He took a deep breath and stretched his back to get the juices flowing. He was lying on his side, but he twisted his back to further the task of getting up in the morning, a task increasingly made difficult by age. He maneuvered in the California king bed until he was propped up on the pillow, giving him a view of the open door to the master bathroom where his wife just emerged from the shower.
She toweled herself down, standing before the mirror that stretched from wall to wall above the two "his and her" marble sinks. He examined her nakedness. She had grown heavy. Not fat, but just wider and sloppier with age. Not much different from himself, he thought, but he remained convinced he still looked better without clothes than his wife. She had no makeup on, her hair was wet, and as she moved the towel across her body, it bunched up handfuls of lose body mass that did not happen to a younger woman.
His wife placed the pink towel down on the bathroom counter and picked up her glasses, an accessory rarely seen in public today because of her daily, if not nightly, use of contact lenses. She brushed her hair, standing before the mirror, and after she finished, she pulled hair out of the brush and fingered the strands into the flowered waste bucket on the floor. Shedding, is what he thought. This happens as you get older.
He took another deep breath and felt very, very lucky. He had this 'lucky moment' feeling often in his life, when he was elected governor, when he got to speak at the Democratic National Convention, and when he was elected each time to the Presidency. But when Presidencies end, so does the power, generally. Not with him. Because with him, he was lying on a bed watching the next President of the United States of America standing in the bathroom, pulling hair out of her head in the nude. No one else will witness this moment. Historians will write about them, as husband and wife, as the only co-president couple in American history; they will attempt to surmise their relationship, and attribute weight to it, give it gravity. There will be scholarship devoted to them. Books will be written, university courses taught, movies made, plays performed.
His wife walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, still naked.
"Good morning," she said as she walked over to her dresser to retrieve a bra, which she always put on first before anything else. She was bosomy, which he liked, but they had lost their firmness. Age. It sucks. Thank god for his wife's remarkable ability to remain in denial.
"Good morning," he said.
And that was it. No further words were spoken that morning. She was dressed, packed, and on her cell phone before he even thought about getting out of bed. Oh, the beauty of it all, to be an ex-President and to be living with the next President. Why had God so graced him with luck?
Imaginary Moments of Drama, Politics and Culture - By Gary O. Bennett
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Move On To A Jewish Connection
The offices of Moveon.org had a commanding view of the East Bay, broken only by a few eucalyptus trees. The Transamerica Pyramid cut through a blanket of low clouds across the Bay. The window was open, and the warm breeze brought the aroma of eucalyptus with it. There were seven flat screen monitors aglow, each manned by what appeared to be college-age kids. The kids were all unpaid interns helping with the cause. The founders of Moveon.org, husband and wife, were sitting at a conference room table behind an interior glass window. Seated opposite them was Michael Moore, the filmmaker.
"Libby is Jewish," said Moore.
The husband looks at his wife.
"Yes?" said the husband, respectfully.
"Connect the dots. I am in the business of connecting dots. This is an obvious one," said Moore.
"I'm sorry," said wife. "How is his being Jewish relevant?"
"Libby claims to be a neo-con. But he isn't really. Neo-cons have an ideology, a fucked-up arrogant one, but an ideology just the same. Libby has no ideology. But he has an agenda, and it is Israel." Moore said this with earnestness.
"How do you know this?" asked husband.
"Connect the dots. Libby is Jewish. He has contributed to various Israeli not-for-profits, he has been a point man for Sharon, he was the one responsible for watering down Bush's objections to the Israeli wall Sharon is building. You getting the picture? Are the dots connecting?"
"Not entirely, Michael," said husband.
"You could argue that the real purpose of the Iraq war has been Israel all along. That just might be the hidden agenda of Bush and Cheney. Forget weapons of mass destruction. Forget oil. It's Israel." Moore was getting excited by his own assertions.
"Forget oil?" said wife incredulously. "You expect me to believe Bush and Cheney are perpetrating the Iraq war without any thought of oil?"
"OK. OK. So it's a stretch. But think of the angle. You have to think of how it will play. I am telling you there is a lot of sentiment out there in the heartland that Israel is the source of all this burning hate among Arabs and Muslims. That there would not have been a September 11th but for Israel. Tap into it. Tap into that sentiment. And watch the money start to flow in. We can link our websites. I am getting a shit load of hits since Bush's ratings have tanked."
"I do not want Moveon to be accused of anti-semitism," said husband.
"Fuck that. You are exposing a truth. An angle on the truth, a possible truth, a potential truth, a near truth, whatever you want to call it. Make it subtle. Leave the balls to me."
Husband and wife look at each other.
"You do whatever you want on your website. We'll keep your link up. And we will see how it develops," wife said.
"Yes, we will see how it develops," said husband.
