CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mitt and party coordinators go over final convention staging plans. He’s in a current/recurrent feud with Mike Huckabee, leader of what’s considered the party’s wingnut wing, over the Todd Akins ciontroversy. Mitt threatened to take away Huckabee’s convention speech, then backed off from the threat. He ponders restoring the threat.
"We don’t need Huckabee!” Romney asserts. “I won. I’m the candidate.”
Staffers nod agreeablY. They’d rather not have Huckabee. He turns off moderates and Democrats. Behind them hangs a large red “REPUBLICAN” banner.
“I want this convention to be great!” Mitt says forcefully. The actual ruthless-businessman side of the candidate has come out. “Spectacular! Mind-blowing. Better than the Olympics! What have we got?”
“We start with a line-up of minority Republicans on stage, every one we could round up, rich restaurant owners and a couple basketball stars. They’ll be wearing 3-piece business suits as they sway side-to-side singing ‘We Shall Overcome.’”
“Perfect!”
“Then Governor Christie rips a cardboard cutout of the President to shreds. He’s been instructed to sneer.”
“Great!”
“Then we have you and Chairman Ryan flying into the arena on wires, dressed in superhero costumes.”
“I want to be Batman,” Romney suggests to them an eager voice. “I’m a fan of Bruce Wayne. He’s a rich guy, like me. Ryan can be Spiderman if he wants.”
Aides type these instructions into their phones.
“Will that be enough?” Mitt worries. “I envisioned something larger than life. We have to get ratings. I wanted to blow the roof off.”
“There’s a hurricane coming,” a staffer reminds them.
“Yes, but it might bypass us,” Romney muses. “It would be fabulous if it took out the hall at the climax of my speech. Great visuals. Where’s the God Squad when we need them? Who’s connected to the Big Guy upstairs? We need the hurricane pushed our way by a few miles. I’m a Mormon. We’re a young religion. I’m not sure I carry enough clout.”
Silence for a minute.
“I’d suggest Mike Huckabee,” someone bravely whispers.
“Huckabee!” Romney thunders. “Yes. Huckabee.” Mitt chuckles. “It would come down, after all, wouldn’t it, to Huckabee!”
He uooks toward his chief aide.
“Get Mike Huckabee on the phone,” Mitt orders.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Putin and Sidekick
CHAPTER TWELVE
With a well-practiced sneer, Russian President Vladimir Putin looks skeptically at his Prime Minister Dmitri Medvedev, who’s parked on a nearby chair. They sit in Putin’s office in the Kremlin, which is not at all luxurious. In fact, it’s spartan—not unlike a Soviet-style interrogation room. President Putin has nothing but scorn for Western-style comfort. Soft Americans! Putin thinks. Too much comfort has made America weak. Putin can’t wait until the Moscow snows come again so he can go for a ten-mile jog in two-foot deep snow, in the woods around his dacha. Let’s see Obama top that!
If Dmitri Medvedev were able to question anything, he’d question this room. But his mouth remains shut.
They are “meeting” this morning—if you could call this one-sided encounter a meeting—because Vladimir Putin has received from Obama an invitation to appear at Obama’s worldwide televised pre-election Victory Celebration, along with all other world leaders, with the possible exception of Assad in Syria, who might have too much else to do.
“I’m to perform like a trained bear!” Putin expounds to Medvedev, shaking his head, while Medvedev remains silent. “What do you think, Dmitri? Should we do our act together? Do we fool the stupid Americans again?”
Putin laughs loudly. One would think he never does, but behind closed doors he laughs often, only to himself or to Dmitri. It wouldn’t do to be seen laughing in public. Might destroy Putin’s image. Laughter is weakness. Russian people don’t laugh! Life is too tragic to laugh. Laughter is for soft Westerners, like those stupid Europeans now going bankrupt. Not so much laughter anymore from them, Putin smiles.
Outside the office window, in Red Square, are the sounds of CIA-paid protestors. Putin allows them to make a little noise, for now. If the CIA wants to deplete its budget, who is he to stop it? Putin laughs some more.
“What do you think, Dmitri? Why is Obama having so much trouble winning this election? Why doesn’t he become smart, like me, Vladimir Putin? Stupid American!”
Dmitri has no response to this. He sits silently.
“You dummy,” Putin says to him, with a disrespectful sneer.
Medvedev is too obedient to respond. How could he possibly respond? As Putin looks at the stooge on the chair, he thinks back to how well their act has indeed gone over. Western journalists actually believed that Medvedev could have an independent voice. He made the appropriate noises. Putin made sure he made the appropriate noises. Appeared out of nowhere. A fresh face, which media enjoys. What a plan! Putin applauds himself for his own shrewd Russian genius. Medvedev came right out of central casting. Handsome and well-spoken, if a bit on the short side. Naturally very short, as his kind usually is. It worked well for Vladimir to have a sidekick shorter than himself. Medvedev, anyway, looks impressive sitting down. At a table or a desk. The head and the shoulers are all that matters. Putin provides the words.
Putin thinks back to the practice it took. Not so much, after all. Learning the technique was easy. Even the standard tricks, like drinking water while Dmitri spoke. Putin of course employed a true expert when Dmitri was sent off by himself. The interpreter! Who else? Always leaning close. You wouldn’t catch it, would you, you stupid Americans! Not even the smart Obama. Smart, but not smart enough to see the obvious. People like to be fooled. They love illusion. After all, what else is politics—even the American brand—but illusion? Democracy! Putin learned the lessons of “democracy” well. The Americans are a bit slicker at it, of course, have been at it longer. Always two credible candidates, safely screened, “New Class” people, obedient and tamed, so that whichever one wins doesn’t matter to those pulling the strings behind the scenes. The imperialist American policy remains the same. Yes, Putin grudgingly admits as the protest outside the window becomes louder, he still has much to learn from the Americans about politics.
But, at least, with his good friend and associate Dmitri Medvedev, with this one trick, he, Vladimir Putin, has topped the slick Americans!
“What do you think, Dummy—I mean, Dmitri?” Putin asks the figure on the nearby chair who listens obediently to all Putin says. “Should we attend the Obama pre-election ‘Celebration’ and perform for the world? A little soft shoe? Should we sing a tune? A Russian folk song? Or will our usual routine be enough?”
Dmitri Medvedev, Prime Minister of all Russia, remains silent, as polished a politician as ever. Very polished.
“Sometimes, Dmitri,” Putin exclaims, “I think you’re almost as wooden-headed as Obama’s own sidekick Mr. Biden. Almost!”
To his own joke, Russian President Vladimir Putin laughs and laughs while Dmitri sits limply with the same-as-ever wooden expression on his handsomely smiling visage. Putin’s laughter rises to the ceiling and fills the entire room. The joke, of course, is that Dmitri is an actual dummy, and Putin has been doing the ventriloquist routine now for several years.
With a well-practiced sneer, Russian President Vladimir Putin looks skeptically at his Prime Minister Dmitri Medvedev, who’s parked on a nearby chair. They sit in Putin’s office in the Kremlin, which is not at all luxurious. In fact, it’s spartan—not unlike a Soviet-style interrogation room. President Putin has nothing but scorn for Western-style comfort. Soft Americans! Putin thinks. Too much comfort has made America weak. Putin can’t wait until the Moscow snows come again so he can go for a ten-mile jog in two-foot deep snow, in the woods around his dacha. Let’s see Obama top that!
If Dmitri Medvedev were able to question anything, he’d question this room. But his mouth remains shut.
They are “meeting” this morning—if you could call this one-sided encounter a meeting—because Vladimir Putin has received from Obama an invitation to appear at Obama’s worldwide televised pre-election Victory Celebration, along with all other world leaders, with the possible exception of Assad in Syria, who might have too much else to do.
“I’m to perform like a trained bear!” Putin expounds to Medvedev, shaking his head, while Medvedev remains silent. “What do you think, Dmitri? Should we do our act together? Do we fool the stupid Americans again?”
Putin laughs loudly. One would think he never does, but behind closed doors he laughs often, only to himself or to Dmitri. It wouldn’t do to be seen laughing in public. Might destroy Putin’s image. Laughter is weakness. Russian people don’t laugh! Life is too tragic to laugh. Laughter is for soft Westerners, like those stupid Europeans now going bankrupt. Not so much laughter anymore from them, Putin smiles.
