All Hail P.O.P. aka Queen Victorious!!!

While her mother’s off in Belgium hobnobbing with Princess Astrid (really, I can’t make this up—my wife’s life’s so much more interesting than mine), Political Operative Poohbutt is receiving a retinue of her own, offering her gifts, gratitude, and praise.

My little pol went to East Bumble with a mission. Through the blood and grit, grime and corruption, our girl has emerged bloodied, scarred, and, most importantly, victorious. Her terrible, swift sword and doe-like eyes won the voters of that little ville over. They just couldn’t resist the little bugger.

Now, our Queen Victorious has those greedy developers and their Repugnantcan cronies on the run. They have melted into the shadows of the Shenandoah, vowing to return again. But for now, they are defeated. Grandpooh has won his city council seat, and reforms can now be implemented. For the next four years, at least, these developers’ pockets will not be lined with taxpayers’ dollars (if we could all be so lucky!).

And now, thankful Democrats line up before Poohbutt’s crib—I mean, throne—bearing gifts. Binkies, onesies, every toy that flashes lights and/or sings a tune (and every child’s toy does that) crowd the room. It’s all lost on her, though. She only likes the boxes.

Everybody asks her advice.

“Any advice?” asks David Axelrod.

“Baabaabaabaah,” she advises.

They look at me for translation.

“Uh,” I screw up my face, “she says avoid nuts and always keep your diaper clean.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” gasps Donna Brazile.

“Balderdash!” screams Karl Rove, storming out of the great hall.

“Where did he come from?” I ask.

“The diaper pail,” Steve Schmidt announces—from the diaper pail.

“Baabaabaabaah.”

“All right, people,” I announce, clapping my hands. “Audience over. Thanks for everything. And see you all in ’12—when we can finally end this Palin mess for good.”

“Damn you all to hell!!!” Schmidt screams, and rushes out, leaving a trail of stained diapers in his wake.