Among the most effective parts of President Bush’s convention speech was the segment where he takes a few self deprecating pokes at some of the personal quirks and faults that people like to pick on. Not the substantive policy stuff, mind you, but the smirk and the verbal stumbles and so on. Even hardline Kerry voters of my acquaintance found this at least temporarily disarming, and one suggested that Bush must’ve taken a page from Bunny Rabbit’s final rap-battle in the Eminem movie 8 Mile. Now that, I thought, is something I’d like to see. So, with apologies to Slim Shady, here’s what I imagine that might sound like—it helps if you picture Cheney behind him scratching Toby Keith on a turntable:

Now everybody from the 212,
put your motherfuckin’ hands up like your state ain’t Blue,
everybody from the 212 put your motherfuckin’ hands up.
Look, look,

I know they hate me like Obama
Chantin’ “Why Iraq?” and “Where’s Osama?”
Now it’s my turn to bring the trauma,
Take the podium spittin’ rhymes like a llama

1, 2, 3 and to the 4
1 PAC, 2 PAC, 3 PACs, 4,
4 PACs, 3PACs, 2PACs, 1,
You think MoveOn PAC drops science? Check my swift vets, son.

John Kerry aint a mother-fuckin MC,
I know everything he’s got to say against me,
I do swagger, I smirk like a chimp,
The New York Times used to call my dad a wimp,
I scope the marchers with my Fuji blimp,
I do got a Veep candidate named Dick,
Who calls his Halliburton peeps with contracts to pimp,
I know I sound in conversations
Like I’m still hitting the libations
I don’t speak French—or even English—like a smartie,
But I’m still standin’ here screamin’ “FUCK THE DONKEY PARTY!”
And never try and judge me dude
You don’t know what the fuck I’ve been through.

But I know something about you,
You voted against funding troops and body armor too,
What’s the matter dawg, you got no orbs?
This guys a populist?
His middle name’s Forbes

And Johnny’s only secondhand rich,
Spends the ketchup benjamins from his eurotrash bitch,
This guy don’t wanna battle, he’s gonna balk,
Cuz ain’t no such thing as a halfway hawk,
He’s scared to death,
Knows he’s a fuckin’ phony
He wants you to forget his Winter Soldier testimony,
That his boy toy’s a fuckin’ trial lawyers’ crony

Fuck the beat I go accapella,
Fuck Moore’s doc, fuck Richard Clarke, fuck Air America’s talk, fuck everybody,
fuck y’all if you doubt me,
I’m a piece of fuckin white trash, I say it proudly,
And fuck this election, I don’t wanna win, I’m outie,
Here, tell these people something they dont know about me.