Outside the office window, in Red Square, are the sounds of CIA-paid protestors. Putin allows them to make a little noise, for now. If the CIA wants to deplete its budget, who is he to stop it? Putin laughs some more.
“What do you think, Dmitri? Why is Obama having so much trouble winning this election? Why doesn’t he become smart, like me, Vladimir Putin? Stupid American!”
Dmitri has no response to this. He sits silently.
“You dummy,” Putin says to him, with a disrespectful sneer.
Medvedev is too obedient to respond. How could he possibly respond? As Putin looks at the stooge on the chair, he thinks back to how well their act has indeed gone over. Western journalists actually believed that Medvedev could have an independent voice. He made the appropriate noises. Putin made sure he made the appropriate noises. Appeared out of nowhere. A fresh face, which media enjoys. What a plan! Putin applauds himself for his own shrewd Russian genius. Medvedev came right out of central casting. Handsome and well-spoken, if a bit on the short side. Naturally very short, as his kind usually is. It worked well for Vladimir to have a sidekick shorter than himself. Medvedev, anyway, looks impressive sitting down. At a table or a desk. The head and the shoulers are all that matters. Putin provides the words.
Putin thinks back to the practice it took. Not so much, after all. Learning the technique was easy. Even the standard tricks, like drinking water while Dmitri spoke. Putin of course employed a true expert when Dmitri was sent off by himself. The interpreter! Who else? Always leaning close. You wouldn’t catch it, would you, you stupid Americans! Not even the smart Obama. Smart, but not smart enough to see the obvious. People like to be fooled. They love illusion. After all, what else is politics—even the American brand—but illusion? Democracy! Putin learned the lessons of “democracy” well. The Americans are a bit slicker at it, of course, have been at it longer. Always two credible candidates, safely screened, “New Class” people, obedient and tamed, so that whichever one wins doesn’t matter to those pulling the strings behind the scenes. The imperialist American policy remains the same. Yes, Putin grudgingly admits as the protest outside the window becomes louder, he still has much to learn from the Americans about politics.
But, at least, with his good friend and associate Dmitri Medvedev, with this one trick, he, Vladimir Putin, has topped the slick Americans!
“What do you think, Dummy—I mean, Dmitri?” Putin asks the figure on the nearby chair who listens obediently to all Putin says. “Should we attend the Obama pre-election ‘Celebration’ and perform for the world? A little soft shoe? Should we sing a tune? A Russian folk song? Or will our usual routine be enough?”
Dmitri Medvedev, Prime Minister of all Russia, remains silent, as polished a politician as ever. Very polished.
“Sometimes, Dmitri,” Putin exclaims, “I think you’re almost as wooden-headed as Obama’s own sidekick Mr. Biden. Almost!”
To his own joke, Russian President Vladimir Putin laughs and laughs while Dmitri sits limply with the same-as-ever wooden expression on his handsomely smiling visage. Putin’s laughter rises to the ceiling and fills the entire room. The joke, of course, is that Dmitri is an actual dummy, and Putin has been doing the ventriloquist routine now for several years.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Obama Meets Interest Group
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“What group did you say this person represents?” President Obama asks his aide.
“The LGBTQRS Alliance.”
“What does the R and S stand for?”
“You don’t want to know, Mr. President.”
The LGBTQRS representative is brought into the office and invited to have a seat. Obama studies the confident individual with curiosity and puzzlement.
“Welcome, er, Mr., er, Ms., er, ah,” Obama says with his trademark stutter.
“Call me Zox,” the person says.
“Zox?”
The President glances down at a briefing note he’s been handed. The note says that Zox is from Harvard. The President brightens. His alma mater. They have something in common.
“Excuse me,” Zox says, “if I don’t refer to you as Mr. President. The LGBTQRS Alliance has decided that Mr. is a patronizing title. We’re against all titles, of any kind, though if we were to use titles we wouldn’t use Mr. or even Ms. Maybe a new one, Mx., which stands for no gender. But titles are obsolete. Genders are obsolete. Sexes are obsolete.”
Obama takes this in and slightly nods his head. He notices a book in Zox’s hand, perhaps the source of these ideas. it looks like a sci-fi novel. “Escape from Zorxon.” Presumably someplace, if only fictional, where these new ways of thinking have occurred.
“I’ve never been less than thoroughly progressive,” Obama affirms.
“As for the ‘President’ name,” Zox continues. “We’ve decided it simply can no longer be used, seeing that it’s patriarchal and sexist and homophobic and hierarchical and misogynist. The word brings with it very many bad historical connotations, as I’m sure you realize.”
How did he fall so far behind the curve the President wonders? His own education, advanced for its day, now seems quaint and retrograde. He realizes he needs to figure this out. Being, er, whoever he is means figuring things out.
“Not President?” Obama carefully queries the person.
Obama places great stock in being President. He enjoys the role. Just like it that a black guy finally gets the office and suddenly someone wants to do away with the title.
“We have a replacement name picked out,” Zox assures him.
“Yes?”
“Bub. We wanted a name as undiscriminatory as possible. We’ve decided the new name for the President should be Bub.”
“Bub?”
“Isn’t that way more democratic?” Zox asks with sincerity. “Bub?”
President Obama wonders if he’s being put on, if Zox is here to make him look foolish. Zox might be a Republican plant. They’re known for dirty tricks, and now have Dick Cheney advising them. Obama thinks that maybe he should usher Zox out of the Oval Office, back to his, er, her, spaceship. But what if this organization and person are for real? The President—er, Bub—decides he can’t take the chance.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Romney at NAACP
CHAPTER TEN
Moments before stepping on stage, Mitt Romney rifles frantically through his briefcase, realizing he’s brought the wrong speech.
“NAACP?” he exclaims to his handlers. “Didn’t you say NAATP? I thought this was a Tea Party convention!”
Monday, July 9, 2012
The Veep Games Begin
CHAPTER NINE
“What idiot came up with this idea?” Romney’s top campaign advisor exclaims as he observes the spectacle in front of him. “Not the Veep Olympics themselves, but THIS!”
The veep candidates are at Coney Island New York for the first competition—a hot dog eating contest.
“Boss, we’re capitalizing on the buzz the real eating contest gets every year. Usually front page of the New York Post.”
To the side watching with a gleam in his eye is the mastermind behind the Veep Games, Dick Cheney. He’s relaxing in a rocket-powered wheelchair that can scoot him back and forth across the area in seconds. He considers himself a political superhero. No one disagrees with him.
At the center of the crowd, a long table is being filled with stacks of freshly grilled hot dogs. The prohibitive favorite, Chris Christie, stretches his arms confidently above his head. He wears a long sleeve white shirt which before the day is over will be stained with mustard and ketchup. Other contestants like Bobby Jindal and Marco Rubio gulp at the prospect before them. Ignored behind them is the establishment choice, Tim Pawlenty. The Romney campaign gave him a name tag to wear so people would know who he is. He looks at it now. His name is misspelled on the name tag as “Palenti.”
A network anchor asks second choice Paul Ryan a question. The question isn’t finished by the slow-thinking square-jawed NBC anchor before Paul Ryan responds to it with a stream of words.
“Of course this competition is unnecessarily expensive I’ve calculated the length of the table and the cost of dogs and buns including a third an ounce of mustard and ketchup each on every dog allowing for weight dissipation during grilling determining the Republican Committee campaign funds might be better spent on something like, I don’t know, advertisements for the Romney campaign on television I know this is free airtime you’re giving us Brian but to be honest you’ll admit it yourself that your posture toward the Romney campaign including this spectacular show is proportionally biased—“ Brian Williams opens his impressive anchor jaw to respond but he’s not quick enough; Paul Ryan with clenched teeth eager to get to the table and have at it, considering Williams on the level of low-grade imbecile compared to himself, with nary a breath, continues speaking-- “given the rules of the road what we’re up against the governor of New Jersey clearly the favorite I mean look at him I consider my percentages fairly good assuming the governor is undisciplined and won’t be able to maintain a consistent pace that’s my objective assessment why I’m here the campaign no the nation very badly needs me to win this thing—“ Brian Williams signals to those in the production truck nearby to cut to commercial, the interview may go on for some time.
Watching the interview from nearby, Dick Cheney is smiling.
Then all the veep candidates stand at the long table in front of trays of hot dogs and a bell sounds: “They’re off!”