"One thing bothers me," said Moore. "Jews wouldn't call themselves 'Scooter.' Scooter is a wasp thing. I am going to guess that possibly another truth is that Libby has been co-opted by Bush and his gang of wasps. What do you think?"
Husband and wife look at each other.
"Keep at it, Michael. It is something to pursue," said wife.
"Libby is Jewish," said Moore.
The husband looks at his wife.
"Yes?" said the husband, respectfully.
"Connect the dots. I am in the business of connecting dots. This is an obvious one," said Moore.
"I'm sorry," said wife. "How is his being Jewish relevant?"
"Libby claims to be a neo-con. But he isn't really. Neo-cons have an ideology, a fucked-up arrogant one, but an ideology just the same. Libby has no ideology. But he has an agenda, and it is Israel." Moore said this with earnestness.
"How do you know this?" asked husband.
"Connect the dots. Libby is Jewish. He has contributed to various Israeli not-for-profits, he has been a point man for Sharon, he was the one responsible for watering down Bush's objections to the Israeli wall Sharon is building. You getting the picture? Are the dots connecting?"
"Not entirely, Michael," said husband.
"You could argue that the real purpose of the Iraq war has been Israel all along. That just might be the hidden agenda of Bush and Cheney. Forget weapons of mass destruction. Forget oil. It's Israel." Moore was getting excited by his own assertions.
"Forget oil?" said wife incredulously. "You expect me to believe Bush and Cheney are perpetrating the Iraq war without any thought of oil?"
"OK. OK. So it's a stretch. But think of the angle. You have to think of how it will play. I am telling you there is a lot of sentiment out there in the heartland that Israel is the source of all this burning hate among Arabs and Muslims. That there would not have been a September 11th but for Israel. Tap into it. Tap into that sentiment. And watch the money start to flow in. We can link our websites. I am getting a shit load of hits since Bush's ratings have tanked."
"I do not want Moveon to be accused of anti-semitism," said husband.
"Fuck that. You are exposing a truth. An angle on the truth, a possible truth, a potential truth, a near truth, whatever you want to call it. Make it subtle. Leave the balls to me."
Husband and wife look at each other.
"You do whatever you want on your website. We'll keep your link up. And we will see how it develops," wife said.
"Yes, we will see how it develops," said husband.
"One thing bothers me," said Moore. "Jews wouldn't call themselves 'Scooter.' Scooter is a wasp thing. I am going to guess that possibly another truth is that Libby has been co-opted by Bush and his gang of wasps. What do you think?"
Husband and wife look at each other.
"Keep at it, Michael. It is something to pursue," said wife.
The Next President Without Clothes
He took a deep breath and stretched his back to get the juices flowing. He was lying on his side, but he twisted his back to further the task of getting up in the morning, a task increasingly made difficult by age. He maneuvered in the California king bed until he was propped up on the pillow, giving him a view of the open door to the master bathroom where his wife just emerged from the shower.
She toweled herself down, standing before the mirror that stretched from wall to wall above the two "his and her" marble sinks. He examined her nakedness. She had grown heavy. Not fat, but just wider and sloppier with age. Not much different from himself, he thought, but he remained convinced he still looked better without clothes than his wife. She had no makeup on, her hair was wet, and as she moved the towel across her body, it bunched up handfuls of lose body mass that did not happen to a younger woman.
His wife placed the pink towel down on the bathroom counter and picked up her glasses, an accessory rarely seen in public today because of her daily, if not nightly, use of contact lenses. She brushed her hair, standing before the mirror, and after she finished, she pulled hair out of the brush and fingered the strands into the flowered waste bucket on the floor. Shedding, is what he thought. This happens as you get older.
He took another deep breath and felt very, very lucky. He had this 'lucky moment' feeling often in his life, when he was elected governor, when he got to speak at the Democratic National Convention, and when he was elected each time to the Presidency. But when Presidencies end, so does the power, generally. Not with him. Because with him, he was lying on a bed watching the next President of the United States of America standing in the bathroom, pulling hair out of her head in the nude. No one else will witness this moment. Historians will write about them, as husband and wife, as the only co-president couple in American history; they will attempt to surmise their relationship, and attribute weight to it, give it gravity. There will be scholarship devoted to them. Books will be written, university courses taught, movies made, plays performed.
His wife walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, still naked.
"Good morning," she said as she walked over to her dresser to retrieve a bra, which she always put on first before anything else. She was bosomy, which he liked, but they had lost their firmness. Age. It sucks. Thank god for his wife's remarkable ability to remain in denial.
"Good morning," he said.
And that was it. No further words were spoken that morning. She was dressed, packed, and on her cell phone before he even thought about getting out of bed. Oh, the beauty of it all, to be an ex-President and to be living with the next President. Why had God so graced him with luck?
