Common Ground

Being a demon means you have to deal with all sorts of people, but almost every one of my clients had a very good reason for striking a bargain with Satan and selling their soul into eternal torment, so I try not to be too judgmental. Besides, when you’re #1 on Dick Cheney’s speed dial like I am, having to talk with some of the other nutjobs who wander through occasionally almost seems like a vacation.

That’s not to say that the guy I call “Sammy” is a complete nutjob- let’s just say he’s really, really REALLY intense. So when Sammy called me this morning and said he needed to talk I was more than happy to click my hooves together and re-embody myself in- well, to be safe, I’d better not say exactly where. Sammy handed me a letter that appeared to have been typed on an old Smith Corona manual typewriter.

“I’d like you to deliver that to another one of your clients,” he told me, “Sorry about the typos”.

I glanced at the letter, which was addressed to Hillary Clinton. I shrugged.

“OK, I’m going to be seeing her this weekend anyway, she needs some ‘favors’ for next week’s primaries. Can I read it?”

Sammy smiled. “I’d like you to,” he said. “Just make sure it’s ok, as you say.”

I sat down, put on my reading glasses, and read it-

Dear Mrs. Clinton,

I have just red read that you have come out in support of Candidate McCain’s proposal to do away with the 18 cent Federal Gas Tax. As you know (because all American econimists say so) even though suspending this tax will only save the average American driver about ## $25 this summer, it will also cripple much-nded needed repairs on America’s roads and bridges, and it will make Americans drive more and make them even more dependint on Middle Eastern oil. Of course, every dollar that goes to Middle Eastern oil also goes to fund terrorist groups that are killing Americans in Iraq and elsewhere. For all these reasons, I was surpriseed that you would support such a proposal simply in order to win more votes.

I stopped and looked up.

“Are you sure you want to send this?” I asked Sammy.

He nodded. “I just have to add a final sentence and sign it. You will deliver it?”

I assured him I would, so he took the letter and typed out his final sentence and signed-

Although your husband was a cockroach-eating infidel, I think you’re a real hottsie-tottsie, and you have my full support! I’m enclosing an Al Quaeda lapel in, and hope you’ll wear it proudly.

Your friend,

Osama bin Laden

I took the letter, stuffed it in my pocket, and wiped a little tear out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t help it, it’s so sweet when my clients can find common ground.

Loyalism

I was doing jello shots with Rudy and arguing about which Arab country he should nuke first if he gets to be President when my cellphone rang. It was Dick, and he wanted me in the Oval Office, right away.

“We need you to sign this paper,” Dick explained, pushing a form across the desk at me. I touched the paper, which immediately burst into flames and incinerated itself. I smiled at Dick.

“Oops. Sorry. What was it, anyway?”

“It’s a Loyalism Oath,” George broke in proudly. “We’re gonna make everyone sign ‘em, make ‘em promise to only vote for Republicans, like they’re doin’ down in Virginia.”

“Why not just outlaw all the other political parties like your pal, Putey-Pute?” I asked, laughing. “That would be more efficient.”

George turned and stared at a signed photo of Vladimir Putin he kept on his desk and frowned. “He don’t call me no more,” he said sadly. “You think he’s mad at me or sumthin’?”

“Never mind that,” Dick broke in roughly, “I’ll get another copy. You have to sign it, everyone will have to sign it if they want to vote in the next election”.

“You could just arrest all your political opponents, like your pal, Pervez,” I suggested.

“Or we could just Deportize ‘em all, you know, like illegal alienists,” George added.

Dick shook his head. “Not for another few years. I think this is an easier way to get Congress back and keep the White House. We are going to call it the Patriot Pact”.

I had to hand it to Dick, the man’s clever with names. But I wasn’t signing.

“I don’t sign anything, Dick,” I reminded him. “Other people sign my pacts. You know that. You signed one yourself”.

Dick shrugged. “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you”.

“That’s right,” George broke in. “My pal Putey’s got a new system for elections where you have to vote for his party to keep your job”. He looked wistfully at the photo on his desk. “I wish he’d call me,” he whispered mournfully.

I slipped out. I hate it when George gets whiney. And I had to be over at Hillary’s place in an hour. She was going to be re-aligning her policy positions, and she’d asked my to bring the dart board and six pack.

Point of View-

Our staff was far too full of turkey, stuffing, Jack Daniels and beer to regain consciousness this morning, so we bring you a Classic SoD, first posted in March of 2006. Happy Thanksgiving Weekend everyone, we'll drag The Demonic One back to the office next Monday to get back to work!

