George W. Bush On A New Breakfast Diet

Since the congressional elections when the Democrats took back control of Capitol Hill, George W. Bush has had a bowl of organic bananas delivered to the Oval Office every morning. It was 7:15 AM, and George was sitting alone at the Presidential desk, the bowl of fresh bananas sitting to the left of the hunter green desk mat that had one Mont Blanc fountain pen sitting alone in the center. George reached into the pocket of his dark grey pants and pulled out a key. He reached down to the bottom left drawer of the Presidential desk and opened it with the key, revealing a wide mouth crystal decanter. He removed the globed top of the decanter and placed it inside the drawer. The aroma of rum rose to his nostrils. George peeled one of the organic bananas exposing about two-thirds of the banana. George held the bottom of the banana and held it up, taking a small bite. He thought of the Rhesus monkeys he had seen at the Houston Zoo. George looked at his digital wrist watch. The time was not 7:22 AM. Condi was not expected till 7:30, and everyone knew that the President liked his appointments prompt but never early. So he had eight minutes to eat his breakfast. George leaned down with the banana in his left hand and dipped the exposed fruit into the wide mouth crystal decanter, submerging the banana tip about an inch into the Pusser’s Rum. He let the banana absorb just enough of the rum before it got too soggy and broke off. George raised the banana and placed the tip into his mouth, biting off two thumbs worth of rum-soaked banana. He chewed slowly, savoring the rum. And as it went down his throat, it felt warm. George did one more rum dip and eat, and then re-capped the decanter, locking the drawer. He finished the banana and tossed the peel into the wastebasket to his right. There was a knock on the door. George looked at his watch. 7:29. Condi was always one minute early. This morning they were to discuss…George went blank on the agenda. It didn’t really matter. What he did today or tomorrow was no longer relevant. His legacy was secure, George thought. He had set the gears of the earth in motion and no one can stop it now. So today was merely moving deck chairs around. And he was comfortable with that. A good way to start the day.

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Hillary Clinton In A Bathrobe Enjoying The Moment

Hillary sat in the large upholseterd chair nestled between the wide barrel shaped arm rests that seemed to squeeze her wide frame. She had just emerged from the shower, and wrapped herself in a white terry cloth bathrobe that Bill had lifted from the Atlantis Hotel and Casino in the Bahamas. Hillary’s hair was still wet, producing a few trails of water droplets down her forehead, one dangling from her left eyebrow which she flicked off with her right index finger. She let her head fall back and took a deep breath of the cool air in the master bedroom of her Chappaqua home. The sound of the central air conditioning made white noise in the otherwise quiet of the evening. It was October and the air conditioning was on. Hillary liked it cold, it made her feel fresh, clean, and she always slept better when bundled in blankets rather than lying naked on top of sheets like her husband preferred. How had she gotten to this place, this place where her husband was a President of the United States of America and now she the Democratic front runner for the very same job? The long and lonely trail, she thought, to arrive at this moment in life. She was alone in the house. Well, as alone as Hillary can be. The Secret Service was on the property, and the young female intern, what was her name, Jeena, was sleeping in an extra bedroom on the first floor. Hillary smiled knowing that this momentary lead in the fundraising race, beating our Barack Obama for the first time, might be as fleeting as a “NASCAR lap,” a phrase Bill had used when down south. Bill, the master of knowing his audience. It aggravated her that Bill called earlier in the day expressing a worry that the lead she experienced in raising campaign funds might actually be a Republican conspiracy. Bill’s thinking was that the Republicans would much prefer to run against Hillary Clinton than Barack Obama. In fact, Bill told her, the Republicans believed that Obama was unbeatable by any Republican, but with Hillary they had a good shot of retaining the White House. And so, Republicans were giving money to the Hillary Clinton campaign to give her the air of invincibility and make it more likely the Democrats will nominate her rather than Obama. Hillary dismissed Bill’s concern as not relevant. Because if true, then they will be helping her win the nomination, and as far as she was concerned, that is all she wanted. At least, that is what she needed to do first before worrying about winning the Presidential election. She also thought Bill was back handedly suggesting that she could not win the nomination without the help of the Republicans. Silly Bill. The Democrats were going to win the White House back because they were getting lots of help from the Republicans who seem to be, finally, thank God, out of touch with America. In deed, out of touch with the world and reality. Hillary’s eyes closed and she fell into a very deep sleep. Her mouth slowly opened and her eyes twittered into a dream state. Hillary was in the Oval Office and her Vice President just walked in. Who was it to be?