She toweled herself down, standing before the mirror that stretched from wall to wall above the two "his and her" marble sinks. He examined her nakedness. She had grown heavy. Not fat, but just wider and sloppier with age. Not much different from himself, he thought, but he remained convinced he still looked better without clothes than his wife. She had no makeup on, her hair was wet, and as she moved the towel across her body, it bunched up handfuls of lose body mass that did not happen to a younger woman.
His wife placed the pink towel down on the bathroom counter and picked up her glasses, an accessory rarely seen in public today because of her daily, if not nightly, use of contact lenses. She brushed her hair, standing before the mirror, and after she finished, she pulled hair out of the brush and fingered the strands into the flowered waste bucket on the floor. Shedding, is what he thought. This happens as you get older.
He took another deep breath and felt very, very lucky. He had this 'lucky moment' feeling often in his life, when he was elected governor, when he got to speak at the Democratic National Convention, and when he was elected each time to the Presidency. But when Presidencies end, so does the power, generally. Not with him. Because with him, he was lying on a bed watching the next President of the United States of America standing in the bathroom, pulling hair out of her head in the nude. No one else will witness this moment. Historians will write about them, as husband and wife, as the only co-president couple in American history; they will attempt to surmise their relationship, and attribute weight to it, give it gravity. There will be scholarship devoted to them. Books will be written, university courses taught, movies made, plays performed.
His wife walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, still naked.
"Good morning," she said as she walked over to her dresser to retrieve a bra, which she always put on first before anything else. She was bosomy, which he liked, but they had lost their firmness. Age. It sucks. Thank god for his wife's remarkable ability to remain in denial.
"Good morning," he said.
And that was it. No further words were spoken that morning. She was dressed, packed, and on her cell phone before he even thought about getting out of bed. Oh, the beauty of it all, to be an ex-President and to be living with the next President. Why had God so graced him with luck?
Osama Thinking of Bush's Urine
Osama sat on the long edge of a four-inch thick dusty and sheetless mattress that was supported by an aluminum cot. A hyperdermic needle was taped to his left arm, another to his right. The tubes that led from these needles ran to a dialysis machine that was powered by a small Honda gasoline generator. The generator clanked and hummed, the sound echoing off the cinderblock walls of the room. A doctor in a white headress stood beside the machine, monitoring its levels and timing the procedure. There was no one else in the room, at the insistence of Osama, who believed that dialysis was a private procedure, much like sex, and that only the doctor, a male doctor, could be present for the act. Osama rarely spoke with the doctor, but the earthquake a few weeks ago had killed one of his daughters, one of his most precious possessions, and he was feeling blue. So he spoke.
"Where is he today?"
The doctor was startled. Other than scheduling the next dialysis session, Osama had never engaged in any talk. The doctor's first thought is that this must be a medical question.
"Doctor Mummas? He is in Kabul," the doctor said.
"No. No. Bush. Where is Bush today?" Osama was looking down at the dirt floor of the room, his bare feet gently kicking the dust up.
"You mean the American Bush?" The words came out before the doctor's brain registered the obvious nature of Osama's question.
"Where is Bush today? He is on a trip, yes?"
"Trip? Well, I think I saw on the television feed that he is in South America." Lucky for the doctor that he is a television junkie. Not for the news, really, but for the American reality shows. He does not understand a word of English, but the reality shows do not require a facility with language.
"Yes. Yes. Bush has his kidneys, you know. They are two organs of his that work." Osama said this without a hint of sarcasm. He was serious.
"I have no knowledge of his medical condition." The doctor thought this was the appropriately professional response.
"His kidneys clean his blood of urine, but his blood remains yellow."
OK, thought the doctor. Maybe the dialysis machine was not working properly. It had been fussy lately, and he was expecting a new one to be delivered from Karachi. Osama must be experiencing some level of blood poisoning that was affecting his thinking.
"Bush the Son is losing, and Bush the Father must feel shame. The Hebrews say that brains skip a generation. Bush got kidneys, but the favor of no brain." Osama started to laugh. His laugh caused him to cough, which he quelled by raising his arm to his mouth, a movement which concerned the doctor because it might disrupt the flow of blood through the tubes.
"Please calm yourself," the Doctor said.
"You know why I laugh? You know why I laugh? I'll tell you why. If the Hebrews are right, then Bush's brain skipped over him to his children, but Bush has no sons. No one to receive the Bush brain. There ends the Bush legacy, with a failed son. This is why I laugh. This is why I laugh. Is the machine finished? I feel the urine is out of me. I feel revived." Osama turned to look at the Doctor.
The machine was not finished, but the doctor was not about to refute the good feelings of Osama.
"Yes. The machine is finished." The doctor powered down the dialysis machine and turned off the Honda generator. The room grew quiet, broken only by the sounds of Osama's sons playing soccer in the yard outside. Osama listened to his sons, and wondered whether the Hebrews were right.
