Everyone’s waiting for Obama to text us his VP pick. I have my telegraph machine ready for when McCain announces his pick.

I dearly hope McCain is wise enough to pick Barney, George W. Bush’s Scottish Terrier. He has sniffed the ass of many powerful Republicans. (Note: Cheney never changes his underwear.) We all know, and we’re all very pleased, that the end of the Bush presidency will not be the end of the Bush presidency. Tricky Dick Cheney will continue to be the attack dog, while Barney fronts. Upon McCain’s prearranged death, Barney will step forward as the Manchurian Candidate and become leader of the free world!

Should McCain opt out of his own death, there’s always Representative Tom Tancredo. He’s a dog hero, a lover of freedom and hater of tacos, burritos and all other Mexican food that makes me bloated and gassy. He stood up to the authorities when “Dog the Bounty Hunter” was about to be extradited to Mexico on charges of bounty hunting. For those not hip to the dogosphere, “Dog” is The One to Republican pups like “Obama” is The One to Democrat pups. It’s every dog’s dream to be a bounty hunter and hunt down the bad guys. It’s what we’re bred to do. I would go to the gates of hell to hunt down Osama bin Laden… or to get my squeaky noodle-doodle toy. Hey, it may not be legal to bounty hunt in Mexico, but it is the good ol’ USA. There’s no way Americans or their dogs should be held to other countries’ laws, and Tom Tancredo understands that. Moreover, Tancredo would make for darn sure that no Mexican flea-ridden, stray dogs get through our high-tech fence into America.

My colleague of ill-repute, Barley Boo — he had the affair with Rielle Hunter, too — wrote about underdogs for Obama’s VP pick. Here’s my underdog for McCain: Duane Chapman, “Dog the Bounty Hunter” himself. Think about it. All dogs are interested in national security, and this guy is gonna go out and get the worst of the worst. Putin, Chavez, Mugabe, bin Laden, Socks the Cat. He will keep dogs safe, so choose him, Mr. McCain.

Democrats would be disgusted by my bacchanalian pie eating orgy. “Oh, no!,” they’d say, “slow down, we don’t have enough pie, let’s save some for tomorrow, don’t eat it all at once, let’s conserve that pie–ouch! Don’t bite me!”

If I could talk, I’d say, “Quit hating my freedom, Democrat! I’m free to eat as much pie as I want, and that’s what’s great about the U-S-A!” I’d probably have to say it in French so they understood. I can’t talk though, so I’d bark and maybe bite an ankle or a forearm. That’d show the freedom haters what America’s about.

It’s the same thing with this whole oil thing. Sure, I don’t drive, but my owners do. I need that car to run so I can stick my head out of it. I need it so my owners can go buy me more dog food and food to make pies. But Democrats want to take that car away from us and make us ride a bike even though I think I’m too big to fit in a basket. Meanwhile, heroic Republicans are fighting to protect America by pushing for more digging. Because they love America. Some of these heroes are even staying in Washington, DC and giving up their August recesses to stay in the darkened House chamber and yell about the need for more digging. That’s sacrifice. Here, they could be home in their districts, spending quality time with the wife and kids, going to spaghetti dinners at the local rotary club, walking around in the August sun shaking sweaty hands and pretending to smile all day long, but instead they’ve chosen to protect America from Democrats.

I’m a dog. I know digging. I dig all the time. And you know what? I find awesome stuff. Last week I found a half-buried deer carcass when I was digging. The week before that: an old tennis ball. I know, I couldn’t believe someone left it in the dirt either. But that’s the thing: you put a little effort into digging, and bingo, you’ve got a treasure. The Republicans want to dig because they know there’s great stuff out there for us to find. And because they love America.

They want to dig at the beach. I love digging at the beach. That sand really flies when you get after it. When my owners took me to the beach, I dug around for a bit and found some dead fish. I rolled and rolled in that dead fish until I was covered in its fragrance. Smelling like dead fish is what America’s all about. So let’s dig at the beach. We’ll find great stuff, I just know it.