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George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld And Paris Hilton Meet In The Lincoln Bedroom

George Bush sat on the love seat in the Lincoln Bedroom. Opposite him was Donald Rumsfeld sitting in a chair. George was in his underwear, briefs, with a sleeveless t-shirt. Donald was dressed in white tennis shorts, white socks, white Nike tennis shoes, a grey polo shirt and he was holding a squash racket, bouncing a squash ball up and down effortlessly with the racket. Though George kept looking at the bed to his right, the bed where Abraham Lincoln’s son dies, the bed at the foot of which Abraham Lincoln’s autopsy was performed after he was shot at Ford’s Theater. George kept looking at the bed and thinking that Paris Hilton was lying on it in the nude. He wondered what Paris would look like in the nude. Would she be so skinny that she would look anorexic? Or would she have some meat on her, a bit of muscle evidencing a modicum of exercise other than dancing?

“I won today,” said Donald Rumsfeld.

“What?” asked George Bush.

“Squash. I beat my nephew,” said Donald.

“Good. That’s good,” said George as he glanced back at the bed.

“If you acknowledge it’s a civil war that means your presidency has been a failure,” said Donald.

“What?” asked George.

“Americans will not permit its boys and girls to be in the middle of someone else’s civil war. Iraq will have been a failure,” said Donald.

“I agree,” said a female voice.

“What?” George said as he glanced to his right at the bed. It was Paris Hilton. She was naked except for pink panties. Paris was holding a small digital camera and she was snapping pictures of George and Donald and she sat on her knees on top of the white puffy blanket.

“I said I agree,” said Paris.

“What are you doing here?” asked George of Paris.

“You asked me to come,” said Donald.

“What? No not you. Her,” said George pointing to the bed.

“Who?” said Donald.

“Her. Right there. On the bed,” said George.

“You feeling OK?” asked Donald.

“Tell that old geezer you feel just fine,” said Paris.

George looked over at Paris. “Smile,” said Paris as she snapped a picture. George smiled.

“I feel just fine,” said George.

“Getting back to Iraq, it is important that you salvage some good that was added to the world, to the United States, and define that goodness as part of an Iraq pull back,” said Donald.

“Ahhh, that’s such bullshit, George,” said Paris. “You made a mistake. Admit you made a mistake. And pull our troops out,” said Paris.

“I made a mistake,” said George.

“We don’t have to go there,” said Donald.

“Georgie, Georgie, go there. Go there. Ask yourself, how did you stop drinking?” asked Paris.

“I faced the truth,” said George.

“OK. You can face it, Mr. President, but face it privately,” said Donald.

“Did you go to any AA meetings, Georgie?” asked Paris.

“No,” said George.

“Did you tell Laura you were an alcoholic,” asked Paris.

“I told Laura, said George.

“Telling Laura is one thing, telling the public is another,” said Donald.

“Look where the old geezer got you. The whole thing is a big mess, George. A big mess. The only way out is to admit the mess, admit the mistake, and then get our soldiers out. Get everyone out. Let the whole place blow up. And you will be able to salvage something of yourself and of America,” said Paris as she was massaging her bare belly.

“I can salvage something?” asked George.

“Of course you can,” said Donald.

“Of course you can,” said Paris.

“Stay or pull out,” said George.

“Stay,” said Donald.

“Pull out,” said Paris.

“You pull out, the party will burn you as a coward,” said Donald.

“You stay, more Americans will die and the historians will look at you as weak,” said Paris.

“But a coward is weak,” said George.

“Exactly,” said Donald.

“No, no, no. A weak man cannot face the truth. A coward cannot face his buddies. Who are you?” asked Paris.

