These here good times call for a return to them-there family values that come from a heap of in-breeding, posh New England prep schools, and a right smartin' of Grannie's rhum'tiz med'cine (but only 'til you're 40).

Why, nothin' could be finer'n great vittles and a good show! Gather up the kinfolk y'all, grab a bag o' Pork Rinds and some o' Grannie's finest possum gravy (fer dippin'). Then set yerselves down fer a spell to see the whole Bush clan fixin' to head back to DC and commence to reclaim what had oughta be rightfully theirs.

You recollect that Poppy took such a likin' to the town that he hunkered down there to be a double-naught spy. 'Bout that time, the boy was learnin' his cipherin' and shootin' squirrels tryin' to swim the Rio Grande. Well, Poppy left town totin' nothing but a brand new fishing pole.

Now, the boy hankers to git back there and run off those low-down, sidewindin' varmints squattin' in the White House. First thing, he's gonna save us all from those horn-swagglin' Revenuers a-taxin' the gas for Jethro's truck - the Original Sport Utility Vee-Hickle.

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