"Where is he today?"
The doctor was startled. Other than scheduling the next dialysis session, Osama had never engaged in any talk. The doctor's first thought is that this must be a medical question.
"Doctor Mummas? He is in Kabul," the doctor said.
"No. No. Bush. Where is Bush today?" Osama was looking down at the dirt floor of the room, his bare feet gently kicking the dust up.
"You mean the American Bush?" The words came out before the doctor's brain registered the obvious nature of Osama's question.
"Where is Bush today? He is on a trip, yes?"
"Trip? Well, I think I saw on the television feed that he is in South America." Lucky for the doctor that he is a television junkie. Not for the news, really, but for the American reality shows. He does not understand a word of English, but the reality shows do not require a facility with language.
"Yes. Yes. Bush has his kidneys, you know. They are two organs of his that work." Osama said this without a hint of sarcasm. He was serious.
"I have no knowledge of his medical condition." The doctor thought this was the appropriately professional response.
"His kidneys clean his blood of urine, but his blood remains yellow."
OK, thought the doctor. Maybe the dialysis machine was not working properly. It had been fussy lately, and he was expecting a new one to be delivered from Karachi. Osama must be experiencing some level of blood poisoning that was affecting his thinking.
"Bush the Son is losing, and Bush the Father must feel shame. The Hebrews say that brains skip a generation. Bush got kidneys, but the favor of no brain." Osama started to laugh. His laugh caused him to cough, which he quelled by raising his arm to his mouth, a movement which concerned the doctor because it might disrupt the flow of blood through the tubes.
"Please calm yourself," the Doctor said.
"You know why I laugh? You know why I laugh? I'll tell you why. If the Hebrews are right, then Bush's brain skipped over him to his children, but Bush has no sons. No one to receive the Bush brain. There ends the Bush legacy, with a failed son. This is why I laugh. This is why I laugh. Is the machine finished? I feel the urine is out of me. I feel revived." Osama turned to look at the Doctor.
The machine was not finished, but the doctor was not about to refute the good feelings of Osama.
"Yes. The machine is finished." The doctor powered down the dialysis machine and turned off the Honda generator. The room grew quiet, broken only by the sounds of Osama's sons playing soccer in the yard outside. Osama listened to his sons, and wondered whether the Hebrews were right.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Rove Projects Sex Onto an Aide
Karl Rove sat at the smaller-than-you-would-think oak desk in his office at the White House. Opposite him was Susan Ralston, his aide. Rove had the telephone receiver at his ear, but he was on hold, giving him a rare free moment to be with Susan without having to speak with her or do business.
Susan Ralston sat on a large-armed leather chair nursing a jumbo skim-milk cappuccino from Starbucks. Susan was wearing black slacks, white blouse and a grey blazer. Her legs were crossed, her foot tapping a black high heel. Susan’s hair was stick straight to her shoulders and jet black, which accentuated the big gold hoop earrings. A garnet ‘flower’ broach was pinned to her left lapel.
Rove was thinking this: Susan became Rove’s aide after she jumped ship from Jack Abramoff’s office. Jack was going down, then she jumped ‘up’ to Rove’s office. Then Rove almost sank in the Libby mess, and may still yet. But Susan was safe for now. But he had noticed something the other day when the two of them were with the President. Susan and the President spoke with each other. Not because Susan broke into the conversation, but because the President addressed her. Indeed, every male in a room is drawn to address Susan. She is not only smart, but has that behind the eyes sexuality that she keeps in reserve, like hidden bait. Never flirtatious, but men seem to fall into the aura of Ralston, as did the President the other day.
Karl was getting aggravated with waiting on the phone, so he slammed the receiver in its cradle.
“He is down the hall. You want me to go see what’s up?” asked Susan as she took a slurp from her jumbo Starbucks cup.
“You can’t just go down the hall, Susan. Now that you are in the White House, you have to realize that you can’t just roam around like a cat.” Karl regretted instantly the use of the word ‘cat.’ But Susan smiled.
“You mean now that you are sort of like on probation,” Susan asked.
“I am not on probation,” Karl said. “And by the way, I saw from your call records that you were speaking with Condi the other day. For what purpose was that phone conversation?”
“You peruse my call records?”
“Of course,” said Rove with false bravado as if this is standard operating procedure at the White House.
“No. No. I’m flattered,” said Susan. “Ms. Rice called me. I returned her call. She is interested in filling a position in her office.”
“What position?” Karl was genuinely surprised.
“She said she needed an aide.”
“You are in the White House, Susan. Moving to State would be a step down.”
“I hardly think so,” said Susan.