Buns, hot dogs, ketchup, mustard flying everywhere a riotous but happy scene Tea Partiers are screaming button-down establishment types frowning. Christie takes a quick lead by eating several hot dogs at once, then decides there’s not enough flavor to the hot dogs to suit his taste, pausing to slap relish on his tray of dogs as well. He tries one in a single gulp. His expression says, “That’s better.” Then he spreads his arm wide to push Rubio farther away from him—the governor needs his space. The crowd heckles Christie, who responds in Christie fashion. “You don’t know what you don’t know so butt out and let me do my job saving the Republic, sucker,” Chris Christie yells, obviously enjoying himself. Er, “relishing” this contest.
Paul Ryan like a determined focused attack dog methodically works through his tray of dogs like a buzzsaw.
The bell sounds again. The competition is over.
Chris Christie smiles confidently, his arrogant smirk akin to that of a wrestling star bad guy. All that’s lacking is a cape. His once clean white shirt is proudly smudged with red and yellow, with a few green spots from relish thrown in. Next time he’ll ask for chili on the hot dogs also.
The score cards are carefully added. Judges discuss the results. The cards are given to an announcer.
“We have a winner!”
Paul Ryan has edged out Governor Christie. The final tally is 60 hot dogs exactly for Ryan. He’d not missed a crumb. Ryan’s white shirt is spotless. For Christie, the tally of hot dogs consumed is 59-and-a-half.
Christie is combative. “I’ve been robbed!”
The winner, Paul Ryan, steps toward Brian Williams to be interviewed again. The anchorman backs away in fear and terror. He’s a Christie guy.
The establishment choice, Tim Pawlenty, has finished last.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Competitors
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Rubio? The basketball player? I thought he was out with an injury.”
“No, no. Not Ricky Rubio. Marco Rubio. A senator from Florida.”
Two Republican strategists are going over selections for the Veep Olympics, a series of competitive events which will be used to choose the Republican’s vice-presidential candidate.
“The candidate—Mitt, I mean—has given special instructions that his running mate be the blandest person we can possibly find,” one of them says.
The Veep Olympics, of course, will be rigged so the ultimate winner will be the person they want anyway. Isn’t everything in America rigged in some way? As the two strategists discuss those available, a nondescript middle-aged middle-class white man stands to the side. He raises his hand to speak, but they don’t notice.
“How are they preparing? Have you heard?”
“Sure. Most of them are training. Paul Ryan is furiously chopping down trees in Wisconsin. Chris Christie is playing tennis—none too well, from all reports, but we can’t, er, overlook him. Ricky Rubio—I mean Marco—is swimming off the coast of Florida.”
“But we can’t have those guys! Ryan and Christie especially have too oversized of personalities to be alongside Mitt. They’d overshadow him. This Rubio—yeah, he’s bland, especially for a Latino. But not bland enough! Geez. Can’t we do better?”
They scratch their heads as they scan their brains for names. Meanwhile, the man to the side raises his hand again, waiting for an opportunity to speak.
“Mitch Daniels? Well, we’re getting closer. But I hear he can be sharp at times. The nutballs who ran against Mitt are out. Definitely out. All of them—the pizza guy, the religious guy, the wacked-out chick who’s always yapping like a small terrier. None of them are acceptable to the big guy. To Mitt, I mean. But come on! Let’s get our thinking caps on. We can do better. Let’s have some names.”
“Well, if you want to go for ultimate bland, there’s the guy who was in the race briefly but dropped out when Bachmann gave him a dirty look once on stage. No one even remembers the guy! I mean, he’d be perfect. Even Mitt would have some charisma standing next to him. Or at least some personality. Putting Mitt next to Christie or Ryan would be political suicide. It’d be as bad as Palin and McCain. Who cared about McCain once Palin was in the race? People don’t vote for a veep. Obama did it the right way—got some stooge Senator who no one would ever take seriously. It worked out perfect. But we have to do better. Even Biden has too much going for him compared to what we need. But who was that guy, anyway? The media took him seriously for a week, but he didn’t exactly light up the stage. He lit up nobody. Spent the few million from his backers then exited stage right. Backmann barked at him and he ran away. Do you remember?”
“Kind of. I agree, someone like that would be ideal—would meet all of Mitt’s criteria. Timmy? Was that him? Tim-something, I think. A former politician of some kind. Tommy? No. Timmy. Definitely Timmy.”
Both strategists scratch their heads and furrow their brows as they attempt to come up with the name. The uninteresting man standing to the side, whose eyes became more alert at the mention of the “Timmy” name, raises his hand again, with a trifle more intensity. They’re looking for someone. He was sent here today to meet them for that very reason. But they continue to ignore him, are not aware the person they seek has arrived.
“Rubio? The basketball player? I thought he was out with an injury.”
“No, no. Not Ricky Rubio. Marco Rubio. A senator from Florida.”
Two Republican strategists are going over selections for the Veep Olympics, a series of competitive events which will be used to choose the Republican’s vice-presidential candidate.
“The candidate—Mitt, I mean—has given special instructions that his running mate be the blandest person we can possibly find,” one of them says.
The Veep Olympics, of course, will be rigged so the ultimate winner will be the person they want anyway. Isn’t everything in America rigged in some way? As the two strategists discuss those available, a nondescript middle-aged middle-class white man stands to the side. He raises his hand to speak, but they don’t notice.
“How are they preparing? Have you heard?”
“Sure. Most of them are training. Paul Ryan is furiously chopping down trees in Wisconsin. Chris Christie is playing tennis—none too well, from all reports, but we can’t, er, overlook him. Ricky Rubio—I mean Marco—is swimming off the coast of Florida.”
“But we can’t have those guys! Ryan and Christie especially have too oversized of personalities to be alongside Mitt. They’d overshadow him. This Rubio—yeah, he’s bland, especially for a Latino. But not bland enough! Geez. Can’t we do better?”
They scratch their heads as they scan their brains for names. Meanwhile, the man to the side raises his hand again, waiting for an opportunity to speak.
“Mitch Daniels? Well, we’re getting closer. But I hear he can be sharp at times. The nutballs who ran against Mitt are out. Definitely out. All of them—the pizza guy, the religious guy, the wacked-out chick who’s always yapping like a small terrier. None of them are acceptable to the big guy. To Mitt, I mean. But come on! Let’s get our thinking caps on. We can do better. Let’s have some names.”
“Well, if you want to go for ultimate bland, there’s the guy who was in the race briefly but dropped out when Bachmann gave him a dirty look once on stage. No one even remembers the guy! I mean, he’d be perfect. Even Mitt would have some charisma standing next to him. Or at least some personality. Putting Mitt next to Christie or Ryan would be political suicide. It’d be as bad as Palin and McCain. Who cared about McCain once Palin was in the race? People don’t vote for a veep. Obama did it the right way—got some stooge Senator who no one would ever take seriously. It worked out perfect. But we have to do better. Even Biden has too much going for him compared to what we need. But who was that guy, anyway? The media took him seriously for a week, but he didn’t exactly light up the stage. He lit up nobody. Spent the few million from his backers then exited stage right. Backmann barked at him and he ran away. Do you remember?”
“Kind of. I agree, someone like that would be ideal—would meet all of Mitt’s criteria. Timmy? Was that him? Tim-something, I think. A former politician of some kind. Tommy? No. Timmy. Definitely Timmy.”
Both strategists scratch their heads and furrow their brows as they attempt to come up with the name. The uninteresting man standing to the side, whose eyes became more alert at the mention of the “Timmy” name, raises his hand again, with a trifle more intensity. They’re looking for someone. He was sent here today to meet them for that very reason. But they continue to ignore him, are not aware the person they seek has arrived.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Veep Olympics
CHAPTER SEVEN
Select members of the Republican Party and the Mitt Romney campaign staff gather in the back room of an exclusive private club located on a golf course. Next to an electronic board giving the latest stock reports from Dow Jones is a giant closed circuit video screen. The screen shimmers on.
Shown on the screen from a secret location is the campaign's new advisor, looking like a slimmed-down version of Dick Cheney. The men and women in the room can't remember if Cheney is still alive-- or rather, how many times he's been brought back from the dead. The image onscreen carries the same gritted teeth, assurance, and arrogance about himself, as if explaining the world to five year-olds. They relate to him their dilemma-- their opponent, the President, is planning a global TV extravaganza starring himself.
