success as Presidents (to the dismay of Skull and Bones). What other ‘proof’ do you have that the Bushes were more ‘masculine’ than the typical American President?”

“Before I answer, I have to ask, Somer, if you’ve read anything about the difference between the male and female brain.”

Half-asleep, I failed to nod in time to avoid Kermit’s quoting Renato Sabbatini, a genuine PhD in something or other: “Scientists know also that there are many other subtle differences in the way the brains from men and women process language, information, emotion, cognition, etc. … Women and men are strikingly different … in the way their brains process language. … Women are better than men in … verbal language ….”

Next Kermit quoted from Brain Sex, a book by Anne Moir and David Jessel: "These discernible, measurable differences in behaviour have been imprinted long before external influences have had a chance to get to work. They reflect a basic difference in the newborn brain which we already know about -- the superior male efficiency in spatial ability, the greater female skill in speech."

This was far too much science for me! So when Kermit offered to show me pictures that would prove that male and female brains differ from birth because, he said sententiously, “the inferior-parietal lobule is significantly larger in men than in women.” As a result, males were more violent and tongue-tied than women.

That made sense, provided that the inferior part of the brain was bigger in males than in females. But I wanted and got visual proof:

I had to believe the evidence of my own eyes. It was true: the female brain definitely has superior verbal skills (labeled here as telephone skills and listening). So I was definitely ready to buy that the two Bush Presidents betrayed their hyper-masculinity by being unable to finish a sentence coherently or grammatically. Here are some particularly inarticulate samples of Bushspeak, starting with the father:

"To kind of suddenly try to get my hair colored, and dance up and down in a miniskirt or do something, you know, show that I've got a lot of jazz out there and drop a bunch of one-liners, I'm running for the president of the United States...I kind of think I'm a scintillating kind of fellow." (1988}

"I put confidence in the American people, in their ability to sort through what is fair and what is unfair, what is ugly and what is unugly." (1989)

"High tech is potent, precise, and in the end, unbeatable. The truth is, it reminds a lot of people of the way I pitch horseshoes. Would you believe some of the people? Would you believe our dog? Look, I want to give the high-five symbol to high tech." (1989)

"We're enjoying sluggish times, and not enjoying them very much." (1992)

"It gets into quota, go into numerical, set numbers for doctors or for, it could go into all kinds of things."

"Now, like, I'm President. It would be pretty hard for some drug guy to come into the White House and start offering it up, you know?...I bet if they did, I hope I would say, 'Hey, get lost. We don't want any of that.'" –speaking to a group of students about drug abuse.

And next the son:

"I am here to make an announcement that this Thursday, ticket counters and airplanes will fly out of Ronald Reagan Airport." (2001)

"You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test (2001)

"For every fatal shooting, there were roughly three non-fatal shootings. And, folks, this is unacceptable in America. It's just unacceptable. And we're going to do something about it." (2001)

"There's an old saying in Tennessee -- I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee -- that says, fool me once, shame on --shame on you. Fool me -- you can't get fooled again.” (2002)

"Too many good docs are getting out of the business. Too many OB-GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all across this country.” (2004)

"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we." (2004)

“Wow, both Bushes sound like dummies. Are they?” I asked.

“Not very likely,” replied Kermit, “considering that both graduated from Yale University (where George W. Bush achieved better grades than John Kerry) and the younger Bush also got an MBA from Harvard. Thus, it’s my opinion that the two Bushes have had difficulty with the English language only because their brains are excessively male.”

Kermit then explained that this may also been true of Dwight D. Eisenhower, U.S. President in the 1950s. The last general to be President of the United States, he may also also had more testosterone than the average President since WWII, as shown by some of his more puzzling statements:

“Few women, I fear, have had such reason as I have to think the long sad years of youth were worth living for the sake of middle age."

"Things are more like they are now than they ever were before.”

“We are going to have peace even if we have to fight for it."

"Leadership is the art of getting someone else to do something you want done because he wants to do it."

I objected that some of those statements actually made sense to me. Kermit replied that one day I’d also understand what the two Bushes meant to say. (“Only if I take to drink,” I muttered.)

Kermit, undeterred by my skepticism, pressed me to admit that he’d provided compelling evidence — the inarticulateness, fearlessness with animals, and a tendency to invade small countries — that the Bushes were too virile to be a successful United States President. Finally, I did so admit, for I could think of no other explanation for their failure.

