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.”
Nelson Rockefeller no longer suited Ford’s needs. Scuttlebutt around Washington was that Rockefeller had a fatal flaw: he was relentlessly heterosexual. It had proved his undoing in the end, all right. Bob Dole, on the other hand, had always had a thing for football players. He looked forward to spending long nights in the Oval Office with Jerry – Betty was hitting the bottle pretty hard in those pre-rehab days, so the president would need a lot of consolation – but sadly, it was not to be.
Bob Dole had, of course, chosen another football player as his running mate during his own bid for the presidency, but that attempt had failed as well. At least they had enjoyed some hot nights on the campaign trail. Bob Dole loved running his fingers through Jack’s thick, sexy sweep of gray hair, even when Kemp wouldn’t shut up about supply side economics. “There’s only one trickle down that I’m interested in tonight,” Bob Dole would tell him.
Bob Dole’s reverie was interrupted by Liddy, bringing him a glass of lemonade. She was a good woman, even though he thought of their marriage as one of convenience. No one would ever know the real reason he needed those boner pills – when he was touching the sinewy body of an ex-football star, he could get it up just fine, thanks. “Don’t you want to come inside and watch the game? The Rams are playing the Bears,” said Liddy. For the first time all day, Bob Dole smiled.