These are the finest of Cuban cigars, rolled only by the poorest of Cuban fingers.

One of the greatest qualities of being educated at an institution beyond high school is the opportunity to learn the art of doing drugs in good company and, therefore, achieve a heightened sense of understanding.

Those who choose to take advantage of this opportunity bear the burden of constant introspection, asking themselves: “Could I handle smoking up with William S. Burroughs?” or “How would I go by obtaining mescaline for the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson?” and “What would I have asked a tripping Albert Einstein?”

But stoner contemporaries are at a significant shortage, thanks to the hypocrisy of Republicans splooging our tax dollars all over their war on drugs. Don't forget these are the same fiends who drop $100 bills on bottles of whiskey and shit on pregnant mothers overseas.

Lord knows I've sat and smoked with much classier bastards — some of whom are now in jail, suffering from an entirely different introspection.

So when I hide in my basement, smoking pot and listening to Fox News Channel shout through the floorboards above, I cherish the freedom that I'm allowed. Where else in the world does someone get to drive around backstreets with a bong, ducking police and frightening pedestrians?

Surely the French don't have the good fortune of buying dime bags from Fubu-wearers who sign their checks "$cumdog69." Surely there is no better place to raise the fine crop of marijuana than right here — in America's cellar.

And that's something the fat cats in the nation's capitol will never understand. So as they wave their plastic flags and pretend to love the U.S., I must sit here, cash this pipe and puff out the question: “Could I, myself, get George Bush high?”

To be successful, it would start out with just George and me. I'd use no man-made chemicals, none of that acid, ecstasy or British lollipop that makes you randomly orgasm over the series of hours.

No, the last thing I need on my hands is the president moaning over a phallic piece of candy, messing himself and breaking out in hives.

What I need is the evidence of God's glory in its purest form: marijuana. This is how I'd make him a believer. It would, however, require the initial trickery — this is George Bush, a man of little faith in terms of humanitarianism. I'd just tell him "eat this" or "these are the finest of Cuban cigars, rolled only by the poorest of Cuban fingers."

After the smoke cleared, I'd let George arm wrestle me for a bit. Always making sure to let him win, I'd gain his trust and get the blood moving in his veins.

In case he’d need a quick cool-off, I'd refresh him with some of my patented “Dr. Feelgood” weed tea and ensure him the good right of never regressing to sobriety throughout the night.

"Do you like country rock?" I'd ask President Bush and after he said “yes,” I'd refill his glass and leave the room to find a record. There George would sit for about 20 minutes of silence, sipping his tea with his only companion — the lonely, blinking bulb hanging bare from my basement's ceiling.

Studying his habits through a hole in the wall, I'd wonder what he's thinking about before I put Garth Brooks' "I Got Friends in Low Places" on the phonograph at 1/2 speed.

I'd take note of the quizzical look on his face as he pretend-aimed the revolver — the one I've loaded with blanks — next to the vibrating recliner he was seated in. Would he be man enough to shoot?

As I slowly made my way back into the room and put the Garth on at 33 1/3, I'd smile and blink at him in slow motion. I'd bang my head with the same lack of normal speed and ask, "Whaaat's wrooong Geooorge, youuu dooon't loook sooo goood?"

He'd lie still in a state of suspended disbelief, reconsidering the vibrations, as I grimaced and performed my practiced slow-mo head nod.

As soon as he sat up in the recliner to leave, I'd cut the lights out. In the darkness he'd grasp for the gun as I replaced the Garth LP with The Butthole Surfers' "100 Million People Dead" and fire up the projectors' crude Iraqi war footage that illuminates this dungeon.

Then I'd display my naked appreciation for America through varying expressive dance forms after I've put on earplugs, a lime green jogging suit, and a mask of that retarded kid George W. Bush executed in Texas.

After the pang of the first gunshot, I'd start galloping towards him, yodeling. After the second and third shots, I'd make a ham-handed attempt to tear his suit off, pants first.

I'd then pretend to be dying and spasm violently. George W. would undoubtedly empty the magazine into my twitching, dead body and claw his way out of my cellar simultaneously as the Butthole Surfers echo "Satan! Satan! Satan! Satan!"

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