"We'll simply create a better media show," the image tells them. "The Veep Olympics. We'll call it, 'Finding the Best.' It'll give us the opportunity to display front and center our party's entire cast. Unlike the Dems, we're not a one-man show. The only way the President could possibly trump it is by going to war, which he may well do-- he has no more scruples than I or you. War of course is always the ultimate media show."
The man basks in his idea for a moment before continuing. Unlike the President, he doesn't need to tell himself how brilliant he is. He already knows it.
"Actual competition for the Republican vice-presidential selection. That's what the audience-- er, public-- wants. I wanted to do that for W, you know, twelve years ago. Put all the veep candidates in the woods with loaded shotguns and let us have at it."
His eyes gleam at the thought. There's no doubt in him about who would've won.
"Maybe not exactly that, but we'll cook up a few unique contests to cull the pack."
"Keep in mind, sir," a voice in the private room responds, "that our goal is two-fold. To engage the public and win the ratings war, but also to ensure a safe running mate who won't overshadow the main candidate. Mitt, I mean."
"They may be mutually exclusive," the image says. "The first goal is to WIN."
The picture on screen shimmers away and the screen turns off.
"What do you think?" a man in the room asks, one of those tasked with producing the project. "Will any of the prospective candidates play along?"
Just then they hear a loud knock. The door to the room is kicked open. Filling to doorway is a very large man wearing too-tight white shorts and an agonizingly stretched white polo shirt. He has a whistle around his neck and a basketball under one arm while he clutches a tennis racket. Governor Chris Christie.
"Okay men," he announces. "I'm here! Ready to go."
Select members of the Republican Party and the Mitt Romney campaign staff gather in the back room of an exclusive private club located on a golf course. Next to an electronic board giving the latest stock reports from Dow Jones is a giant closed circuit video screen. The screen shimmers on.
Shown on the screen from a secret location is the campaign's new advisor, looking like a slimmed-down version of Dick Cheney. The men and women in the room can't remember if Cheney is still alive-- or rather, how many times he's been brought back from the dead. The image onscreen carries the same gritted teeth, assurance, and arrogance about himself, as if explaining the world to five year-olds. They relate to him their dilemma-- their opponent, the President, is planning a global TV extravaganza starring himself.
"We'll simply create a better media show," the image tells them. "The Veep Olympics. We'll call it, 'Finding the Best.' It'll give us the opportunity to display front and center our party's entire cast. Unlike the Dems, we're not a one-man show. The only way the President could possibly trump it is by going to war, which he may well do-- he has no more scruples than I or you. War of course is always the ultimate media show."
The man basks in his idea for a moment before continuing. Unlike the President, he doesn't need to tell himself how brilliant he is. He already knows it.
"Actual competition for the Republican vice-presidential selection. That's what the audience-- er, public-- wants. I wanted to do that for W, you know, twelve years ago. Put all the veep candidates in the woods with loaded shotguns and let us have at it."
His eyes gleam at the thought. There's no doubt in him about who would've won.
"Maybe not exactly that, but we'll cook up a few unique contests to cull the pack."
"Keep in mind, sir," a voice in the private room responds, "that our goal is two-fold. To engage the public and win the ratings war, but also to ensure a safe running mate who won't overshadow the main candidate. Mitt, I mean."
"They may be mutually exclusive," the image says. "The first goal is to WIN."
The picture on screen shimmers away and the screen turns off.
"What do you think?" a man in the room asks, one of those tasked with producing the project. "Will any of the prospective candidates play along?"
Just then they hear a loud knock. The door to the room is kicked open. Filling to doorway is a very large man wearing too-tight white shorts and an agonizingly stretched white polo shirt. He has a whistle around his neck and a basketball under one arm while he clutches a tennis racket. Governor Chris Christie.
"Okay men," he announces. "I'm here! Ready to go."
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Romney Meets Dad
CHAPTER SIX
Candidate Romney stands assessing the perfection of his hair in front of a three-sided mirror, then walks to the front living room to greet his waiting campaign staff. They're in one of his many residences scattered about the country, this one in Michigan, outside Detroit.
"Good morning!" the candidate exclaims, presenting his trademark rigidly fixed smile.
"Not so good," his sober-serious professional staffers tell him.
They're more sober serious than the candidate. Mitt Romney is the life of the party in comparison. These are a pack of ruthless young Republican attack dogs. Of course. That's why he hired them. To their uniformly serious expressions, his smile wilts.
"What's happened?" he asks.
"Bad news on two fronts. First, the President is planning a worldwide TV extravaganza right before the election, featuring other world leaders, designed to show him as a hit in the media circus of international politics. It'll broadcast on every cable channel, including the shopping network. Much Obama paraphernalia up for grabs, we gather. Every channel, that is, except Fox.""
"Extravaganza?" Mitt asks.
The candidate's cartoon square jaw drops.
"Second," a staffer continues, "we've discovered that the Obama campaign has secretly hired, at great expense, the best."
"The best?" Mitt asks.
"Yes. The best. Not just the best, but the Best. The Best. Namely, Karl Rove."
The candidate staggers. A strand of his perfect hair drops a millimeter.
"But, but, this is simply awful. Guys and gals, this is terrible."
Suddenly he reminds himself that he's the candidate. He needs to appear stoic. Strong. The impassive front-- which anyway is his natural persona. He adopts a granite expression. But his troubled eyes betray the pose. He feels like dropping to the floor and pounding the floor and crying. But he doesn't! Keep the backbone steady, he directs himself.
"What do we do?" the entire staff asks him, in chorus.
"What do we do? What do we do?" he gasps, exasperated. "YOU're the experts. It's why I hired you."
They stare at him like a wolf pack about to lose faith in the head wolf. They could desert him and go to work for his opponent. No doubt a multi-channel worldwide extravaganza full of political leaders and, likely, also Hollywood actors and rock stars sounds like fun. What to do?
"If we've lost Rove, we've lost the election," one of the staffers says. "After all, he's the best."
Mitt raises his hands to them, palms out, as if to say, don't leave. Don't panic. Then an inspiration comes to him. He slams a fist into his hand.
"I know," he tells them, his eyes brighter. "I'll ask Dad."
Without another word he turns on his heel and marches to the nearby study. He enters the study and closes the door. He locks it. The campaign staffers look at one another with puzzlement.
Mitt stands alone in the dark study. The maroon drapes in the room are closed. His eyes slowly adjust. Mitt feels like a small child. There, before him, larger than life, on the central wall is an enormous oil painting of his father, George Romney. He of the ultimate square jaw and granite expression, in comparison with which Mitt's are a rather weak knockoff.
Mitt stares at the gilded frame and glowing portrait within, attempting to summon the ghost of his father, who of course died many years ago. But in Mitt's world, all things are possible. He begins talking to the impossibly stoic and upright figure.
"Dad, things look bleak. The other side has secretly hired the best strategist of them all, Karl Rove. A brilliant chess move, if I say so myself. The odds were tough as it was, going against an incumbent President who's also more likable than I am. Now the odds become all but impossible. In business, you know, I always knew the odds. I knew when to cut and run. Might be too late to hand the ball to someone else. Santorum wouldn't mind losing. He's used to it. But I don't like it, Dad. I hate to lose. You know I've always wanted to be first. I really really did want to be President, you know. I've done everything else. I thought the job might be fun. The White House is about the only large residence in the country I don't already own."
The portrait glowers down at him. The eyes show disappointment.
"That was a joke, Dad," Mitt adds.
The image in the moody painting looks intense. Probably an expression of Mitt's relationship with the man. The candidate thinks back on that relationship. The image of his father vibrates, just a trifle. The portrait doesn't change, but a voice now comes from it. Mitt realizes the voice might only be in his own head. He accepts the voice nevertheless.
"You always were a stupid kid," the voice says. ""Steadfast. Straightforward. Plodding. Reliable. Relentless. But all-in-all, rather dumb. Now, don't throw your Harvard grades at me! More important than book learning is simple common sense. I built a business empire on rugged common sense-- the common sense to see a solution that's directly in front of you. You say the Democrats have hired the best. Poppycock! Horse hockey! Great Brigham Young's ghost! The best hasn't been called. If you think hard, very hard, you'll know who he is. Someone shrewder, tougher, more evil than Karl Rove could imagine becoming-- someone who'd make Rove wet his Depends and run away in terror! Think about it. A clue: W knew."
As the voice fades away, Mitt unlocks the door and bounds from the room, nearly into the waiting arms of his campaign staff. The candidate is exuberant. There's no other way to describe it.