Karl noticed that when Susan said ‘hardly’ it was loaded with sex. For him it was, at least. He was projecting, he thought. But it still knocked him off his train of thought. Susan stood.
“I am out of coffee. I’ll make certain that you keep that appointment in the Oval Office by lunch,” Susan said as she opened the door and departed, leaving Karl with the distinct impression that Susan Ralston was going to be in Washington for a very long time.
Rove had every intention to keep the Oval Office appointment. But Ralston made it sound like without her, the President would not see him. Damn, Rove thought, he was getting paranoid. Second term blues.
Susan Ralston sat on a large-armed leather chair nursing a jumbo skim-milk cappuccino from Starbucks. Susan was wearing black slacks, white blouse and a grey blazer. Her legs were crossed, her foot tapping a black high heel. Susan’s hair was stick straight to her shoulders and jet black, which accentuated the big gold hoop earrings. A garnet ‘flower’ broach was pinned to her left lapel.
Rove was thinking this: Susan became Rove’s aide after she jumped ship from Jack Abramoff’s office. Jack was going down, then she jumped ‘up’ to Rove’s office. Then Rove almost sank in the Libby mess, and may still yet. But Susan was safe for now. But he had noticed something the other day when the two of them were with the President. Susan and the President spoke with each other. Not because Susan broke into the conversation, but because the President addressed her. Indeed, every male in a room is drawn to address Susan. She is not only smart, but has that behind the eyes sexuality that she keeps in reserve, like hidden bait. Never flirtatious, but men seem to fall into the aura of Ralston, as did the President the other day.
Karl was getting aggravated with waiting on the phone, so he slammed the receiver in its cradle.
“He is down the hall. You want me to go see what’s up?” asked Susan as she took a slurp from her jumbo Starbucks cup.
“You can’t just go down the hall, Susan. Now that you are in the White House, you have to realize that you can’t just roam around like a cat.” Karl regretted instantly the use of the word ‘cat.’ But Susan smiled.
“You mean now that you are sort of like on probation,” Susan asked.
“I am not on probation,” Karl said. “And by the way, I saw from your call records that you were speaking with Condi the other day. For what purpose was that phone conversation?”
“You peruse my call records?”
“Of course,” said Rove with false bravado as if this is standard operating procedure at the White House.
“No. No. I’m flattered,” said Susan. “Ms. Rice called me. I returned her call. She is interested in filling a position in her office.”
“What position?” Karl was genuinely surprised.
“She said she needed an aide.”
“You are in the White House, Susan. Moving to State would be a step down.”
“I hardly think so,” said Susan.
Karl noticed that when Susan said ‘hardly’ it was loaded with sex. For him it was, at least. He was projecting, he thought. But it still knocked him off his train of thought. Susan stood.
“I am out of coffee. I’ll make certain that you keep that appointment in the Oval Office by lunch,” Susan said as she opened the door and departed, leaving Karl with the distinct impression that Susan Ralston was going to be in Washington for a very long time.
Rove had every intention to keep the Oval Office appointment. But Ralston made it sound like without her, the President would not see him. Damn, Rove thought, he was getting paranoid. Second term blues.
Cheney Gobbles Bush's Fries
The President sat opposite his Vice President in the West Wing dining room. A young man in white pants and a white shirt placed a plate of freedom fries and a veggie burger in a whole wheat bun in front of the President, and a bowl of yoghurt and granola in front of the Vice President.
“Thank you, Bill,” says the President, as he reads the young man’s name off a brass name plate pinned to his white shirt.
“You’re welcome, Mr. President.” The young man backs up and stands near a side table waiting for any further requests.
Cheney reaches across the table and picks up three fries with his pudgy white thumb, index finger and middle finger. He slaps them all down on his tongue and draws them in, chewing with nervous pleasure.
With a mouthful, Cheney says “I knew it would work.”
Bush takes a sip from a straw of Sierra Mist on the rocks from a clear crystal tumbler emblazoned on the side in white with the Seal of the President. Bush nods.
“But we still have to get out before the end of 2007,” says Cheney.
“We’re going to lose Congress in 2006, Dick.”
“Stay on the offensive. Keep talking the talk. Beat them over the heads. The Democrats always find a way to lose.” Cheney reaches across again for more fries, but this time he hauls five into his mouth.
“Lieberman came out for us the other day.” The President has not touched his food.
“Lieberman is irrelevant. Politically, that is. It’s McCain that worries me. He’s fucking with us.”
“Stop, Dick. McCain is a good man. A hero. Hey Bill, can I have more of this?” The President holds up his empty tumbler, shaking it to indicate what he was referring to.
“Certainly, Mr. President.” Bill departs.
“The Iraqis gave us a gift. They are asking us to leave on a schedule. Let’s take it,” Cheney says.
