Utterpants has obtained a transcript of the steamy confession from a tall bloke in a dark suit and sunglasses who insisted we keep his identity secret, but asked us to call him 'Karl'.

'Karl' went on to tell us that far from taking steps to deny the confession, Mrs Bush is alleged to have said: 'This'll teach that two-timing asshole that he can't fuck with me and get away with it'. When asked to explain what she meant, our source tapped his nose conspirationally and said: 'George has been playing away from home again and Laura isn't prepared to take it any more."
We would warn readers of a nervous disposition that what follows is not suitable for adults under 18, or staunch supporters of the President.

"Hello. I’m Laura Bush. Some of you may know me as the President’s wife. Others of you may know me as a recently converted stripper from the Bronx. But for simplicity’s sake, let’s just think of me as the First Lady.

In these trying and threatening times of terrorism and democratic elections, it’s easy for my husband to target the opposition with the most blatant of lies. Like he is a loving, family man, devoted to pleasing his wife and family. Never mind that the sonofabitch skipped duty in the service, was once arrested for drunk driving, or raped a black underage welfare recipient, knocked her up, and then paid for her abortion. But I’m here to present a very different side to George; a power-crazed meglomaniacal sex pervert who wants to rule the world.

Many of you probably remember the pretzel incident, in the winter of 2003. George said he choked on a pretzel, passed out, and suffered a slightly bruised cheek. While technically true, it isn't the whole story. George didn’t want to release the true details for fear of embarrassing himself. But in the interest of the future of America, I will now describe the events of that Sunday exactly as I remember them.

The truth is I was horny as hell. Yes, even Texas librarians get horny every once in awhile. Usually I just fondle myself in the shower, or ask the Filipino pool boy to give me a quick rub down, but there are times when I want — no I need — a good ole Texan wang pounded in me hard and brutal.

I had my paws all over George as soon as I entered the Oral Office that day. He was sitting behind the desk, and I swiped all the memos away — including the one that said Bin Laden Determined to Strike in US. Hell, that Bin Laden guy was gonna hafta wait! Today was my turn to play Monica. I climbed atop the Oval Office desk, wrapped my legs around George's neck, and began to unbutton his collar. “Come on, Mr. President. You be Jack and I’ll be Marilyn,” I breathed hotly into his ear.

He pushed me away. “Not now, darlin’. The game’s about to start.”
“What game?” I asked, nibbling on his ear.
“Miami and the Ravens. Those damn East Coast birds got a rude awakening comin’. Jeb assures me the Fins won’t give them a chance.”
George’s brother, Jeb, is governor of Florida. Y'all remember Florida, don’t you?
So the President and I made ourselves comfortable in the dining room of the west wing as we watched the wildcard playoff game between the Miami Dolphins and the Baltimore Ravens.

Now, I’m no football expert or anything, but it soon became real clear real that Miami was as toasted as those fat cats at Enron. They came out swingin’ at first, like they were out for blood, as the President so eloquently put it, but they did what most guys do... fizzle out before halftime. George could only sit there, yell at the TV, chow down on beer and pretzels while I sat by dryin’ up like the Sahara by the minute. I tried to seduce George at halftime, but to be honest; he seemed more interested in John Madden than he did me.

“When does intermission get over?”
“It’s called halftime, darlin’,” he said like he was Mr. Wizard or something.
“Yeah, yeah, and the people of Greece are called Greeks, not Grecians,” I mumbled.

He walked up to me then, and I expected him to get upset, but he embraced me with a full lipped kiss. Had he not belched in the middle of it, the kiss would’ve been very romantic. And there I was, standing in the White House with the President’s tongue in my mouth, the same tongue that stumbled over subliminal and to this day cannot pronounce nuclear. I was falling in love with him all over again. Eat your heart out Monica Lewinsky. You’re not the only one with the ability to give the President a hard on.
My fingers traveled down his shoulders, and then down the front of his pants. He cringed when I touched him, then pulled out of the kiss like a teenager nervous about getting his braces stuck. Behind me, on the television, I heard the game coming back on. Halftime was over. George had gone soft.