- - -

excerpts from the diary of President George Bush -PRIVATE!!!

March 1st- Flew into Pakistan with Laura. Saw Pervez, had a nice dinner. Didn't know what the Hell anything was, but it tasted good. Except the meat dish. I think I may have eaten a goat. I’ll have to talk to Pervez about that.

March 2nd- Went walking this morning before Laura got up. Got lost. Went down a side street and got grabbed by two men with guns. They asked if I was a Pakistani, and I said no, and they shoved me in the back of a truck. Could hear them talking up front about the United States government offering a bounty on foreigners caught in Pakistan and turning me in for cash. What a damned screw-up. Of course we offer a bounty. Caught quite a few bad-doers with it too, folks who are violent, and amoral, and who like to wage war and kill people for no good reason. But not Americans, for Chrissake! I'll straighten this out when I get to our own people. Boy are these two gonna be sorry. I'll throw their asses in Gitmo.

March 3rd- The assholes who grabbed me sold me to the US Army for 50 bucks. The stupid Army major wouldn't listen to a word I had to say. Kept asking me if I was employed in Pakistan. Idiot. I finally yelled at him that I'm not fucking employed, I'm the godamned President!

Now I'm on a godamned plane to Gitmo.

March 5th- Unbelievable. I'm in a damned cell with a Saudi carpenter and two Indian software engineers. This is a seriously screwed-up system. Nobody will listen to a word I say. I want a telephone! I want my lawyer! They just laugh at me. I have to talk with Cheney about this when I get back. I’m gonna talk with Don too. They can’t do this to me. I’m a do-gooder, not a bad-doer. Fucking assholes.

March 8th- Today I met my "lawyer", a junior-grade Lieutenant named Jack from the motor pool. Apparently Cheney set it up so we don't get lawyers, we get "representatives" who don't know a damned thing about law. Jack was sympathetic but said there was not much he could do. According to Jack they don't have to let me get in touch with anyone or charge me with anything or ever let me go. That doesn’t sound very American to me, and I told him so. He laughed like I’d said something funny.

When I get back some heads are gonna roll, boy.

March 9th- They got me up at 3 a.m. by playing Barry Manilow music full blast outside the cell. Played it for 12 hours straight. That has to be against some Convention or other. I wish I hadn't said we were going to ignore those, but nobody told me about Barry Manilow. That's just not right. It’s wrong.

March 11th- Jack says they've classified me as an 'enemy combatant'! I asked him why. Well, I didn't ask. I yelled. A lot. The guards came in and tied me up. Assholes. I’m making a list, boy.

Anyway, Jack said he didn't know, they won't show him my file. He says they classified it 'secret', so they don't have to show it to him. I told him that I have rights, you know, like it says in the Constitution. That asshole laughed and quoted me stuff I said about it being a 'godamned piece of paper'.

I took a swing at him and they put me in solitary.

I hate Jack.

March 12th- They've been playing Roger Miller's 'King of the Road' outside my cell since midnight. 'No phone, no pool, no pets'. They think it's pretty funny. Assholes.

March 13th- I finally bribed a guard to smuggle me a cell phone. Called Dick Cheney. He said he'd "see what he could do". I said he'd better fucking "see", and damn fast! Cheney started dodging, he said that I signed some law or other giving myself no rights in here, and then he mumbled something about "rules" and "working with the system". I hung up on him.

I hate Dick Cheney.

March 15th- I'm free! Mom called Dick and gave him a piece of her mind, so Dick signed some papers and I'm going home. This experience has really opened my eyes. I understand now that it really is against all the values we stand for to round up people without any real evidence against them, jail them without charge, hold them indefinitely without trial or a lawyer, and leave them here to rot. When I get back to Washington tomorrow I'm going to make some changes, you bet!

March 16th- Back home! Watched tv with Laura for a while, and now I have to pack for the weekend. We're having a big barbecue at the ranch. I wonder if Ann Coulter is going to be there tomorrow? Laura doesn't like Ann, but I think she's a pistol. Andy Card came in and asked what I wanted to "do" about Gitmo. I asked him what the hell he was talking about. Why should I care about a bunch of godamned terrorists? Let 'em rot, I told him.

I like Andy, but he can be pretty dense sometimes.

A Week from Hell-

Dear Diary...

