MAYDAY!! Mayday!! Dick's on the loose!! And we're going down!! Somehow Dick found his personal version of a WMD-a loaded 12-gauge-and he's bagged another big bird-the Tsunami Express with yours truly on board (for reasons that are now totally unclear to me).

But I can tell you that Babs is pissed beyond recognition. We were to have totally buckshot-free clearance through Deutsch airspace, and Deadeye Dick gets trigger-happy while wandering aimlessly through the Halliburton Happy Hunting Preserve in East Bavaria. What's one more hunting accident among friends I wondered as Capt Babs Bush struggled to control our wounded wings and put us down somewhere out of range of Dick's trusty 12-gauge.

Apparently this was no random act of shotgun diplomacy but a coldly calculated ARA-sanctioned attempt to derail Babs and Willy C's turbocharged Medicare Part D (for Dumbass in Dick's VP lexicon of GB Presidential DumSim-which, by the way, does not refer to a Texas version of Chinese takeout) Rampage.

They both had started instant messaging (and yes, Babs has friends too numerous to count on her MySpace homey page) all their MySpace buddies, urging them to get scrips for all the formulary meds they could get their hands on. Willy just loved tweaking the "Publican" noses as he put it while Babs remains incensed that George Jr failed to inform her about George H's alleged outside-the-box indiscretions. Besides, as William Jefferson put it, if the Mexicans can do immigration, we can damn sure do drugs (speaking strictly in the Internet sense of getting stuff done).

So, as we're going down, guess who shows up onboard our big wounded bird but Allie G (or Captain Internet as Willy calls him). We proceed to get a monotoned seminar on the benefits of Evergreen HSAs from a remarkably slimmed-down Al Gore. I couldn't quite make out the exact correlation between Greenpeace and a Health Savings Account, mainly because I wanted to know how Allie G shed so many pounds so damn fast. No time for a lot of details, but turns out that he got an HMO-approved thumb stomach and laser-infused liposuction from one of Dick's hunting buddies, who agreed to write off his copay if he could fill Al's broadband ass full of buckshot. At Tipper's insistence, Al reluctantly agreed to the deal. The VP even agreed to write Allie G a letter to attach to his passport explaining that Al was not to be strip-searched (not a good idea under any circumstances according to Tipper) in airport security just because he has, as Dick so dryly and delicately put it, Buns of Steel.

Boom!! That was the sound of our Wounded Tsunami landing on some poor BMW on the Bavarian Autobahn. As luck would have it, the driver turned out to be little Tommy Cruise and his lovely Ayn Rand-approved bride to be. They had their Scientology flak halos on, so were totally unscathed when we crushed their prenupt-exempt cruiser. As a token of gratitude for challenging his sense of self-directed destiny, Tom agreed to fly directly to Ankara to monitor (as Babs personal envoy and enforcer) George H's Geneva/Gitmo Code of Conduct sponsored interrogation. As Tom and his devoted (and I mean totally) bride to be flew off into buckshot-free German airspace (Dick was tied up on an extended lunch with his hunting posse), Babs kept mumbling something about the joys of deliboarding. Loaded to the gills with 2 giant boxes of leftover Twizzlers, I stumbled into the Bavarian woods and pointed my instinctive GPS for the uncomplicated confines of the TROT compound.