George looked at Paris. She was really quite stunning with her long blond hair. He found it surprising that she could be so smart, so articulate. Paris Hilton sounded smarter than Donald Rumsfeld. At least at this moment. George wanted to jump onto the bed. Paris saw a sparkle in George’s eye.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Paris.

“Don’t worry. I’m not. I’m not,” said George.

Paris winked at George. George smiled as Paris took another picture.

“You’re not what?” asked Donald Rumsfeld as he caught the squash ball in his hand.

“I’m just not. I’m just not,” said George.

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George Bush Clears His Head With Jack Daniels

The time was 2:32 AM eastern standard time. President George W. Bush could not sleep, so he slipped out of the king bed, leaving Laura sound asleep behind. He walked out of the room in his bare feet wearing navy blue satin pajama pants with a white t-shirt. George was having difficulty making it through the night without waking at least twice. Not to go to the bathroom. Not because of hunger or thirst. It wasn’t anything George could put his finger on. He remembered back to the months immediately following his election against John Kerry. Those were months where he slept through the night and felt strong and clear-headed every morning. That election was a shot in the arm for George, and everything, all his body parts, his sleeping, his eating habits, his sex life with Laura, his relationship with staff and his cabinet, his interest in following sports - it was as if he was back at college on one of those many drinking binges where his youth precluded hangovers and life was filled with possibilities. But that had all passed. In just two years, George’s body chemistry had changed. Little sleep, no sex, eating crappy food, the exercise stopped, the football and baseball fantasy leagues he secretly played were history, he talked with few of his staff, he felt distant from his daughters, his left hip had been stabbing him with a consistent dull pain.

He reached the end of the hallway where a man in a black suit and tie with a walkie talkie was standing. George did not recognize him. Or maybe he did. George did not remember.

“Good evening, sir,” said the man with the walkie talkie.

“Hi,” said George.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” asked the man with the walkie talkie.

“How about a bottle of Coca Cola,” said George.

“Certainly,” said the man.

“And those little airline bottles with whiskey. They have that in the kitchen. In one of the cabinets. You know about that?” said George.

“I did not know that, sir,” said the man.

“Yeah, well, they have them. Can you find two of them. Whiskey. Two little bottles of Jack Daniels. Pour both of them into a bottle of Coke. Of course make room for it in the bottle, and bring it to me,” said George.

“I’ll have to radio for it, sir. I cannot leave my post,” said the man.

“What’s your name?” asked George.

“Timothy, sir,” said the man.

“Timothy, look, I know you answer to the Service and not me. But can you radio for a someone to come up here and hold your post for you while you run this errand for me,” said George.

“Yes. I can do that,” said Timothy.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you grab a few bottles for yourself. We can sit down and shoot the breeze. I need to calm down so I can get some sleep,” said George.

“I am not supposed to do that, sir,” said Timothy.

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. But then just bring a few extra bottles with you. We’ll discuss protocol when we chat. OK?” said George.

Timothy paused briefly, then raised his walkie talkie and pressed the button on the side of the handset.

“This is Alpha One West. Send up a temp replacement. Request of of Alpha One,” said Timothy.

“Roger, roger,” said the voice on the handset.

“Thanks, Timothy. I feel better already,” said George. George sat on the chair in the hallway, waiting for the replacement and for Timothy to do his errand. He could have a few drinks. The Presidential pressure was enormous, and he made it almost six years in the hardest job of the world without touching a drop of alcohol. One drink was not going to kill him. But not sleeping was going to kill him. The Jack Daniels would help him sleep. It would help him forget about the state of things, and he could avoid the dreams. It was those damn dreams that kept waking him. That was it. Whiskey kills dreams. And that’s what he needed to do. It was the only way to be the leader of the free world. No dreams.

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Mike Bloomberg And Ray Kelly Meet With Al Sharpton - Part Two

Continued From Yesterday.

The door opened to the Mayor’s office and in walked Al Sharpton. Mayor Mike Bloomberg stood immediately. Ray Kelly was slower to stand. Bloomberg offered his hand, which Sharpton took.