“And if the whole place falls apart because they are too stupid to know what’s good for them, then what do I tell the fathers and mothers of the young men and women who died in Iraq?” The President’s attention is diverted to the arrival of Bill with a tumbler filled with Sierra Mist on the rocks.
“Jeez, Bill, thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. President.” Bill returns to his spot near the side table.
“You tell them that America did all it can do, and that what we did was the right thing. We handed the Iraqis an opportunity for freedom, but if they fail to take advantage of it, it does not diminish America’s good works. That’s what you tell them.”
“America’s good works. I like the way that sounds.”
“Fuck how it sounds.” Cheney polishes off the last of Bush’s fries, without touching his yogurt and granola. Bush sips to a gurgle his Sierra Mist.
“Thank you, Bill,” says the President, as he reads the young man’s name off a brass name plate pinned to his white shirt.
“You’re welcome, Mr. President.” The young man backs up and stands near a side table waiting for any further requests.
Cheney reaches across the table and picks up three fries with his pudgy white thumb, index finger and middle finger. He slaps them all down on his tongue and draws them in, chewing with nervous pleasure.
With a mouthful, Cheney says “I knew it would work.”
Bush takes a sip from a straw of Sierra Mist on the rocks from a clear crystal tumbler emblazoned on the side in white with the Seal of the President. Bush nods.
“But we still have to get out before the end of 2007,” says Cheney.
“We’re going to lose Congress in 2006, Dick.”
“Stay on the offensive. Keep talking the talk. Beat them over the heads. The Democrats always find a way to lose.” Cheney reaches across again for more fries, but this time he hauls five into his mouth.
“Lieberman came out for us the other day.” The President has not touched his food.
“Lieberman is irrelevant. Politically, that is. It’s McCain that worries me. He’s fucking with us.”
“Stop, Dick. McCain is a good man. A hero. Hey Bill, can I have more of this?” The President holds up his empty tumbler, shaking it to indicate what he was referring to.
“Certainly, Mr. President.” Bill departs.
“The Iraqis gave us a gift. They are asking us to leave on a schedule. Let’s take it,” Cheney says.
“And if the whole place falls apart because they are too stupid to know what’s good for them, then what do I tell the fathers and mothers of the young men and women who died in Iraq?” The President’s attention is diverted to the arrival of Bill with a tumbler filled with Sierra Mist on the rocks.
“Jeez, Bill, thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. President.” Bill returns to his spot near the side table.
“You tell them that America did all it can do, and that what we did was the right thing. We handed the Iraqis an opportunity for freedom, but if they fail to take advantage of it, it does not diminish America’s good works. That’s what you tell them.”
“America’s good works. I like the way that sounds.”
“Fuck how it sounds.” Cheney polishes off the last of Bush’s fries, without touching his yogurt and granola. Bush sips to a gurgle his Sierra Mist.
Laura Bush Has A Google Moment
The small antique Seth Thomas clock read 6:02. It looked quaint next to the sheen of the fifteen-inch Mac Powerbook laptop that sat in front of Laura Bush. Laura was checking her email. George was doing a single Windsor knot with his red and black striped tie. George finished his early morning bike ride a tad late, but he was not about to rush. He had been rushing from appearance to appearance in a whirlwind the last few days, and he was going to take this moment to slow down. So he stood at the gold-leaf oval mirror in the White House bedroom they had claimed as their own.
George never felt at home in this bedroom. It always felt like he was in a hotel, with room service. He couldn’t go down to the kitchen in his underwear and make scrambled eggs and toast. He had to dress to leave his bedroom, and there were always people in the house, strangers, government employees and civil servants.
“George, when was the last time you said you were sorry to me?” asked Laura as she was pecking the keyboard.
“I don’t know sweets. Yeah, wait, I know. Last week when I used the ‘f’ word. I said I was sorry. Remember?” George finished his Windsor knot and turned to look at Laura.
“Yes. I remember. Can you think of another time?”
George located his blue blazer and lifted it off the back of an upholstered chair.
“Laura, you must be thinking of something in particular. What is it sweets?” said George as he put his arms in the blazer.
“This morning. You awoke late, and your first words to me were ‘I’m sorry’, and you hopped out of bed and went for your bike ride. You apologized to me for waking up late.”
“Did I? Well, I guess I did. Sorry about that?” said George.
“See, there you go again. Are you apologizing for saying your sorry, or are you apologizing again for waking up late?” Laura was now looking at George over the top of her half-eye reading glasses.
“Geee, I guess I’m apologizing again for waking up late. I hardly think I would apologize for saying I was sorry. That would be dumb.” George was smiling at his wife, who he believed was the wisest person in his life, a power she rarely abused.
“You know, when you say you’re sorry, I hear ‘I love you,’” said Laura.
George walked up to her and kissed her on the lips. A long one.
“I do love you.”
