We here at Fox News Online made a mistake today. It was an honest mistake. It was a fair and balanced mistake. But it was still a mistake. And we regret it. We really do. We feel terrible. We apologize. Sincerely. It'll never happen again. Cross our hearts and hope to become liberals.

One of our reporters, Carl Cameron, posted some fake John Kerry quotations on foxnews.com today:

"That Dionysus really knows how to party, dude. And he's got a most excellently large penis."
"Karl Rove is a big dildo."
"I have a bolt through my neck."
"I'm so limber can felch myself."
"I'm a flip-flopping robotic goat wearing a rubber Herman Munster mask."

John Kerry never really said these things. He may have thought them, and they may be quite true, but according to our fair and balanced fact-checkers, he never said them. Carl Cameron got these quotations from a highly placed source in the Bush administration and failed to substantiate them properly. And that makes them bad journalism. Shame on us.

Cameron has since been flogged upon the back and buttocks and sent to his room without dinner, where he will not be allowed to surf the Internet or consult with Satan on his next story.

I think our boys did pretty well, Zeus says, clicking off the TV and adjusting his covers. Don't you?

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera hums.

You could hardly see the bolt through Kerry's neck, Zeus says, picking up his copy of Plan of Attack. And Hephaistos worked miracles with the Bush clone. Hardly a moment's malfunction. I think that boy's bucking for a promotion. What do you think?

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera smiles.

I'm just worried about the next debate, Zeus says. You wanna watch Fahrenheit 9/11 again? You aren't sleepy yet, are you?

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera sighs.

I wish you wouldn't use that thing while I'm here in bed with you, Zeus grumbles. You know I can hear every little squeal for help that Rove creature emits from in there. It's got my ulcer acting up, if you want to know the truth. I can feel acid flushing through my system.

Mmmmmmmmm, Hera moans.

It's coming in sort of garbled, Rumsfeld says. Sort of staticky.

What're they saying? Cheney says.

Sounds like--uh, Rove's in Bilbao? Rumsfeld says.

Yeah? Cheney says. That boy gets around, doesn't he. Where, uh--where exactly is Bilbao, anyway?

Basque Country, Condoleezza Rice says. Northwestern Spain.

Huh, Cheney says. What, is he on the trail of an ETA cell?

Or else he's in an ETA cell, Rumsfeld says.

Things could get a little hairy, Rice says. Might require some wet work.

Well, Cheney says, Karl's good at getting himself out of a tight spot.

He'll use his head, Rumsfeld agrees. That big bulbous pink head.

There's a knock on the door. Evelyn sticks her head in.

There's a couple of Marines out here, wanting to report.

Send them in, Cheney says.

The Marines come in, trembling and holding onto their belts for dear life.

Yes? Cheney says. What is it?

Sorry to interrupt, one says, but there's some kind of hairy goat-man loose in the White House, having sex with the tourists.

So subdue him, Rumsfeld snaps. That's what you Marines are here for.

Well, the other Marine says, that's the thing. He's having sex with the Marines too.

Ooh, Rice says, her face heating up.

Well send the Secret Service in, Rumsfeld says.

They're all dead, the Marine says. With their pants around their ankles and their arms torn off at the shoulder.

Lock the door, Cheney says.

Too late! From the outer office they hear the sounds of wild animal sex and the fizzle and pop of a primitive meaty machine shorting out.

Empty your pockets into the tub, please, sir.

Pockets? What is pockets?

He isn't wearing pants, Mike.

Damn, so he isn't. I'm sorry, sir. No one is allowed into the White House without pants.

Hold on there a second, Mike. Doesn't he look familiar to you?

Huh? No, not really. Jim Breuer as Goat Boy, maybe you're thinking? On those old SNLs?

Maybe. I dunno, there's just something about him ... Sir, have you been on TV?

No.

Damn, that's that, then. Have you been here before? The White House? Here?

No.

Do you have, like, a famous brother or something?

No.

Do you come in different flavors? Strawberry, maybe?

Yeah, that's it--a different flavor, like the old Strawberry Shortcake toys!

Or cherry!

Cherry Cheesecake!

That's it! Imagine him in red! Red skin, horns, red beard, red tail ... no, I can't think of who he reminds me of.

Are you an Arab, by any chance, sir?

No.

Muslim?

No.

Terrorist?

No.

Carrying any concealed weapons? Well, no, I guess you don't have any place to conceal them, do you, sir, ha ha!

No.

Walk through the metal detector, please, sir. Line forms to your left.

So, Dubya is saying to Evelyn, one of the White House secretaries, there's this drunk guy, see?

Is this you? Evelyn says without looking up from her typing.

Uh, Dubya says, no. This is another drunk guy. I mean, this is a joke about a drunk guy. I'm not that guy.

Oh, Evelyn says.

Anyway, Dubya says, he's got some people over, and he's drunk, and he goes, hey, wanna see my talking clone?

Now Evelyn's head bobs up.

Talking clone? she says, trying not to meet Marcia's eye across the room. Marcia is listening intently with her head down anyway.

Yeah, Dubya says, a talking clone. You know, the kind that tells you the time every time you hit it.

Oh, Evelyn says, going back to her typing. A talking clock.

Right, Dubya says. Like I said. Anyway, this guy is really wasted, and wants to show off his talking clone, and--

Now Evelyn can't help it. She glances over at Marcia. Marcia meets her eye for just a split second and goes back to her work.

And his guests go, hey, sure, talking clone, let's see the motherfucker, scuse the French. So they go in the bedroom and the guy grabs a hammer and smacks this big grass bong.

You mean, uh, glass bong? Evelyn says.

Huh?

I just never saw a grass bong, Evelyn says. Oh! You mean for marijuana. That kind of grass.

No, Dubya says, a Japanese kind. You smack it and it goes BONNNGGGG.

Oh, Evelyn says, a gong.

A what?

A gong. Oh, I get it, she says, you mean a brass gong.

What'd I say?

Never mind.

Anyway, Dubya says, the guy hits it, like, really hard, and he's drunk on his ass. And it's like the clone talks!

What clone? Evelyn says.

The talking clone! Dubya exclaims. Haven't you been listening?

Sorry, Mr. President, Evelyn says.

He hits it and it says "Would you stop hitting that thing you drunk fuck it's 2 am in the fucking morning!" Get it?

What, the neighbor behind the wall yelled at him?

No, the clone did! It fucking talked!

Wow, Evelyn says, stealing one more glance at Marcia.

Yeah, pretty funny joke, huh? Dubya says. I wonder what they're doing with the Mullet Billdoug in there. He seemed like a pretty right-on guy.