“So I guess Skull and Bones have given up on the Bush family,” I reasoned. “It’s logical that they’re looking elsewhere for a successor to President Obama. Tell me, who among the politicians with a chance to be elected President is a member of the secret society?”

Then, remembering that Hilary Clinton attended Yale Law School (where she met Bill), I asked with a shudder, “Don’t tell me that a law student can be a Bonesman.”

“No, I’m not going to tell you that — one is elected to the society at the start of their senior undergraduate year. If you’re thinking of Hilary Clinton, the timing’s all wrong for her. She’ll be too old in 2016, and unelectable if she splits her party in 2012. On the other hand, by 2016 — after two terms of Barack Obama have caused Americans to forget, or even long for, the Bush years — it might be the perfect timing for a third Bush presidency. Another Bush is being actively groomed for the job by Skull and Bones even as we speak. As you can see from the state of the U.S. economy, Skull and Bones believes it’s more important than ever for a Bonesman to take over helm of the ship of state.”

“And ram it on to the rocks,” I thought. Still, there was no denying that even a Bush might be electable after eight years of President Obama. I asked if the Republican candidate would be Jeb Bush, the ex-governor of Florida, or George P. Bush, Jeb’s son, who, being half-Mexican, might run well in swing states like Alaska, Utah and Vermont — places where the Latino vote can be decisive.

Of these two, George P., now serving with the navy in Iraq (talk about a small world!), seemed the more likely choice. He is, after all, a graduate of Yale. You just know that he must be a Bonesman, for Skull and Bones has increasingly recruited “ethnics” to its ranks as America has become a browner country.

Kermit found my case for George P. Bush interesting, but unpersuasive. He replied: “George P is, after all, still a Bush male, and one that’s half-Mexican at that. That’s a pretty macho culture. In any case, I doubt very much that Americans will entrust their country to a male member of the Bush family. Too much testosterone for comfort, especially once Iran has the Bomb.”

“So you are saying that the third President from the Bush dynasty will be a woman?”

Kermit nodded triumphantly: I had finally reached the conclusion he had been steering me towards. Yet, however much I rummaged through my memory, I couldn’t think of a likely female descendant of George H. W. Bush who could be elected President. Laura, Barbara or Jemma? None seemed at all likely. Stumped, I demanded that Kermit tell me what he knew — or suspected.

“Somer, you’re making the mistake of assuming that the next Bush to become President must necessarily be a descendant of the 41st President. Remember that it was his father Preston whom Skull and Bone decided to make, like Kim Il-Sung of North Korea, William the Conqueror, the Apostle Peter, or Hugh Capet of France, the founder of a long line of rulers. You should appreciate that Preston had three sons, all of them still alive.”

“So the third Bush will come from a cadet branch of Preston’s line?” I hoped that I had used the word cadet (as in younger) correctly, for I had always wanted to use it in casual conversation. I guess I had, because Kermit nodded his head as he caught a cricket.

“There is still a problem,” Kermit said. “It seems that none of the Bush women look right for the Presidency.”

“What, are they all too well-spoken?”

Ignoring the cheap shot, Kermit continued: “Hence, Skull and Bones regretfully decided they’d have to groom another Bush male for the Presidency.”

“But where could they find one who doesn’t want to screw countries and states unlucky enough to be located at the head of fuckable gulfs of water?” I asked.

I wasn’t being flippant: since I often winter in Baja, in Mexico, near the head of the Gulf of California, which some might deem vaginally virginal in width and shape, I wanted to know if I should plan for a change of scenery in January 2017. (See the gulf enticingly narrow in the image below.)

Kermit did have to admit that a true Bushman might be inclined to dump his seed on the northernmost end. But he hadn’t invited me to his apartment to discuss hysterical responses to narrowing bodies of water.

Very, very slowly so that I could not miss the importance of what he had to say, he enunciated: “The only way that Skull and Bones could ensure that the third Bush would be more articulate and less aggressive was to inject him with enough estrogen and testosterone suppressants to transform him into a ‘her’. At first, they didn’t let the poor schmuck know what they were doing to him (he was told that all Bonesmen acquired or became little boobs), but it was impossible to hide his feminization (even from a Bush) after they accelerated it in response to the first invasion of Iraq in 1991 by George H. W. Bush.”

“How did the guy react when he finally realized what Skull and Bones were up to?” I asked.

