President Ronald Reagan threw himself into bed. It had been a long day for the Gipper, one that he wouldn’t soon forget. In fact, the whole year of 1987 had been quite the busy one for the Chief of State. For now, however, he simply wanted to sleep. He had already changed into his bedclothes and gave Nancy a good-night kiss. That night, however, was not going to be a normal night for the old Great Communicator. After a few hours of fitful sleep — one no doubt plagued by the problems of the Union and the world as a whole — the President rose from his bed and let his elderly — yet still very much capable — legs carry him to the Executive Washroom. He sent the water running forth with a nimble turn of the tap and a familiar squeak. Splashing the cool liquid on his face, Reagan stared at his wrinkled visage in the mirror. He couldn’t deny it — he was getting up there in years. Not that he would admit it to the American people or anyone else, but he couldn’t deny it to himself or his First Lady.
Just then, Ron couldn’t help but hear the red phone ringing in the Oval Office. The Kremlin didn’t normally call this late, so he figured it must be urgent. Sprinting down the hallway as fast as his wrinkled frame could carry him and the Presidential bathrobe he fastened around himself, the Gipper snatched the phone off the hook and held the receiver to his ear. Panting and out of breath, Reagan asked, “H-hello?”
“Hello, Mister Reagan.” A thick Russian accent greeted the Chief Executive.
“Yes. Meet me at Russian embassy alone. I have a surprise.”
When the two pairs of piercing blue eyes met across the room, Paul felt a jolt through his body like a bolt of ice-blue lightning. “I’m straight,” he told himself silently. “I’m a Republican!” But it was no use. This man had a presence to him, a sense of power, that not even the knowledge of society’s dependence on not changing the definition of marriage could control.
Memories began to return to him. No, not memories: Shadows, images, things from before that day when those two men in cammo and ski masks hauled him out of the wreck of that car. They’d taken him to a cabin in the woods and laid him on a stack of stockpiled gold bars, where they bandaged the cut on his head and set his broken leg.
“Thanks for helping me,” he’d managed to croak out.
“Help?” grunted one of the men. “What do we look like? Liberals? Communists? Social workers?”
“We help no one,” said the other, the one who was setting his leg. He had a voice like gravel. “That would be against the principles of enlightened self-interest. You are…an investment.
November 19, 1863
Returned by train from Gettysburg, where to-day I gave an address that the world will little note, nor long remember. But that’s not what prompted this momentous, and perhaps rash, entry in my diary. You see, upon entering the Oval Office, dimly lit by candle-light as is my custom, I became aware of an abrupt flash of light from behind my desk. Thinking it gunpowder or sorcery, I dove to the ground. When I regained my footing, in my place was the visage of a space-man, wearing some fashion of green military suit and a helmet the likes of which I had never seen.
“Hey,” a voice from behind the mask chuckled. “You’re stovepipe hat guy. Like on the penny.”
Rendered momentarily dumb by my state of confusion and the space-man’s incomprehensible gibberish, I stared more closely. I couldn’t help but notice the space-man’s suit was especially form-fitting around the trousers. Having removed his helmet, I could see his visage for the first time, and I took in his steely, resolute glare before my eyes returned to the bulge in his space-suit.
“Bill, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.”
“What about, George?” What everyone said about his Bill-ness? All true. All hand over hand, palm atop forearm. All those late nights on the phone talking core values, Foundation news, Katrina, PEPFAR. All those years he’d wanted to be an F.O.B., friend of Bill.
Caroline. For the past year Caroline had consumed him, as phthisis consumed her. Benjamin could barely pronounce the word, and when they pronounced her dead, he was as wide open as the upstate New York springs that could not sustain her. What would he do without his role as caretaker? He was so used to life caring for an invalid that he forgot his own in his new, and subservient, role. For a time it chafed his style, and distracted him from, what, Indian Affairs, but after some time he grew to like the doting, conceding his campaign responsibilities, all thanks to Grover.
And Grover! That big bitch had beaten him in 1888, without the electoral vote on top of it, but Grover had suspended the Democratic campaign for him—such an unexpected gesture! Ben didn’t think the Bourbons capable of such tenderness, especially Grover, who always looked so miserable all the time mushing his mouth around like he had something he was trying to push around in there. So things had been better between them lately.
Was it the wedlock taunts haunting him, or the child wifey? And why was Ben so fixated on the man’s jaw? It wasn’t even square! Whatever it was, it made him weirdly hot, that he even wanted it to be square, in the way all people who you hate eventually make you want to, you know.
Just a joyless campaign. It was way too early for this shit, and it wasn’t even 5:30 a.m. Joe was spent; Geist was out today doing God knows. Did these candidates even like politics? Obama, trying to be so above it all. Romney, just, like, odd. No interest in the game. No desire to do the back-and-forth scrapping Joe craved. Where was a third party to re-energize this race? Sometimes he felt like he was talking to no one, the loneliest man at the roundtable leading the morning news of the world.
The world put a little more slump in his shoulders this 7:45 break.
As “Up the Junction” played over the tag, Joe felt a little tug at his trousers from under the desk.
“Wha — ?” Years before he’d become a little reluctant to look down at what was up at his Deep South.There had always been rumors about Olbermann wearing nothing under the waist, and just… nasty. Plus this one time Katrina tried to initiate footsie with him, which he tried to play off by saying he wanted something a little more middle-of-the-spectrum, but —total kink-fest, let’s just say, so weird. And he wasn’t into it, not at all.
“You have a surprise visitor for the 8:00 hour.” It was Mike Bloomberg, Mayor Mike, Bloomberg Bloomberg, who had crawled under and made a little compact box of himself on all fours.