"I've got it!" he yells. "A eureka moment. Here's the solution, kids. The answer to our problems. The missing piece to the puzzle. We ask Dick Cheney to help us."
Candidate Romney stands assessing the perfection of his hair in front of a three-sided mirror, then walks to the front living room to greet his waiting campaign staff. They're in one of his many residences scattered about the country, this one in Michigan, outside Detroit.
"Good morning!" the candidate exclaims, presenting his trademark rigidly fixed smile.
"Not so good," his sober-serious professional staffers tell him.
They're more sober serious than the candidate. Mitt Romney is the life of the party in comparison. These are a pack of ruthless young Republican attack dogs. Of course. That's why he hired them. To their uniformly serious expressions, his smile wilts.
"What's happened?" he asks.
"Bad news on two fronts. First, the President is planning a worldwide TV extravaganza right before the election, featuring other world leaders, designed to show him as a hit in the media circus of international politics. It'll broadcast on every cable channel, including the shopping network. Much Obama paraphernalia up for grabs, we gather. Every channel, that is, except Fox.""
"Extravaganza?" Mitt asks.
The candidate's cartoon square jaw drops.
"Second," a staffer continues, "we've discovered that the Obama campaign has secretly hired, at great expense, the best."
"The best?" Mitt asks.
"Yes. The best. Not just the best, but the Best. The Best. Namely, Karl Rove."
The candidate staggers. A strand of his perfect hair drops a millimeter.
"But, but, this is simply awful. Guys and gals, this is terrible."
Suddenly he reminds himself that he's the candidate. He needs to appear stoic. Strong. The impassive front-- which anyway is his natural persona. He adopts a granite expression. But his troubled eyes betray the pose. He feels like dropping to the floor and pounding the floor and crying. But he doesn't! Keep the backbone steady, he directs himself.
"What do we do?" the entire staff asks him, in chorus.
"What do we do? What do we do?" he gasps, exasperated. "YOU're the experts. It's why I hired you."
They stare at him like a wolf pack about to lose faith in the head wolf. They could desert him and go to work for his opponent. No doubt a multi-channel worldwide extravaganza full of political leaders and, likely, also Hollywood actors and rock stars sounds like fun. What to do?
"If we've lost Rove, we've lost the election," one of the staffers says. "After all, he's the best."
Mitt raises his hands to them, palms out, as if to say, don't leave. Don't panic. Then an inspiration comes to him. He slams a fist into his hand.
"I know," he tells them, his eyes brighter. "I'll ask Dad."
Without another word he turns on his heel and marches to the nearby study. He enters the study and closes the door. He locks it. The campaign staffers look at one another with puzzlement.
Mitt stands alone in the dark study. The maroon drapes in the room are closed. His eyes slowly adjust. Mitt feels like a small child. There, before him, larger than life, on the central wall is an enormous oil painting of his father, George Romney. He of the ultimate square jaw and granite expression, in comparison with which Mitt's are a rather weak knockoff.
Mitt stares at the gilded frame and glowing portrait within, attempting to summon the ghost of his father, who of course died many years ago. But in Mitt's world, all things are possible. He begins talking to the impossibly stoic and upright figure.
"Dad, things look bleak. The other side has secretly hired the best strategist of them all, Karl Rove. A brilliant chess move, if I say so myself. The odds were tough as it was, going against an incumbent President who's also more likable than I am. Now the odds become all but impossible. In business, you know, I always knew the odds. I knew when to cut and run. Might be too late to hand the ball to someone else. Santorum wouldn't mind losing. He's used to it. But I don't like it, Dad. I hate to lose. You know I've always wanted to be first. I really really did want to be President, you know. I've done everything else. I thought the job might be fun. The White House is about the only large residence in the country I don't already own."
The portrait glowers down at him. The eyes show disappointment.
"That was a joke, Dad," Mitt adds.
The image in the moody painting looks intense. Probably an expression of Mitt's relationship with the man. The candidate thinks back on that relationship. The image of his father vibrates, just a trifle. The portrait doesn't change, but a voice now comes from it. Mitt realizes the voice might only be in his own head. He accepts the voice nevertheless.
"You always were a stupid kid," the voice says. ""Steadfast. Straightforward. Plodding. Reliable. Relentless. But all-in-all, rather dumb. Now, don't throw your Harvard grades at me! More important than book learning is simple common sense. I built a business empire on rugged common sense-- the common sense to see a solution that's directly in front of you. You say the Democrats have hired the best. Poppycock! Horse hockey! Great Brigham Young's ghost! The best hasn't been called. If you think hard, very hard, you'll know who he is. Someone shrewder, tougher, more evil than Karl Rove could imagine becoming-- someone who'd make Rove wet his Depends and run away in terror! Think about it. A clue: W knew."
As the voice fades away, Mitt unlocks the door and bounds from the room, nearly into the waiting arms of his campaign staff. The candidate is exuberant. There's no other way to describe it.
"I've got it!" he yells. "A eureka moment. Here's the solution, kids. The answer to our problems. The missing piece to the puzzle. We ask Dick Cheney to help us."
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Obama Takes Charge
CHAPTER FIVE
Lounging back in a comfortable chair on his campaign plane, Airforce One, the President decides it's time to take charge of his re-election campaign. He notes a big headline on the front page of the nation's leading newspaper, The New York Establishment:
"ROMNEY CLOSING GAP!"
The media is panicky. Obama thinks: didn't everyone realize he was joking when he said he'd rather be a one-term President than a bad one? A joke, people!
It's time to take charge of his own campaign.
He knows, in fact, how he will win. There's not a question in his mind of course that he will. It's preordained. That's why he needs to put the Obama personality to the forefront, like last time. The name and image are irresistible.
For starters, he'll direct the Obama name be placed on every government property and object. There are millions of government cars alone which can say, on each side, "Your Federal Government At Work-- Barack Obama, President." With a photo of himself as logo.
Then there's the marketing, which can serve the dual purpose of promoting himself and raising funds, to close the fundraising gap with his slick business-backed opponent.
Obama pens, Obama stationary, Obama coffee mugs, Obama t-shirts, Obama handbags, Obama hats, Obama slacks, Obama underwear, Obama wedding service, Obama dinnerware sets, Obama frying pans, Obama towels and bathrobes, Obama pillowcases, Obama soap, Obama shampoo, Obama cologne, Obama toilet paper-- the possibilities are endless. Everywhere supporters look, with everything they do, they should see the name and image of their President. Maybe it's time for an Obama flag, which supporters-- and isn't every American at heart a supporter?-- can fly from their roofs.
As he ponders this, the President scribbles slogans across a large memo pad.
"The Private Sector Is Fine-- But It Could Be Better! The Public Sector Is Fine-- But It Could Be Better!"
Only if he puts his own genius to work, will this campaign prevail.
Aha! But his most brilliant idea-- that is yet to be announced, even to his staff. A way to fully leverage his worldwide universal popularity.
He's noted with some chagrin the Jubilee celebration the Brits put on for their doddering queen, placing on display through pomp and carriages the dull-witted in-bred Royals. For what? They no longer have an empire. As he watched the show on television, he thought, "Who cares?"
But the Brits, he acknowledges, do know how to put on a show.
He, President Obama, leader of not just the free world, but the entire world, will top it! He imagines a globally telecast entertainment Extravaganza, with he Obama himself as host. Invited with him on stage will be all his fellow world leader friends, from his good buddy Vladdie Putin to the nutjobs in Iran and North Korea. Even Assad from Syria. Well, no, maybe not Assad from Syria!
There will be a huge stage set! In gigantic letters, dwarfing the stage and performers, in flashing neon lights of changing colors, will be one word: "OBAMA!" Visible for miles. The planet will love him all over again . He needs their love, as he knows they need him. He'll be bigger than Tom Brady. Bigger than Lebron! Bigger than Justin Bieber even! Though he'll let the Beeb introduce him. Or Lady Gaga. Not Madonna.
Let's see Romney and his greedy backers top that!
If they're smart, the President muses, they'll give up now.
Lounging back in a comfortable chair on his campaign plane, Airforce One, the President decides it's time to take charge of his re-election campaign. He notes a big headline on the front page of the nation's leading newspaper, The New York Establishment:
"ROMNEY CLOSING GAP!"
The media is panicky. Obama thinks: didn't everyone realize he was joking when he said he'd rather be a one-term President than a bad one? A joke, people!