George then walked to the bedroom door and left, closing it from behind. Laura went back to her Mac Powerbook and surfed to Google. She typed in another ‘f’ word: ‘failure.’ She then clicked ‘I’m Feeling Lucky,’ the link that directs the Google user to just one page. Google sent Laura to her husband’s biography on the official White House website. She stared at the screen for a moment, and then leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, thinking of her father-in-law, who had called her yesterday with this internet tip.
George never felt at home in this bedroom. It always felt like he was in a hotel, with room service. He couldn’t go down to the kitchen in his underwear and make scrambled eggs and toast. He had to dress to leave his bedroom, and there were always people in the house, strangers, government employees and civil servants.
“George, when was the last time you said you were sorry to me?” asked Laura as she was pecking the keyboard.
“I don’t know sweets. Yeah, wait, I know. Last week when I used the ‘f’ word. I said I was sorry. Remember?” George finished his Windsor knot and turned to look at Laura.
“Yes. I remember. Can you think of another time?”
George located his blue blazer and lifted it off the back of an upholstered chair.
“Laura, you must be thinking of something in particular. What is it sweets?” said George as he put his arms in the blazer.
“This morning. You awoke late, and your first words to me were ‘I’m sorry’, and you hopped out of bed and went for your bike ride. You apologized to me for waking up late.”
“Did I? Well, I guess I did. Sorry about that?” said George.
“See, there you go again. Are you apologizing for saying your sorry, or are you apologizing again for waking up late?” Laura was now looking at George over the top of her half-eye reading glasses.
“Geee, I guess I’m apologizing again for waking up late. I hardly think I would apologize for saying I was sorry. That would be dumb.” George was smiling at his wife, who he believed was the wisest person in his life, a power she rarely abused.
“You know, when you say you’re sorry, I hear ‘I love you,’” said Laura.
George walked up to her and kissed her on the lips. A long one.
“I do love you.”
George then walked to the bedroom door and left, closing it from behind. Laura went back to her Mac Powerbook and surfed to Google. She typed in another ‘f’ word: ‘failure.’ She then clicked ‘I’m Feeling Lucky,’ the link that directs the Google user to just one page. Google sent Laura to her husband’s biography on the official White House website. She stared at the screen for a moment, and then leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, thinking of her father-in-law, who had called her yesterday with this internet tip.
Cheney in Pajamas
Dick sat on a large upholstered chair wearing pajamas and a white t-shirt. He was leaning over, his forehead held by both hands. Lynne was watching him. She noticed that the time was nearly 9:00 AM, much too late for Dick to still be in the house. She also noticed something else. Dick was gaining weight and he looked very pale, but with pink blotches here and there on his white arms and his puffy cheeks. Dick usually held up well under pressure, but this time things were different. This time, there was a strange confluence of loud noise everywhere, and yet no one was talking to Dick. No one except Lynne, that is.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Dick, his forehead remaining in his hands, his back hunched over.
“Three more years, Dick. We can make it, can’t we?” Lynne asked, and it was not a rhetorical question.
Dick raised his head and stared out in front of him, staring at nothing in particular, but to Lynne it appeared Dick was looking down a long road.
“Yes. Of course. Just a bad spot right now.” Said without any apparent emotion.
“Maybe you should see Dr. Malakoff.”
“Malakoff can’t do anything for me right now. It’s not a health thing.”
“Richard, you might be thinking this is some larger issue, but it is impacting on your health. It is not worth it.”
“It is not worth it? It is not worth it?” Dick was now looking directly at his wife. “The wheels are coming off. We miscalculated. And now I can’t stop it. There is nothing I can do.”
Lynne walks up to Dick and places her hand on his back. “Things will work out, Dick.”
“You know your history. Things do not always work out.”
Lynne kneels down and hugs her husband.
“You should get dressed. It is not good to stay in the house. Go out and start the day.”
Dick rises and stretches his back.
“Yeah. Go out and start the day. Yeah. That’s what I will do.” Dick walks into the bathroom, leaving Lynne kneeling by the upholstered chair.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Dick, his forehead remaining in his hands, his back hunched over.
“Three more years, Dick. We can make it, can’t we?” Lynne asked, and it was not a rhetorical question.
Dick raised his head and stared out in front of him, staring at nothing in particular, but to Lynne it appeared Dick was looking down a long road.
“Yes. Of course. Just a bad spot right now.” Said without any apparent emotion.
“Maybe you should see Dr. Malakoff.”
“Malakoff can’t do anything for me right now. It’s not a health thing.”
“Richard, you might be thinking this is some larger issue, but it is impacting on your health. It is not worth it.”
“It is not worth it? It is not worth it?” Dick was now looking directly at his wife. “The wheels are coming off. We miscalculated. And now I can’t stop it. There is nothing I can do.”
