MAYDAY!! Mayday!! Roid Rage Rules!! Billy Bob Bonks!! Twizzler Fizzles!! As I revved up my official Ann's Haven Wheels of Mercy golfcart, the last illegal had been Tasered and loaded into the brand spanking new Tahoe, which Los Federales de Immigracion had specially rigged to hold double-deck loads of unfortunate Tejanos, who had misplaced their green cards.

I was just about to pass the Federales vehicle when this disheveled old geezer stumbles out of the door, looking both (appropriately) stunned and peeved:

"Whoever Tasered the former Secretary of Defense will be deported to Gitmo North tonight for immediate rendition. Do I look like I am a Nuevo Laredo import?"

Then he saw me trying to slink off into the darkness and got within spittle-splattering range of my face (and, by the way, what keeps old men, with all the microtechnology we have available today, from trimming their nasal hair population?):

"Remember, Doc, you've never seen my face, and you have no idea who Wiki or the lost Swedes are. And when in doubt, always use the Triple D Defense: Deny. Deny. Deny."

I was fascinated that the Taser had charred every hair on his face, except the exuberant overgrowth in each nostril. That was my last glimpse of Donny Rumsfeld, because he shoved me off the Wheels of Mercy and floorboarded it as my face found a fresh reindeer cowpie on the road.

Once again, I trudged off into the darkness, grimly vowing never again to take a position that involved WDD, illegal Swedes, or Rummy Bears. As I pointed my GPS in the general direction of my former Medical Home, I knew that I had no choice but to return to the salt mines of primary care.

Just as I made the left turn toward the Compound, I swear I passed a grinning Deadeye Dick Cheney aboard a smelly reindeer, wobbling from side to side as he fired round after round from a 12 gauge into the starstruck Texas night.

Then he stopped and informed me that he had taken mercy on my primary care soul-he had created a new position for me as Fight Doctor for the Texas UFC MegaDittos DeathMatch. I thanked him profusely but humbly declined-I had Petco commitments and Precerts to honor at the Compound.

"To hell with the Compound. Your position there has been redacted, Doc, and, besides we also converted the Dairy Queen/MiniMedMart into an Octagon Cage with a really cool pentagonal WhataBurger attached to the lobby. You're ringside tomorrow night so get the hell outta here before I have you Tasered. Ask Don Rumsfield--the shocker makes you tingle like a Bush-Basher who mistakes an electric fence for a urinal. Happens all the time to guys who think they're taking a simple whiz out in the pasture."

"Yes, but did DR deserve the voltage?"

"Damn straight. And, by Executive Order straight from Scooter Libby's lips, you know nada-zippo-zero about Donald's electric surge. He understood the message. And keep Scooter posted about the action at the Octagon. The Party's counting on you."

"But Scooter's in-like-prison!!"

"So? It's a great place to get some work done for the Campaign."

"Campaign?"

"Look, Doc. George W and I decided 2 terms is just not enough. So we're going for a 3-Peat."

"But that's[horizontal ellipsis]"

"No buts. We decided to change the uhh rules. I'm telling ya-Executive Orders rock. You just decide what you want to happen, then you get Al Gonzales and a bunch of college staffers to fill out a little simple 1 page form, and-shezammm-you get her done."

The VP had spoken, and Dick C-or Chains as he asked me to call him-winked at me and dug his spurs into his trusty reindeer's flanks.

"Hit it Wiki. We're outta here. And, Doc, wash your cheeks ASAP-you smell like reindeer poo. A little unprofessional, no? What's up with that?"

When I arrived at the DQ Chains of Freedom Halliburton Prempro Octagon, the place was packed for the pre-fight weigh-ins. The MegaDittos UFC DeathMatch featured--I'm not kidding-Rudy Guliani vs Hillary C's best friend for life-Billy Bob Clinton. (Note the name change-apparently Billy Bob just drove H-Rod's sampling numbers "through the roof" in Texas.)

Billy Bob was not fired up in the least about going mano a mano with Rudy after seeing how much Rudy G had bulked up for the match-220 lb of bulging gunner muscles overlaid with a horrible case of acne that was beyond Retin A.

H-Rod and Little Rudy had literally agreed that the winner of the DeathMatch also won Texas in '08. Wow!! I was going to witness electoral history being made right there outside the Compound. What happened next was enough genuine chaos to nail down a huge payday for all concerned with the next PayPerView. Billy Bob, hooked on Twizzlers, was totally useless. Little Rudy, hooked on roids, was totally out of control, but in a very mediagenic way. H-Rod was totally, tightly in control and used every bend the rules but don't you dare break em maneuver-including a spectacular ticket-balancing move that featured a transgender VP candidate known only as Stewy--to win the DeathMatch. As the bell rung, Scooter and Chains were both screaming at me through the magic of Bluetooth:

"Do not blow it, Doc. Little Rudy, the GOP Executive Committee, and the ghost of Ronny Reagan are counting on you to make sure that Texas does not fall to the heathens."

"But what can a lowly pediatrician do to fix a Texas DeathMatch?"

In unison, I heard the ultimate words of medicolegal wisdom:

"How do we know? You're the doctor[horizontal ellipsis]."