At one point in the second half of the football game, George stood up, cursed at the TV, and made a telephone call. “Karl, have the ref that just blew that call fired.” He slammed down the phone and then smirked in that presidential way he has.
Baltimore lost that game but George told me the Dolphins didn’t even cover the spread, whatever that means. The only spread I was concerned about covering was the spread of my legs on his shoulders. But George was depressed; having lost several hundred thousand dollars in a game he thought would be a sure thing. I’m sure you can feel his pain. Especially if you owned Enron stock.

I tried to make him feel better with a back rub. He turned the TV off and relaxed back into the couch. I began unbuttoning his shirt while straddling his waist. With the release of each button, I felt his hardness begin to grow beneath me, like a growing rock. Well, more like a growing pebble. But we have a saying here in Texas — it’s not how big the bone is, it’s how deep ya bury it.
I stopped, suddenly aware of eyes watching me from across the room.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, his body getting warm with sweat.
I turned to look at the eyes. “We’re being watched.”
“Oh don’t mind them, darlin’, Spot watches me jerk off all the time. And Barney starts to drool when I'm about to cum. Why don’t we do it doggy style for them?”

I wasn't used to being watched so intently during sex, at least not by anyone other than Karl Rove. I tried to get my mind back on the subject in hand. I began running my fingers through George’s chest hair and started undressing him again, unbuttoning his pants, and sliding off his boxers with the Presidential seal on them. When he reached out to grab me, his hand swung around the dining room table and knocked over several Corona bottles and a bowl of pretzels. One pretzel landed squarely on his stomach.
I grinned at it wickedly, pinching it between my fingers.
“What’s cookin’ in that li’l head of yours, darlin’?” he asked.
I backed up on the other side of the couch, pretzel still within my grip, and with my other hand, I slid out of my pantsuit, and then my undies. George only smiled.
For whatever reason, the President didn’t like normal curved pretzels. He preferred the straight kind, the kind that can slide easily into certain orifices of the human body. The ones — shaped like mini cigars, long and skinny — well, you get the idea.

Should I bore you with the details? Of course I should.
George took the special pretzel and put it in me. In and out, it went, the salt on its sides scratching against the inside of my love tunnel. He leaned over and kissed me as his pretzel slid in and out of my body in a rhythm that can only be described as divine. From the corner of my eye, I saw Barney begin to drool.

We paused to look into each other’s eyes. George pulled his pretzel out of me. It was now very wet and it looked like it was covered with white chocolate. I noticed the First Penis begin to salute, as he raised the pretzel up to his parted lips and put it into his mouth, dripping with my cum. But he didn’t bite down, instead he swallowed without chewing it first, and the pretzel slid down his throat and began to choke him. I married a moron!

That mischievous lustful look in his eyes was replaced with the fear of death. His hands went to his neck and his face started to turn very red.
If it weren’t so funny, it would’ve been really scary. But I slowly began to realize I needed to do something. I mean, if I waited much longer, that asshole Dick Cheney would be President, and then we’d all be screwed. George continued choking, and I started to panic. Meanwhile, the dogs just sat there, like bumps on logs, no help at all. As I hesitated, George was losing consciousness. So I performed my civic duty. I wrapped my hands around his chest, just below his rib cage, and I squeezed. Mr. Heimlich would’ve been proud to see that lubricated pretzel jump out of his mouth and fly across the room. When I let go of him, his body went as limp as his manhood, and your President slumped down onto the coffee table headfirst, and then onto the floor. I quickly checked for a pulse and was relieved to find one. He was lying on the floor naked, slowly gaining colour. When he came to, he didn’t remember a thing, and he had a headache the size of the federal deficit. I gave him some ice cream and put him to bed.

The story has since come out that George choked on a pretzel and fell off the couch onto the floor. As you can see, the story is completely true but it leaves out the more charming details. George even decided to teach the country a lesson with his little mishap. “My mother was right, always chew your food,” he’s told us. That George... if he isn’t the most insightful philosophic President we’ve ever had, I don’t know who is. However, I rather doubt his mother explicitly warned him about chewing pretzels covered in cum. I know the next time George goes down on me, I’m going to make him chew twenty times before swallowing. It’s my civic duty, after all. Well no, on second thoughts, I won’t tell him to chew, unless he’s going down on Hillary Clinton."

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Story © 2004 Jennifer Gardner. Picture & design © 2004 utterpants.co.uk / 200904