It's time to take charge of his own campaign.
He knows, in fact, how he will win. There's not a question in his mind of course that he will. It's preordained. That's why he needs to put the Obama personality to the forefront, like last time. The name and image are irresistible.
For starters, he'll direct the Obama name be placed on every government property and object. There are millions of government cars alone which can say, on each side, "Your Federal Government At Work-- Barack Obama, President." With a photo of himself as logo.
Then there's the marketing, which can serve the dual purpose of promoting himself and raising funds, to close the fundraising gap with his slick business-backed opponent.
Obama pens, Obama stationary, Obama coffee mugs, Obama t-shirts, Obama handbags, Obama hats, Obama slacks, Obama underwear, Obama wedding service, Obama dinnerware sets, Obama frying pans, Obama towels and bathrobes, Obama pillowcases, Obama soap, Obama shampoo, Obama cologne, Obama toilet paper-- the possibilities are endless. Everywhere supporters look, with everything they do, they should see the name and image of their President. Maybe it's time for an Obama flag, which supporters-- and isn't every American at heart a supporter?-- can fly from their roofs.
As he ponders this, the President scribbles slogans across a large memo pad.
"The Private Sector Is Fine-- But It Could Be Better! The Public Sector Is Fine-- But It Could Be Better!"
Only if he puts his own genius to work, will this campaign prevail.
Aha! But his most brilliant idea-- that is yet to be announced, even to his staff. A way to fully leverage his worldwide universal popularity.
He's noted with some chagrin the Jubilee celebration the Brits put on for their doddering queen, placing on display through pomp and carriages the dull-witted in-bred Royals. For what? They no longer have an empire. As he watched the show on television, he thought, "Who cares?"
But the Brits, he acknowledges, do know how to put on a show.
He, President Obama, leader of not just the free world, but the entire world, will top it! He imagines a globally telecast entertainment Extravaganza, with he Obama himself as host. Invited with him on stage will be all his fellow world leader friends, from his good buddy Vladdie Putin to the nutjobs in Iran and North Korea. Even Assad from Syria. Well, no, maybe not Assad from Syria!
There will be a huge stage set! In gigantic letters, dwarfing the stage and performers, in flashing neon lights of changing colors, will be one word: "OBAMA!" Visible for miles. The planet will love him all over again . He needs their love, as he knows they need him. He'll be bigger than Tom Brady. Bigger than Lebron! Bigger than Justin Bieber even! Though he'll let the Beeb introduce him. Or Lady Gaga. Not Madonna.
Let's see Romney and his greedy backers top that!
If they're smart, the President muses, they'll give up now.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
The Joe Biden Protection Program
CHAPTER FOUR
Vice-President Biden sits in the Veep office across from the White House staring at a spotlessly clean desk. Amazing!, he thinks. When he began this job he had a stack of responsibilities. They've quickly enough vanished. Must be his great efficiency. He thinks about buying a new suit-- hasn't done so in a week, and there are a many sales about in stores right now. His sharp mind then drifts to train rides. It's been awhile since he's taken a train ride! He needs to get out, to go back out on the campaign trail. Stumping for the campaign. He doesn't ask why he's not there now. Maybe a train ride to Scranton, his home town, would be good. He supposes he should ask permission, but of late, the Obama campaign machine has been avoiding him. With a sudden insight, Vice-President Biden takes a blank piece of paper from his desk's top drawer.
As the Vice President sails a paper airplane across the room, the chief of the President's campaign staff walks suddenly into the office.
"David! Hey guy!" Biden says eagerly, like a long-neglected dog. "How are ya! Good to see ya. I was just thinking about you. Whaddya got for me? I'm ready to roll! Ready to serve the Big Guy any way I can. Just tell me what to do. Just say the word, and I'll go for it. Good ol' Joe, that's me. Need a speech? I have a hundred of 'em on file-- maybe even one or two written by myself. Ha ha! A joke. No one ever said I couldn't tell a joke at my own expense. Why, I tell ya--"
"We have a problem, Mr. Vice President," the heavily sweating Axelrod tells him. Axelrod isn't smiling.
"Problem?" Joe asks.
Suddenly other somber-faced men step into the room, forming a semi-circle behind the campaign chief. VP Biden recognizes them as a combination of campaign security staff and Secret Service officers. Every one of them wears dark sunglasses. All of them are glum.
"Death threats," Axelrod says.
"Death threats?" The Vice President answers.
"Yessir. Death threats. Many many death threats."
Axelrod points a finger directly at the Vice President.
"Death threats-- against you."
"Against me?" the Vice President squeaks. "Good ol' Joe? Who'd want to harm me? Why, I'm harmless. Everyone knows it. Even the terrorists know it! Why, look at what Bin Laden said before we took him out. He knew. A harmless goofball-- that's me. Just the same ol' good ol' Senator Joe. I haven't changed at all."
The finger continues pointing. "Serious death threats, Mr. Vice President. We have to take them seriously. The men behind me take them seriously."
"Yes, I can see," Biden says, swallowing heavily, trying to peer around Axelrod at the unsmiling men. The Vice President waves at them. "Hi guys!" he says. Not one of them changes expression.
"The bottom line, Mr. Vice President, is that we have to move you. For your own safety. For your own good."
"Move me?"
"Move you, Mr. Vice President. Now."
"Now?"
"Yes, Mr. Vice President. Immediately. Like, right now."
"But, my clothes. My suits."
"They're already packed for you, Mr. Vice President. Enough belongings to last until November anyway. Your wife has already been moved. This morning. We have a safe house picked out."
"But, gee, guys, I was going to buy a new suit today. Could we at least stop on the way and buy it?"
"We won't be able to stop, Mr. Vice President. You know. The bad guys. The bad guys might see us. They might see you, Mr. Vice President, and that wouldn't be good. Think of it as like the witness protection program. You're going into hiding-- for your own good."
"Hiding? But where?"
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information, Mr. Vice President. It wouldn't be prudent. It wouldn't be-- safe. Safety, Mr. Vice President. Think of your own safety. Think of the safety of the country. Of the campaign."
"Well, gee, when you put it that way," VP Biden says, standing up. "I'm a loyal guy, after all. Good ol' loyal Joe! Tell me what to do, where to go, and I'm right there. But, uh, guys, for how long? How long will I be, uh, protected?"
Axelrod shows the slightest trace of a smile. He relaxes a trifle, and so does the Vice President.
"Oh, we'll let you out for the convention," Axelrod tells him. "Maybe."
Vice-President Biden sits in the Veep office across from the White House staring at a spotlessly clean desk. Amazing!, he thinks. When he began this job he had a stack of responsibilities. They've quickly enough vanished. Must be his great efficiency. He thinks about buying a new suit-- hasn't done so in a week, and there are a many sales about in stores right now. His sharp mind then drifts to train rides. It's been awhile since he's taken a train ride! He needs to get out, to go back out on the campaign trail. Stumping for the campaign. He doesn't ask why he's not there now. Maybe a train ride to Scranton, his home town, would be good. He supposes he should ask permission, but of late, the Obama campaign machine has been avoiding him. With a sudden insight, Vice-President Biden takes a blank piece of paper from his desk's top drawer.
As the Vice President sails a paper airplane across the room, the chief of the President's campaign staff walks suddenly into the office.
"David! Hey guy!" Biden says eagerly, like a long-neglected dog. "How are ya! Good to see ya. I was just thinking about you. Whaddya got for me? I'm ready to roll! Ready to serve the Big Guy any way I can. Just tell me what to do. Just say the word, and I'll go for it. Good ol' Joe, that's me. Need a speech? I have a hundred of 'em on file-- maybe even one or two written by myself. Ha ha! A joke. No one ever said I couldn't tell a joke at my own expense. Why, I tell ya--"
"We have a problem, Mr. Vice President," the heavily sweating Axelrod tells him. Axelrod isn't smiling.
"Problem?" Joe asks.
Suddenly other somber-faced men step into the room, forming a semi-circle behind the campaign chief. VP Biden recognizes them as a combination of campaign security staff and Secret Service officers. Every one of them wears dark sunglasses. All of them are glum.
"Death threats," Axelrod says.
"Death threats?" The Vice President answers.
"Yessir. Death threats. Many many death threats."
Axelrod points a finger directly at the Vice President.
"Death threats-- against you."
