Twas Christmas two thousand, and in the White House,
Al Gore was eyeing Hillary, peering into her blouse.
The Secret Service were guarding the premises with care,
for a whole host of Democrats were vacationing there.

Chelsea was nestled all snug in her bed,
Dirty thoughts swam around Mr. Kennedy's head.
And Bill in his sportcoat; a heavy gray tweed,
Had just fried his brain with some Mexican weed.

When out in the garden came a plethora of noise,
All drunken and rowdy: 'twas Newt and the boys!
Bill jumped to the window, and tore open the sash,
It's a raid boys! he cried, Quick go hide my stash!

The pot in his blood and the moon on the snow,
Gave a psychedelic haze to the the objects below.
When what to Bill's frantic eyes should appear,
But a slew of Republicans and a keg of beer.

With a big House leader, all lively and fat:
He knew it was Newt, the proponent of GATT!
A viscous as vipers, the Republicans came.
And Bill recognized them and called them by name.

Hey Helms, hey Thurmond! hey Packwood and Hatch!
Hey Dole and Pataki, it's time for a bash!
A collective cheer rose out from the crowd,
Let's listen to Nugent, and turn it up loud!

Together Dems and Republicans danced and sang out in cheer.
Screw health care and Haiti, it's time to drink beer!
When from the chimney, came a big black cloud of soot,
As Limbaugh danced from the fireplace in a red Santa suit.

He moved through the crowd, then held up his hand.
And when all was silent, he did a keg stand.
And the crowd raised their cups, as Newt bowed down it prayer,
And champagne flowed freely, just like welfare.

As Kennedy and Reno romped in the Green Room,
The rest of the crooks outlined their plan of doom.
We'll pray in the schools, shove it down their throats!
More welfare, more taxes, we'll still get the votes!

And they drank, hugged and danced, and they crossed party lines.
They cheered, It doesn't matter, we're all bastard swines!
So they threw out allegiance and partisan crap.
And they took turns sitting on the President's lap.

And Gephardt and Dole passed out on the lawn,
And awoke in the morning without their pants on.
And Packwood gave Tipper a pat on the rear,
While Judge Thomas and Miss Hill went out for more beer.

Then the party-ers discovered a sight so touching and cute,
President Clinton fast asleep, snuggled up to Newt.
Santa Limbaugh smiled and threw up on his boots,
A merry Clinton to all, and to a good Newt!

Teacher: "Which is more important to us, the sun or the moon?"
Pupil: "The moon."
Teacher: "Why?"
Pupil: "The moon gives us light at night when we need it but the sun gives us light only in the day time when we don't need it."

I fell out of my cradle laughing at this one: it is well worth repeating!

Conversation between George W. and his National Security Advisor, Condolezza Rice:

George: Condi! Nice to see you. What's happening?
Condi: Sir, I have the report here about the new leader of China.
George: Great. Lay it on me.
Condi: Hu is the new leader of China.
George: That's what I want to know.
Condi: That's what I'm telling you.
George: That's what I'm asking you. Who is the new leader of China?
Condi: Yes.
George: I mean the fellow's name.
Condi: Hu.
George: The guy in China.
Condi: Hu.
George: The new leader of China.
Condi: Hu.
George: The Chinaman!
Condi: Hu is leading China.
George: Now whaddya' asking me for?
Condi: I'm telling you Hu is leading China.
George: Well, I'm asking you. Who is leading China?
Condi: That's the man's name.
George: That's who's name?
Condi: Yes.
George: Will you or will you not tell me the name of the new leader of China?
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Yassir? Yassir Arafat is in China? I thought he was in the Middle East.
Condi: That's correct.
George: Then who is in China?
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Yassir is in China?
Condi: No, sir.
George: Then who is?
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Yassir?
Condi: No, sir.
George: Look, Condi. I need to know the name of the new leader of China. Get me the Secretary General of the U.N. on the phone.
Condi: Kofi?
George: No, thanks.
Condi: You want Kofi?
George: No.
Condi: You don't want Kofi.
George: No. But now that you mention it, I could use a glass of milk. And then get me the U.N.
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: Not Yassir! The guy at the U.N.
Condi: Kofi?
George: Milk! Will you please make the call?
Condi: And call who?
George: Who is the guy at the U.N?
Condi: Hu is the guy in China.
George: Will you stay out of China?!
Condi: Yes, sir.
George: And stay out of the Middle East! Just get me the guy at the U.N.
Condi: Kofi.
George: All right! With cream and two sugars. Now get on the phone.
(Condi picks up the phone.)
Condi: Rice, here.
George: Rice? Good idea. And a couple of egg rolls, too. Thanks.

A farmer and his wife had just woken up one morning to the crowing of their rooster. While still in bed, the farmer's wife says, "Pa, you know our neighbor Mr. Jones?"
"Yes Ma, I reckon I do," replied the sleepy farmer.
"Well, every morning before he leaves the house for work, he gives his wife a big ol' kiss. Why don't you ever do that?"
The farmer sighed and said, "Well, I reckon I can, but I just don't know her very well."

Prime Minister, Tony Blair, was visiting a school when a teacher asked him if he would care to lead the class discussion on semantics. Tony, having just escaped a mauling by the BBC's Jeremy 'Rotweiler' Paxman by the skin of his lying teeth, smugly chose the word ‘tragedy' and asked the class to give an example of its use.
One boy stood up and said, “If my girlfriend, Suzie, who lives on a farm, was playing near the cesspit, and fell in, and her dad stuck a fork through her chest and killed her, that would be a tragedy.”
“No,” said Blair, “that would be an accident.”
Then a pretty, dark haired girl called Keli, raised her hand and suggested shyly: “If there was, like, a nucla war dat killed all da blokes but left da girls alive and da last bloke on earth lost his testicles in a shaving accident, that would be like, a REAL tragedy.”
“I’m afraid not.” Said slimey Tone. “That’s what we would call a great loss.”
The room went silent. No other children volunteered. Blair searched the room in vain for an upraised hand. “Isn’t there anyone here who can give me a correct definition of the word 'tragedy?”
Finally, a scruffily dressed blonde right at the very back of the room raised her grubby hand. In an an uncertain voice she said: “If an aircraft carrying you, Mr. Blair, the cabinet and Mr Bush was struck by a ‘friendly’ missile fired by an American helicopter gunship and blown to smithereens, that would be a tragedy.”
“Fantastic!” exclaimed Blair. “That’s right. And can you tell me why that would be a tragedy?”
“Well...” replied the girl, “it has to be a tragedy, because it certainly wouldn’t be a great loss and it probably wouldn’t be an accident either