“Hello, Mayor,” said Sharpton. Sharton did not wait to be offered a chair. He sat in the chair next to Kelly’s. Bloomberg sat. Kelly sat.

“How are you Mr. Kelly?” asked Sharpton.

“Fine, thank you,” said Kelly.

“Fine? How can you be fine under these circumstances. Your guys plowed a bucketload of bullets into an innocent man. A black man. So you tell me, how can you be fine?” said Sharpton.

“I meant I was personally physically, OK,” said Kelly. The second he said it, Kelly knew it didn’t sound right.

“Physically OK? I would be sick to my stomach. In fact, I am sick to my stomach. How can I be feeling sick and you feeling OK?” said Sharpton.

Bloomberg killed a smile that started to form. Sharpton knew how to grab the conversation.

“I think we all feel sick about what happened,” said Bloomberg.

“So what are we going to do about this mess that you have gotten yourselves in?” said Sharpton.

Kelly hated that Sharpton presumed that somehow he was part of the government, as if he was charged with the high purpose of public office, almost as if this was one of his offices.

“The offices are on administrative leave, Al, and they have turned in their guns,” said Bloomberg.

“That means they are still getting paid, and they have desk jobs. Sounds like a promotion,” said Sharpton.

“I can assure you it is not a promotion,” said Kelly.

“It’s a slap on the wrist,” said Sharpton without turning to look at Kelly.

“You don;t know the facts, Mr. Sharpton. We were staking that club out. Drugs. Prostitution. Money laundering. They rented the place out as a cover. There was a bachelor party going on. The kids who got shot were like human shields. Those bastards used their patorns as human shields,” said the Police Commisioner. Kelly was irritated. Police were not never allowed to fuck up. And when they did, their lives were often ruined.

Al Sharpton addressed the Mayor. “Your Police Commisioner says that the African American community of this great City of New York are the human shields for crime. And so what is he saying, that African Americans can be killed to fight crime? Cause if that is what he saying, I’d like to tell that to the media,” said Sharpton.

“I am sure that is not what the Police Commissioner is saying,” said Bloomberg.

“I did not suggest that,” said Kelly.

“It sure sounds like you did. One of those Freudian slipperoos, if you ask me,” said Sharpton.

“Look, we have to deal with this swiftly and aggresively,” said Mayor Bloomberg.

“I’ll say, cause your Police Commissioner has handed me a golden opportunity. It don’t mattter how you play this music, it comes out the same. Fifty bullets at two unarmed innocent black men. That’s music man that only plays one way. And anyway you hear it, it makes the New York City finest seem like the worstest,” s id Sharpton, not blinikng an eye on his misuse of the English language.

“Al, our interests are the same. We need to find out what happened, discipline the officers for what they did, and try to start the healing,” said Bloomberg feeling like he was on the Oprah show.

“You ain’t going to heal sqat without my participation,” said Sharpton.

“Of course. We need you, Al. We need you to be part of the process,” said the Mayor.

“Hey, Mr. Mr. Mayor, I know you’re playing me. You think I don’t know when you are playing me. And that is OK. It’s OK with me. You play me all you want. Just as long as you know I will be playing you. And maybe, if you are lucky, you will come out smelling like roses. But any way this plays out, I will be OK. This is my game you have entered. This is my game,” said Sharpton.

“Yes, yes, I know. And it is my desire to make us all do justice and try to prevent this from happening again,” said Bloomberg.

“So are we ready to meet the media? ‘Cause I’m ready. And don;t take it pewrsonally if I don;t smile with you Mayor and look like we’re friends. ‘Cause I ain’t gong to smile. This ain’t time for smiling,” said Sharpton as he rose from his chair.

“I understand completely,” said Bloomberg as he stood. Kelly did not stand.

“See you gentlemen downstairs. And Mr. Kelly, don’t look so sour. Feel as fine as you said you do,” said Sharpton as he walked out fo the office.

“I hate that sonofabitch,” said Kelly.

“We are all running the city together, Ray,” said Bloomberg. “We are all running the city together.”

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