"Against me?" the Vice President squeaks. "Good ol' Joe? Who'd want to harm me? Why, I'm harmless. Everyone knows it. Even the terrorists know it! Why, look at what Bin Laden said before we took him out. He knew. A harmless goofball-- that's me. Just the same ol' good ol' Senator Joe. I haven't changed at all."
The finger continues pointing. "Serious death threats, Mr. Vice President. We have to take them seriously. The men behind me take them seriously."
"Yes, I can see," Biden says, swallowing heavily, trying to peer around Axelrod at the unsmiling men. The Vice President waves at them. "Hi guys!" he says. Not one of them changes expression.
"The bottom line, Mr. Vice President, is that we have to move you. For your own safety. For your own good."
"Move me?"
"Move you, Mr. Vice President. Now."
"Now?"
"Yes, Mr. Vice President. Immediately. Like, right now."
"But, my clothes. My suits."
"They're already packed for you, Mr. Vice President. Enough belongings to last until November anyway. Your wife has already been moved. This morning. We have a safe house picked out."
"But, gee, guys, I was going to buy a new suit today. Could we at least stop on the way and buy it?"
"We won't be able to stop, Mr. Vice President. You know. The bad guys. The bad guys might see us. They might see you, Mr. Vice President, and that wouldn't be good. Think of it as like the witness protection program. You're going into hiding-- for your own good."
"Hiding? But where?"
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information, Mr. Vice President. It wouldn't be prudent. It wouldn't be-- safe. Safety, Mr. Vice President. Think of your own safety. Think of the safety of the country. Of the campaign."
"Well, gee, when you put it that way," VP Biden says, standing up. "I'm a loyal guy, after all. Good ol' loyal Joe! Tell me what to do, where to go, and I'm right there. But, uh, guys, for how long? How long will I be, uh, protected?"
Axelrod shows the slightest trace of a smile. He relaxes a trifle, and so does the Vice President.
"Oh, we'll let you out for the convention," Axelrod tells him. "Maybe."
Friday, June 15, 2012
Humanizing Mitt
CHAPTER THREE
Candidate Mitt Romney preps himself for his weekly lesson in behaving like a human being. He takes a few deep breaths, then wriggles his arms around. "Relax," he tells himself, following his instructions. His cheek muscles and built-in smile remain as tight as before. This doesn't worry Mitt. He knows that if he follows the instructions, everything will work. It's how he's conducted his life. This policy has never failed him.
Meeting him at various stops along the campaign trail is his acting coach, imported at substantial cost from a Broadway-based acting school. The acting coach has arrived, an aide announces to the candidate.
"Are you ready?" the aide asks.
"Ready," Mitt assures him.
The acting coach is escorted into the room. The man wears a sarcastic expression as he notices the candidate standing rigidly, ready to be coached. Mitt doesn't catch the expression, or if he does, ignores it.
"How are ya, how are ya," the coach asks, slapping his hands together to get right into the unpleasant assignment. Hey, he tells himself. A paycheck's a paycheck. "Mitt baby! Sit down, please. Remember what I've said. Our first step is to relax."
"Yes, I know," Mitt answers, dressed for the lesson in an open-necked shirt so he can appear comfortable, though Mitt has trouble feeling comfortable when not dressed in standard business shirt and tie. "I know. Relax. I've been telling myself to relax."
"Good! That's very good. We're making progress."
Mitt sits stiffly on a sofa, while the acting coach pulls up a hard-backed chair and places himself directly across from his student.
"Today," the coach tells the candidate, "we are going to work on caring. We will try to care. We will tell ourselves again and again that we care. We care. Care. Care!"
"Care?" Mitt asks. "That's silly. Care about what?"
The coach stares at the candidate for a long minute.
"Let me get this straight. You want to be President."
"That's right."
The candidate sits firmly but complacently, like a dog awaiting orders, with no discernible expression. The eternal Mitt. The coach realizes the difficulty of his task. He's done this kind of thing before, and is rather good at it. But usually he's coached Democrats, who are better natural actors. Better able to pretend. To emote. Candidate Romney will be a challenge. Think of the paycheck, the acting coach tells himself.
"We'll start out small," he tells Mitt. "We'll depict compassion. We'll express on our face the emotion of compassion. Let's look compassionate, Mitt. Ready? Give me compassion. Action!"
Mitt looks exactly the same.
The candidate's aides check the time on their watches or cellphones as the session goes on. They wait in an outer room. The door is open. They can hear what's happening. The frustrated coach soon enough moves his pupil off the sofa. "Mitt, baby, let's just pretend I know what I'm doing. Humor me," they hear the coach say. One of the aides glances in every so often. The candidate is taking deep breaths and trying to focus. In baby-step fashion, he seems to be making progress.
They run through giving a speech and connecting with an audience. The coach has begun to shout, as he encourages the candidate to shout.
"No no no no no! You must pretend to CARE, Mitt baby. Say it again, but louder. Em-pa-thize!"
"I care!" Mitt says.
"Louder!"
"I CARE!"
"Yet again!" the coach insists.
Mitt spreads his arms out and breathes in as he prepares for more shouting. In a perverse way, he's enjoying this. Being human is a new experience.
"Remember what I told you,"the coach reminds him. "The onions! Shift and bring up the onions!"
Mitt turns, brings up a small packet from beneath his shirt and deftly rubs something in his eyes. They've practiced the maneuver many times. Tears roll down Romney's face. He spreads his arms again.
"I care!" he yells. "I CARE!"
Candidate Mitt Romney preps himself for his weekly lesson in behaving like a human being. He takes a few deep breaths, then wriggles his arms around. "Relax," he tells himself, following his instructions. His cheek muscles and built-in smile remain as tight as before. This doesn't worry Mitt. He knows that if he follows the instructions, everything will work. It's how he's conducted his life. This policy has never failed him.
Meeting him at various stops along the campaign trail is his acting coach, imported at substantial cost from a Broadway-based acting school. The acting coach has arrived, an aide announces to the candidate.
"Are you ready?" the aide asks.
"Ready," Mitt assures him.
The acting coach is escorted into the room. The man wears a sarcastic expression as he notices the candidate standing rigidly, ready to be coached. Mitt doesn't catch the expression, or if he does, ignores it.
"How are ya, how are ya," the coach asks, slapping his hands together to get right into the unpleasant assignment. Hey, he tells himself. A paycheck's a paycheck. "Mitt baby! Sit down, please. Remember what I've said. Our first step is to relax."
"Yes, I know," Mitt answers, dressed for the lesson in an open-necked shirt so he can appear comfortable, though Mitt has trouble feeling comfortable when not dressed in standard business shirt and tie. "I know. Relax. I've been telling myself to relax."
"Good! That's very good. We're making progress."
Mitt sits stiffly on a sofa, while the acting coach pulls up a hard-backed chair and places himself directly across from his student.
"Today," the coach tells the candidate, "we are going to work on caring. We will try to care. We will tell ourselves again and again that we care. We care. Care. Care!"
"Care?" Mitt asks. "That's silly. Care about what?"
The coach stares at the candidate for a long minute.
"Let me get this straight. You want to be President."
"That's right."
The candidate sits firmly but complacently, like a dog awaiting orders, with no discernible expression. The eternal Mitt. The coach realizes the difficulty of his task. He's done this kind of thing before, and is rather good at it. But usually he's coached Democrats, who are better natural actors. Better able to pretend. To emote. Candidate Romney will be a challenge. Think of the paycheck, the acting coach tells himself.
"We'll start out small," he tells Mitt. "We'll depict compassion. We'll express on our face the emotion of compassion. Let's look compassionate, Mitt. Ready? Give me compassion. Action!"
Mitt looks exactly the same.
The candidate's aides check the time on their watches or cellphones as the session goes on. They wait in an outer room. The door is open. They can hear what's happening. The frustrated coach soon enough moves his pupil off the sofa. "Mitt, baby, let's just pretend I know what I'm doing. Humor me," they hear the coach say. One of the aides glances in every so often. The candidate is taking deep breaths and trying to focus. In baby-step fashion, he seems to be making progress.
They run through giving a speech and connecting with an audience. The coach has begun to shout, as he encourages the candidate to shout.
"No no no no no! You must pretend to CARE, Mitt baby. Say it again, but louder. Em-pa-thize!"
"I care!" Mitt says.
"Louder!"
"I CARE!"
"Yet again!" the coach insists.