MONDAY: Started the week off by peeking in at the rehearsal for the upcoming Democratic Candidates Debate. It started off smoothly enough- Barack Obama walked to his podium and announced “My name is Barack Obama, and I’m not Hillary!”

Then John Edwards walked to his podium, flashed a blinding smile, and said “My name is John Edwards, and I’m not Hillary!”

Then Hillary Clinton strode quickly onto the stage, put her hands on her hips, and yelled “I am Hillary, and these two are ganging up on me!” and stormed off the stage.

Off to stage left there was a sudden scuffling and a short little guy popped out from behind the curtains, shrieking “Impeach George Bush! Impeach Dick Cheney!” He ran over to a podium marked “Dennis”, but it was taller than he was and that’s the last I saw of him.

John Edwards turned back to glare at Barack Obama. “I wasn’t Hillary before you weren’t Hillary!” he declared hotly.

“That’s a lie!” Barack retorted. “I haven’t been Hillary much longer than you haven’t been Hillary!”

Then Hillary walked back in and hit Barack over the head with a folding metal chair.

I left- obviously nobody there needed my help.


TUESDAY: Satan called and asked me if I’d seen the Washington Post this morning. He sounded annoyed when I said I hadn’t, so I went down to the corner store and bought a paper. There it was, a big headline, right on the front page. I almost gagged on my coffee-

RON PAUL FILES BILL TO PRIVATIZE HELL
Congressman Says Satan’s Work to be Outsourced to China.

Well excuuuuuse-fucking-me! He can’t do that. We have contracts. And a good damned union (so to speak). Shit. I suppose that means I’ll have to try to get hold of this Paul guy again. Fucker won’t take my calls- he and Kucinich are the only two candidates we haven’t been able to negotiate contracts with. Paul told me last time I called him to “go to Hell” (gee, that’s original) and Satan won’t let me call Kucinich- he says he doesn’t want our image tarnished by dealing with “that nutburger”.

I glanced at the newspaper headline again and could feel steam coming out my ears. You can’t outsource Hell like we’re some fucking Wal*Mart commodity that you can order from the lowest bidder! That’s insulting. That’s not to say that the Chinese wouldn’t be good at it- but it’s the government’s job to do Satan’s work on earth, and I think we’re doing mighty fine work.


WEDNESDAY: Still can’t get Ron Paul to take my calls, so I decided to get out of town for a few days, and went to see the Pope. Most people think the Pope and I don’t talk, what with being on opposite sides of the Good/Evil thing and all, but there are always issues to discuss. I won’t pretend that the old Pope and I were exactly friends, but we got along. He served me tea and I tried not to leave scorch marks on his sofa.

I’d not met the new Pope yet, and I wanted to make a good impression, so I polished my hooves and shined my horns, and when I walked in I smiled and called out “Hey, Pope, great to finally meet you!”

The old bastard jumped to his feet, yelled, “Begone, foul fiend of Hell!” and set a pair of rottweilers named Herman and Adolf loose on me.

So there I am, hanging 10 feet off the ground, clinging to the Papal curtains with these two rabid, slathering dogs leaping at my hooves and then the Pope starts throwing teacups at my head. He may not look it, but the old man’s still got a good arm.

Note to self: I’m not being paid nearly enough to put up with this kind of bullshit.


THURSDAY: What a week. Dick called and asked if wanted to go quail hunting with him, but I passed. I think I’m going to leave town early and spend the weekend hanging out with Pervez in Pakistan. Now there’s a man who knows how to follow good advice.

Playing Favorites?

I’ve been spending so much time on the road lately, working with all the Presidential campaigns, that I finally put in a purchase order for a deluxe RV. It arrived Monday, and has a widescreen tv, boiling sulphur hot tub, and a real coal fireplace. As an added bonus, it only gets two and a half miles a gallon. I love it!

I was parked in a Wal*Mart RV park in Iowa setting up my new mobile office when Mitt Romney barged through the door. He had a wild look in his eye.

“What the fudge are you doing?” he demanded angrily.

“The Dark Lord’s work on Earth, same as you,” I replied with a grin. “Why?”

“Don’t bring Cheney into it!” Mitt growled. “You know what I mean. You’ve been up to no good! I’ve spent months trying to solidify my Right-Wingnut Base by brown-nosing Pat Robertson, and now he’s gone and endorsed that freak Rudy Guiliani!”

