Upon meeting George W. Bush, I will say, "It's an honor to meet you, sir," and extend my hand. When he reaches out for a shake, I will suddenly arc it up and behind my right ear and shout, "Psych!"

Then I will add, "Sorry about that. In fact, I wholeheartedly support your policies, from your tax breaks to the richest one percent--because trickle-down economics clearly works--to your common-sense opposition to gun-control...Not!"

As he recovers from this trenchant blow, I will say, "But forget about me--you still have the public on your side, right? I just saw your most recent approval rating. Survey says?" After a dramatic pause of two seconds, I will mimic a droning "buzzer" sound and punctuate it by crossing my forearms in an "X."

I will quickly throw in, "I've heard some former members of your administration say they've recently cautioned you on the problems inherent in a doctrine of preemptive warfare in oil-rich fundamentalist states. Doy hickey."

If at any juncture Bush responds by hurling an invective my way--perhaps by calling me a "traitor," "un-American," or "Princeton riff-raff"--I have the perfect rebuttal in mind: "I know you are, but what am I?" Imagine his red-faced humiliation when he realizes that the pejorative he intended for me has, by dint of my rhetorical nimbleness, been turned against him!

(I may also substitute the lengthier, but no less potent, "I'm rubber and you're glue..." variant.)

At this point his Secret Service men will tackle me and gruffly order me to shut up. But I will rejoin, "I don't shut up, I grow up, and when I look at you, I throw up!" I will make eye contact with the president as I reach into my pocket with the hand that is not currently being twisted behind my back, where I previously stashed a small quantity of soft-shell crab. I will consume the crab, as around the time these insults were part of my vernacular in 1991 I think I had some sort of shellfish allergy, because I remember having twice violently vomited all night from eating crab, although fortunately the episodes have yet to recur, but maybe in this situation it will again nauseate me and add a performative flourish to my rhyming insult.

Finally, as the first misty squirt of mace temporarily blinds me, I'll shout to Bush, "My dad could beat up your dad!" (which is true), and as they haul me away to a secret detaining facility and my jugular vein embraces the tiny grappling hook of a taser, I will yell--both from a belief that increased volume will amplify the put-down's strength and involuntarily from the 500,000 volts surging through my convulsing body--"And you're stupid!" (also true). As a last affront to his dictatorial strong-arm tactics, just before the Secret Service men bludgeon me, I'll sarcastically remark, "That's really mature, guys."

Man, he's such a loser. Which I will remind him of--in the context of the 2000 popular vote--as the elephant tranquilizer sets in.

This will be so funny I may forget, or be physically unable, to laugh.