“You mean after he was rolled out of gender reassignment surgery? Well, he pouted at first, but after a while he felt immense relief that he wasn’t, as he feared, dying of testicular cancer and two enormous tumors on his chest. Then he became (I’ve heard from my spy at Skull and Bones) downright enthusiastic — maybe, too enthusiastic — about becoming a woman.”

Kermit finished with: “They say that while the She-Bush loves to be penetrated, there will be no risk of her wanting to stick it to small countries and States after she’s elected. Not only doesn’t she lack a penis, she doesn’t even own a dildo.”

“Fascinating. Truly fascinating. And almost frightening in its plausibility. What’s her name? Where do I find her?”

“Heck if I know. I can’t tell you everything. If you want a scoop, you’ll have to find her yourself. Jeez, what do you think I am? A Muppet for you to manipulate? Never forget that I am the learned Doctor Krankzinnig, an expert on most everything. I am not, therefore, your servant.”

After playing leapfrog with Kermit (I didn’t know yet that I was contracting warts with every touch of his body), I went looking for the erstwhile Bonesman who became a woman (her transition well underway by 1992) so that the Bush Dynasty can eventually return to power.

Kermit sent me off with one important clue — a portrait of a mysterious, Swedish-looking young woman. He said that if I could find the woman in the painting, that she would be able to direct me to the whereabouts to the woman destined to become the third Bush President. Here’s my only clue:

Eventually, while in Stockholm, Sweden, I got an audience with Secretary of State Hilary Clinton, who advised me (rather rudely I thought) that the young woman in the portrait could easily be found once I realized that the artist got the color of the dress wrong. It should be a stained blue, the Secretary of State fairly snarled.

With this second clue, I eventually located Monica L, the model for the portrait. (I am holding back her surname in order to protect her anonymity.) It turned out — again, what a remarkably small world! — that she was best friends and roommate of Georgina W.P. Bush. It seems the two of them go way back, when they both worked as Interns in Washington, DC.

Yes, I have found Georgina Bush! The name is right, and her credentials are perfect. Not only is she a descendant of Preston Bush, she is an aspiring Presidential candidate. Indeed, she’s already been mayor of a small town and governor of a U.S. dependency.

Although Georgina treated my questions about her gender as impertinent, I was able to filch a couple of photographs from her bedroom that substantiate that there was a time when Georgina was feeling her oats as a new woman:

Since I’ve grown to like Georgina a lot, I do hope that this sort of evidence of her wild youth doesn’t get widely circulated (which is why I’ve decided to bury my story by posting it here).

The third photo, more recently taken, shows that Georgina in recent years has settled down and has developed into a regal-looking lady. She refuses, for example, to wear pant suits.

I’ve suggested to Georgina that she complete her electrolysis treatments. Frankly, I’m surprised that Skull and Bones haven’t provided her with the money for them. But then conspiracies, if they do still exist, may not be as potent as they used to be. It’s so difficult to keep a secret in the age of the Internet. Hence, secret conspiracies may at last be going out of style.

So that’s the scoop: Georgina Bush is being groomed, so-to-speak, to continue the Bush Dynasty by becoming the first woman, so-to-speak, to be elected President of the United States. You read it here first — so to speak.

As for me, I’ve decided to go into hiding for a long, long time. With this story I retire from investigative journalism, as I have decided that my reports on the secret role of the transgendered in history have made me too many dangerous enemies (or would make them for me if anyone actually read them) for me to continue writing.

Think of the hordes I have potentially offended with my four reports: Christian fundamentalists, the Priory of Sion, Dan Brown’s publisher, the Chinese Illuminati, mercurial merchants, environmentalists, Obama Democrats, the Chicago mob, heterosexuals, Bush Republicans and now, worst of all, Skull and Bones.

You can see why I’m out of here, right? I can’t count on my stories being ignored forever. I now go to rejoin Carlotta, my gray-bearded Chinese lover, at an undisclosed location in the Western Hemisphere.

I am going at last to do a Deep Throat — no, sillies, I’ve been doing that since my first training bra. I mean that I am now going into hiding for several decades just like the Watergate dude did after he told Woodward and Bernstein “to show me the money”.

Woodward and Bernstein no longer have permission to reveal my true identity; their next blockbuster, All the Presidents’ She-Males, will have to await my death or senility — and both are decades away. Or so affirms Dr. Kermit Krankzinnig.

As a Doctor of Amphibious Letters — only the second being to be so honored —he must be right when he says that there is still plenty of life left in me, even now that I have shed this last tale.