“I’ll be in the Oval Office. Hold my calls. No disturbances, okay?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
With that, George W. Bush closed and locked the door behind him. He knew he wouldn’t have long. He went straight to the al Jazeera channel on YouTube and there it was. The October 29, 2004, video of Osama bin Laden. He’d watched it a thousand times, but still it never failed to arouse him. He pulled out his cock and began to stroke it.
By Helen Van Andel
Erectile dysfunction. What a thing to be remembered for, Bob Dole thought bitterly as he sat on his porch, gazing off into the distance of the flat, featureless Kansas prairie. The long, hot summer was finally giving way to shorter days and cool fall air. For Bob Dole, it had been an uneventful year so far. He had given up waiting for a phone call from that gutless bastard Romney, though of course he spent most of his time closely following the campaign. Now the asshole was trying to spin his airplane window gaffe, insisting it had been a joke. I fucking wrote the book on humor in politics, and when your wife almost dies on board an aircraft, it’s no laughing matter.
As he so often did these days, Bob Dole allowed his mind to wander back to a time when the Republican Party was home to great men. Men like Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Dick Nixon… and, most of all, Jerry Ford. How well he remembered the day Jerry had summoned him to his hometown of Grand Rapids to discuss an “urgent matter” with him. “They call it Furniture City,” he purred over the phone. “I think you’ll find a lot of wood here, if you know what I mean.”
By John Handcock
“Man, I love—”
“White people,” they finished together. Herman Cain squinted skeptically and shifted his eighth of a ton in the puce loveseat, taking his angry eyes from the initially offending Rick Perry to the source of the other voice, even as Leroy “the King” Gingrich paused in the doorway, flushed and fumbling with a Jerry Pournelle paperback. Gingrich ran his thick fingers over the embossed cover of the planet-scale rape fantasy and said in his querulous voice “Jinx, there, Herman-o: you owe me a good Georgia coke from one of those pizza joints of yours.”
“Shut your mouth, you tiny-faced big-headed ol’ pee-pee drinker. Only coke you’re getting over here came from a hell of a lot farther south than Georgia.”
He sat slouched over upon his knees, his eyes focusing on the large toes of both feet. His wrists itched with the burns of the rope tied around them. As his back began to ache, he attempted to lean back upon the auburn velvet armchair but the gashes in his back stung like a thousand hornets, and again he heaved over the front of his seat. Regaining his composure, he focused on the events that took him to this room, this prison reminiscent of a Henry James bedroom.
The campaign was floundering and the HOPE that had been on the lips of many a Democratic minion four years ago had turned to disillusionment. Barack’s plan was to spend like a demon until the name Obama was so deeply etched into the minds of the voters that they were compelled to vote for him. He didn’t believe that Romney could win but he wasn’t going to take any chances. The taste of power whet his appetite too strongly and he wasn’t going to give it up. Barack Obama gives in to no one.
But this had gone too far. He had come in the middle of the night to the house in Los Angeles with two months left until the election.
“George,” he said with a smile half vixen and half saint, “we’re hurting for money. I know that you have been giving up your time and inviting those pricks to your house just to raise money for the campaign, but it just hasn’t been enough. Those arrogant New Yorkers have shut their wallets, and you know if I appease them I lose those Midwest swing votes. You know that everyone hates a New Yorker.”
George smiled his boyish grin. At the time at least, he was willing to help in anyway; he loved the feeling of being the president’s friend. His ego was constantly in need of inflating, and while money and fame had been satisfying, desire bred more desire. His father was a distinguished reporter, and what was he, a movie man. He finally felt that he was doing something of importance and it gave him a euphoric of power that he hadn’t felt in years. Yet, it was this feeling that blinded him to what was being planned.
The money would be sifted in anonymously. Barack had his connections in Chicago. Clandestine messages were distributed to all the previous wealthy donors as well as to anyone suspected to have an interest and the funds.
Spend an intimate evening with George Clooney, one on one. George has a hard-on and he wants you to relieve his pressure. Minimum donation of $200,000.
James Buchanan hated Lincoln the first time he met him. Well, actually, he hated Lincoln for the first year and half of their acquaintanceship, albeit in a low level well. But he hated him on sight because he was so much taller than James was and he was making Rufus smile.
By Wee Puppet Man
A smile flickered across Mark Halperin’s face as he removed his makeup with a cotton ball. He had seen the smirks of Brazile and Stephanopolous as he asserted that John McCain’s number of houses “gaffe” was going to be a disaster for Barack Obama, but he had managed to keep his focus and bat down their objections.
They would never guess his secret. John McCain knew EXACTLY how many houses he had, and Mark Halperin had visited him in every one!
Coolidge sat in his chair and read, the firelight illuminating the pages of his book. The rain was coming down awfully hard, he thought idly. Suddenly, there came a desperate banging from the door, and Calvin thought he heard a faint sob. He opened the door and found Harding, soaking wet and shivering, on his doorstep.
“Warren, my dear fellow, come in and dry yourself off! My god, man, you’ll catch your death out there! What on earth are you doing here at this hour?”
The consultant had brought it up toward the end of the vetting session almost as an afterthought. “You realize, I assume,” he began, “what accepting this position means in terms of your - availability to the President.”
Paul groaned inwardly. “Of course I do,” he said, casting a longing glance toward the window. He’d never gone this long without pull-ups before, and the inactivity was making him irritable. And he’d been sitting in the same hard plastic chair in the same hot and airless room, answering the same barrage of questions (yes, twice; not that I’m aware of; you’d really have to check with the doctors on call that day; never; a little to the left but not noticeably I don’t think) from a parade of seemingly identical and endless frowning, red-faced old men.
“What I mean to say is that you’ll belong to him - in the way of Vice Presidents.”