The lawyers lawyered. The jurists juristed. The SCOTUS scotused. The legal scholars legalized. Darn, if there wasn’t a fortune to be made off this Presdential Election. The legal community had not been this happy since Bush bushwhacked Gore. There was a recount to be done. And the recount would need a recount. When all the recounting was done, the Supreme Court would step in and give the Sneaze from Weasel Sneeze the thumbs down.
The President of the United States, The Big Guy, looked out from the Oval Office and at the White House lawn. It was such a nice lawn, he thought. The snow was whiter here than anywhere else in the world. The National Park Service made sure of that. They brought in the best snow. It was shipped special delivery from a snow factory up close to the North Pole.
A tear filled his eye. It ran down his cheek and lit on his dark blue President of the United States suit. At first, it was only a smidgen small but soon it had grown to be as big as the State of Texas. The Big Guy was sad.
After all his Administration had done for the American people for the past eight years, they had rejected his hand-chosen successor. Sure, Little Twerp wasn’t all he should have been cracked up to be. He had way too much Dan Quayle in him. And that part about shooting his dawg hadn’t helped either. Who shoots their dawg by accident? he wondered. It just wasn’t done.
When you’re President of the United States, you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders like Atlas did in Greek mythology. It was now the responsibility of this Titan to pass on the Office to a demi-god. And the way The Big Guy was thinking that November afternoon, there was more demi to P F Sneaze than there was god.
It just broke The Big Guy’s pea picking heart that his guy had lost. On top of that, there was all those things he was going to miss. The song. Everybody standing up in the room when he entered. Folks waiting upon his next word with baited breath. The free room and board. The airplane nobody could use but him.
He returned to his desk and looked down at the Big Oval in the middle of the floor. Most of all he was going to miss it. When he had tough decisions to make, like whether the White House should serve chocolate mousse or cheesecake at a State Dinner, he was comforted by the Big Oval. It said that his every word was from high. It said he could not make a mistake. He was Mr. President.
Now he had to come down from the mountain. He understood how Moses must have felt when he brought those stone tablets down from the mountain. One day he had been communicating with the Divine; the next the folks downstairs were partying like it was 1999 and he wasn’t invited. No wonder he crashed their party. It just wasn’t right to forget about Old Mo’. Where was their appreciation? He had done a lot for them. It was like they were taking his greatness for granted, the ingrates.
The Big Guy reached for the Red Phone. Now just which Red Phone was it he needed to use? There were a dozen or more Red Phones on his desk. Just getting it straight which Red Phone did what had taken him months to figure out. He kept picking up a Red Phone to order pizza and getting the Russian President. After a while, they just laughed over it. The Russian President’s phones were all blue and he had the same problem. Which Blue Phone to use?
He reached for the Crimson Red Phone, then decided against it. It was the Maroon Red Phone he needed to use. He hesitantly dialed the number of the Do Evie Party Chairman.
“Charlie,” he said. “We have fought the good fight. It’s a sure bet that the Titanic is sinking. The box office receipts have come in and we lost.”
He listened as Charlie tried to dissuade the Head of the Party of the mistake he was about to make. He had all the fine print on his side, he said. “And the wherefores and hereafters too.”
“Charlie,” the President said. “We’ve had a great sixteen years of the party running the show. We’ve accomplished a lot. More than we ever thought we would. Let’s let sleeping dawgs lie and dead ones too. It’s time to move on and let somebody screw up for a while. At least, till we have somebody more deserving than that Little Twerp. You know, I never liked him. He had way too much Dick Nixon in him.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The Big Guy hung up the phone. He could hear that soft sad music playing in the background that plays in every movie with a sad part.
He picked up the Auburn Red Phone. Its color always reminded him of his wife’s beautiful auburn hair. Why did it have to be this Red Phone he had to use. But it was. He dialed the number.
P F Sneeze picked up the phone in his bedroom suite. The other end said, “This is the Big Guy. You have seen the whites of our eyes and waterlooed us. We surrender. You are the new Mr. President, Mr. President.”
P F wasn’t sure whether to whoopee or cry. He had never wanted the job and now he had it.
“Mr. President,” the Big Guy said. “I would like to invite you for lunch Monday afternoon at 1 pm if that will suit your schedule. We can discuss the transition at that time and I can give you a tour of the Residence. And Mrs. Big Guy would love it if the new First Lady came along. It’s time we put on the feedbag and got to know one another.”
Next Week Transition-itis