Lynne walks up to Dick and places her hand on his back. “Things will work out, Dick.”
“You know your history. Things do not always work out.”
Lynne kneels down and hugs her husband.
“You should get dressed. It is not good to stay in the house. Go out and start the day.”
Dick rises and stretches his back.
“Yeah. Go out and start the day. Yeah. That’s what I will do.” Dick walks into the bathroom, leaving Lynne kneeling by the upholstered chair.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Cheney in Search of a Lift
David Addington was in the bar off the main lobby of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, DC. He was sneaking a shot of Pinch Whiskey. As the thick dark golden liquid hit his stomach, the warmth made Addington relax. Ever since Dick appointed him the Chief of Staff, the mood around the Vice President's office was downbeat, to say the least. There was little talk of worldly missions and grand plans. There was, instead, a bunker mentality eating away at the spirit. And so that was Addington's first task, to raise the spirits and do something rather than close the hatches.
Addington heard a loud thunder clap of hands peppered with cheers. He glanced at his watch Sure enough, the Vice President's speech ended on schedule, to the minute. It appears the speech Addington wrote for his boss received a good reception.
"Another," Addington addressed the bartender. The bartender poured from the unique round Pinch Whiskey bottle that was "pinched" in its center.
"A double, please."
"Flying or drowning?" asked the bartender.
"Why? What? Do I look like I'm drowning?" asked Addington.
"From where I work, it's hard to tell whether someone is about to take off or put a bullet in his head.
The bartender was not joking.
"You know it's possible to be drowning one day, and then suddenly an eagle comes down and swoops you into the sky. You know that's possible, right?" Addington said.
"That's what whiskey does. It swoops you up and then drops you like dead meat." The bartender placed the bottle of Pinch whiskey on the glass shelf that was lit with a green light and backed by a mirror. Addington could see himself in the mirror, and was now hyper-aware that he was feeling a bit too chatty with the bartender. He tossed two twenties on the bartop.
"Thanks," said the bartender.
Addington walked outside. A female Secret Service officer opened the back door of a black Chevy Suburban. Addington was surprised to see the Vice President already seated. The door closed. The car took off.
"This morning I felt like shit. But you were right. One good speech, a standing ovation, and I am now feeling back to normal." The Vice President was beaming.
"They gave you a standing ovation?"
"They didn't actually stand. You've been drinking?"
"Me. No. Well, yes, I stopped in the bar." Addington admitted the slip.
"I'm not sure I want to go home right now. Lynne brings me back to earth, and I am finding that depressing. Driver, take us to 17th and Pennsylvania. The Executive Office Building, front entrance."
"More work to do?" asks Addington.
"I have a stash in the credenza. I need a lift."
Addington had already had too much to drink. So this was the last thing he wanted.
"Same here," said Addington as it the first drops of rain started to hit the tinted glass of the Chevy's door window.
Addington heard a loud thunder clap of hands peppered with cheers. He glanced at his watch Sure enough, the Vice President's speech ended on schedule, to the minute. It appears the speech Addington wrote for his boss received a good reception.
"Another," Addington addressed the bartender. The bartender poured from the unique round Pinch Whiskey bottle that was "pinched" in its center.
"A double, please."
"Flying or drowning?" asked the bartender.
"Why? What? Do I look like I'm drowning?" asked Addington.
"From where I work, it's hard to tell whether someone is about to take off or put a bullet in his head.
The bartender was not joking.
"You know it's possible to be drowning one day, and then suddenly an eagle comes down and swoops you into the sky. You know that's possible, right?" Addington said.
"That's what whiskey does. It swoops you up and then drops you like dead meat." The bartender placed the bottle of Pinch whiskey on the glass shelf that was lit with a green light and backed by a mirror. Addington could see himself in the mirror, and was now hyper-aware that he was feeling a bit too chatty with the bartender. He tossed two twenties on the bartop.
"Thanks," said the bartender.
Addington walked outside. A female Secret Service officer opened the back door of a black Chevy Suburban. Addington was surprised to see the Vice President already seated. The door closed. The car took off.
"This morning I felt like shit. But you were right. One good speech, a standing ovation, and I am now feeling back to normal." The Vice President was beaming.
"They gave you a standing ovation?"
"They didn't actually stand. You've been drinking?"
"Me. No. Well, yes, I stopped in the bar." Addington admitted the slip.
"I'm not sure I want to go home right now. Lynne brings me back to earth, and I am finding that depressing. Driver, take us to 17th and Pennsylvania. The Executive Office Building, front entrance."
"More work to do?" asks Addington.
"I have a stash in the credenza. I need a lift."
Addington had already had too much to drink. So this was the last thing he wanted.
"Same here," said Addington as it the first drops of rain started to hit the tinted glass of the Chevy's door window.
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