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."

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.

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."

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!"

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."

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.

Crazy Campaign Season

Stay tuned here for much fun and games regarding the 2012 Presidential election campaign.