Mitt spreads his arms out and breathes in as he prepares for more shouting. In a perverse way, he's enjoying this. Being human is a new experience.
"Remember what I told you,"the coach reminds him. "The onions! Shift and bring up the onions!"
Mitt turns, brings up a small packet from beneath his shirt and deftly rubs something in his eyes. They've practiced the maneuver many times. Tears roll down Romney's face. He spreads his arms again.
"I care!" he yells. "I CARE!"
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Panic in the Obama Camp
CHAPTER TWO
Since the beginning the White House has consisted of two levels.
The first level is the official White House, the above ground image in which the President works, where the First Family lives, its untarnished corridors open to the press and public.
The other level is underground, where the real business of running a world empire happens. Leaks, gun-running, coups, assassinations-- these occurrences are unseen, and so, deniable, as if they never happened.
On this rainy Washington D.C. afternoon, while the President in the Oval Office innocently wonders about the NBA finals, his staff beneath him is busy. They're busy because they're worried.
"We wanted Mitt as an opponent. Yes, he's a robot. He has the charisma of a mannequin. But right now that kooky plutocrat is beating us!"
The man who says this sweats through his ill-fitting gray suit. He wears a brushy moustache and has oily dark hair swept across one side of his oblong head. His voice shakes with urgency-- possibly because he himself has been booed on the campaign trail.
"Drastic action is needed, or we're going to blow this." His eyes gleam madly. "Too much is at stake!"
As the speaker calms himself and mops his forehead with an oily rag while muttering about the poor air-conditioning down here, an nerdy young know-it-all aide speaks back.
"What kind of drastic action?"
The question is dismissive of his worried elder. The question says, The top dog is losing it. The question is sneering and sarcastic by its being asked.
"We bring in the best," the now calmer Chief Strategist answers the young man.
"The best?" the entire room asks him, in chorus. "You don't mean--?"
"Yes, I do mean. Him. Things have become that urgent. Besides, he's available. Working secretly for us fits his unique sense of humor."
With this, the Chief Strategist turns to the side, where appears what seems to be a simple blank wall. The man touches a button. The wall slides open. Sitting in a plush chair with a sly smile on his face is him. Him. The best there is. The ultimate political weapon. Karl Rove.
The chair, as if pulled by unseen strings, slides automatically forward. The wall closes behind Karl Rove. The entire campaign staff, except for the mad Chief, gasps as one. Brilliant! They're awed by the audacity of the move.
The staff remains hushed, waiting for the oracle to talk to them.
"What do we do?" the Chief asks Rove. "How do we turn our campaign around? How do we win this election?"
"Simple," Karl Rove tells them. "You out-Republican the Republicans."
Since the beginning the White House has consisted of two levels.
The first level is the official White House, the above ground image in which the President works, where the First Family lives, its untarnished corridors open to the press and public.
The other level is underground, where the real business of running a world empire happens. Leaks, gun-running, coups, assassinations-- these occurrences are unseen, and so, deniable, as if they never happened.
On this rainy Washington D.C. afternoon, while the President in the Oval Office innocently wonders about the NBA finals, his staff beneath him is busy. They're busy because they're worried.
"We wanted Mitt as an opponent. Yes, he's a robot. He has the charisma of a mannequin. But right now that kooky plutocrat is beating us!"
The man who says this sweats through his ill-fitting gray suit. He wears a brushy moustache and has oily dark hair swept across one side of his oblong head. His voice shakes with urgency-- possibly because he himself has been booed on the campaign trail.
"Drastic action is needed, or we're going to blow this." His eyes gleam madly. "Too much is at stake!"
As the speaker calms himself and mops his forehead with an oily rag while muttering about the poor air-conditioning down here, an nerdy young know-it-all aide speaks back.
"What kind of drastic action?"
The question is dismissive of his worried elder. The question says, The top dog is losing it. The question is sneering and sarcastic by its being asked.
"We bring in the best," the now calmer Chief Strategist answers the young man.
"The best?" the entire room asks him, in chorus. "You don't mean--?"
"Yes, I do mean. Him. Things have become that urgent. Besides, he's available. Working secretly for us fits his unique sense of humor."
With this, the Chief Strategist turns to the side, where appears what seems to be a simple blank wall. The man touches a button. The wall slides open. Sitting in a plush chair with a sly smile on his face is him. Him. The best there is. The ultimate political weapon. Karl Rove.
The chair, as if pulled by unseen strings, slides automatically forward. The wall closes behind Karl Rove. The entire campaign staff, except for the mad Chief, gasps as one. Brilliant! They're awed by the audacity of the move.
The staff remains hushed, waiting for the oracle to talk to them.
"What do we do?" the Chief asks Rove. "How do we turn our campaign around? How do we win this election?"
"Simple," Karl Rove tells them. "You out-Republican the Republicans."
Monday, June 11, 2012
John Edwards Discovers Honesty
CHAPTER ONE
John Edwards hasn't given up politics. On the contrary, Edwards sees more opportunity than before. Both major party candidates seem unimpressive. Neither candidate has his gleaming smile-- well-perfected during hundreds of hours in front of mirrors, proven in countless courtrooms when John Edwards was an attorney, and, occasionally, a defendant.
What's the solution?
The solution is to start a third political party. He has it! Hucksters are never short of ideas. "The Honesty Party," John Edwards tells his remaining supporters-- his daughter and his dog. "After all," he proclaims. "Who in politics is more honest and sincere than myself?"
The most troubling thing about this statement is that it might be correct.
Cities compete against one another to not hold the John Edwards Campaign Announcement. Finally, the city of Buffalo, New York-- consumed with a civic inferiority complex (those four Superbowl losses)-- agrees to allow the event. The kick-off speech is held in an outdoor park.
"My friends!" John Edwards announces to the audience, which consists of half-a-dozen retirees, several sleeping homeless people, his daughter, his always-cluelessly-loyal dog, and a sports reporter from a local community college with nothing else on his agenda this afternoon. "We are going to wake up America! With honesty!"
One of the homeless guys stirs, then resumes snoring, head flopping around on the park bench that supports him. Edwards grins. The underdogs at least haven't abandoned him. He feels, after his many trials, like an underdog again himself.
Encouraged, John Edwards gives a fiery speech. Let's see the other two bozos top that! They're stiffs compared to him. The John Edwards smile fills the park.
"I'm the most honest person I know!" Edwards concludes, crying profusely, a large banner behind him with the word "HONESTY" on it providing a fantastic photo op.
Afterward a teary-eyed John Edwards hugs the sole reporter, then slips away before a question can be asked. As the reporter leaves the park he realizes he's missing his wallet.
John Edwards hasn't given up politics. On the contrary, Edwards sees more opportunity than before. Both major party candidates seem unimpressive. Neither candidate has his gleaming smile-- well-perfected during hundreds of hours in front of mirrors, proven in countless courtrooms when John Edwards was an attorney, and, occasionally, a defendant.
What's the solution?
The solution is to start a third political party. He has it! Hucksters are never short of ideas. "The Honesty Party," John Edwards tells his remaining supporters-- his daughter and his dog. "After all," he proclaims. "Who in politics is more honest and sincere than myself?"
The most troubling thing about this statement is that it might be correct.
Cities compete against one another to not hold the John Edwards Campaign Announcement. Finally, the city of Buffalo, New York-- consumed with a civic inferiority complex (those four Superbowl losses)-- agrees to allow the event. The kick-off speech is held in an outdoor park.
"My friends!" John Edwards announces to the audience, which consists of half-a-dozen retirees, several sleeping homeless people, his daughter, his always-cluelessly-loyal dog, and a sports reporter from a local community college with nothing else on his agenda this afternoon. "We are going to wake up America! With honesty!"
One of the homeless guys stirs, then resumes snoring, head flopping around on the park bench that supports him. Edwards grins. The underdogs at least haven't abandoned him. He feels, after his many trials, like an underdog again himself.
Encouraged, John Edwards gives a fiery speech. Let's see the other two bozos top that! They're stiffs compared to him. The John Edwards smile fills the park.
"I'm the most honest person I know!" Edwards concludes, crying profusely, a large banner behind him with the word "HONESTY" on it providing a fantastic photo op.
Afterward a teary-eyed John Edwards hugs the sole reporter, then slips away before a question can be asked. As the reporter leaves the park he realizes he's missing his wallet.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Crazy Campaign Season
Stay tuned here for much fun and games regarding the 2012 Presidential election campaign.
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