Well, yes, of course I knew that was what he was talking about. I just like yanking Mitt’s chain. If you do it hard enough his ears turn the most amazing shade of crimson.

“Have a seat, Mitt,” I said sternly. You can only let these folks go so far, after all, before you remind them to whom they’re speaking. Mitt sat.

“Pat endorsed Rudy,” I said. “You have a problem with that?”

“It’s insane!” Mitt exclaimed. “Rudy’s an abortion-rights, gay-supporting traitor to the Conservative Cause.”

I glanced through my paperwork. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Mitt, but a few years ago when you were running for Governor of Massachusetts, so were you.”

Mitt looked defensive. “Yeah, well I changed my mind when I decided to run for President,”

“Maybe Pat likes folks who can keep their mind made up,” I suggested unhelpfully.

“It makes no sense,” Mitt retorted mournfully, shaking his head. “Pat Robertson declared that the September 11th attacks were God’s punishment against America for supporting abortion and gay rights, and he thinks that the ‘activist judges’ who rule in favor of them are a greater threat to America than Islamic terrorists. He said God will punish us with earthquakes for teaching Evolution, and when the Disney folks decided to market to gays he told them God was going to throw hurricanes and meteors at them!”

“I’m sure there’s a point here somewhere?”

Mitt glowered at me. “I have a contract!” he growled. “I was promised the Presidency! I’ll sue!”

“You’re going to sue Satan?” I laughed. “Good luck finding a lawyer whose not already on our side.”

I let him think about that for a moment, and then continued. “Lots of candidates signed contracts with us, Mitt. There’s no favoritism involved. You’re all equal in The Evil One’s eyes.”

“No we’re not, you just like Rudy better!” Mitt growled. “You like him better because he wants to torture people and he’ll nuke Iran just as soon as he gets his finger on The Button!”

“Oh c’mon, Mitt,” I laughed. “You’re in favor of torturing people and nuking Iran just as much as Rudy is.”

“Darn right, I am!”

“So, there’s no favoritism involved on our end. I can assure you, Mitt, Satan smiles just as broadly on your campaign as it does on Rudy’s.”

Both of Mitt’s faces fell. “You mean there’s nothing you can do?”

I shook my head. “I’m just here to help you all equally,” I said with a grin.

“It’s not fair,” Mitt whined as he got up to leave. I could hear him muttering something about “contracts” and “lawsuit” to himself as he walked back to his campaign SUV. I sighed. Politicians sign contracts with the Devil and then are surprised when they get screwed over? Cry me a river.

I heard a soft knock at the door. I was pretty sure I knew who it was.

“C’mon in, Pat,” I called. “Well, well, you’ve been a busy bee, haven’t you?”

Pat Robertson had the grace to smile softly as he sat down. I like Pat. We’ve always worked well together, and he’s one of my favorites amongst Satan’s minions.

Drinking the Kool-Aid-

Fall is my favorite time of year- all the trees look like they’re on fire (ah, sweet memories of home!) and being election season, it’s the time my services are most in demand by politicians desperate to make last-minute deals. With the Presidential race heating up incomprehensibly early, it’s been pretty busy. The Political Kool-Aid suppliers have been busy too, as you can tell by the way some of the candidates have been twisting themselves into psychotic pretzels. In fact, the behavior of some of the candidates had gotten so bizarre that I decided to call in one of the biggest Demonic Kool-Aid suppliers and find out exactly what she was selling the folks this year.

“What on earth did you sell poor John McCain?” I asked when the supplier, a young blond Demon named Gayle, arrived at my office. “The man’s a walking pharmaceutical experiment. He’s crazier than a rabid golden retriever in a room full of squirrels!”

Gayle shrugged. “He started off with ‘McCarthy’s Triple-Strength Self-Righteousness’ pills, completely standard stuff,” she assured me.

“Started off with? And then what?”

“Well, I may have sold him a double-strength brew of ‘Barry Goldwater Nuke ‘Em All’ powder,” she admitted. “He was paying cash”.

I nodded. “Good work. And the rest of them?”

Gayle leafed through her order book. “Rudy Guiliani ordered a dozen cases of ‘Hastert’s Has-Been Self-Referential Rub’, two boxes of Souter’s ‘Certainly I’m Conservative’ suppositories, and a six-pack of ‘Wacko Cola’.”

“What about Fred Thompson?”

Gayle looked annoyed. “He can’t seem to decide what to order.”

Gee, there’s a surprise. “Fred Thompson just needs some No-Doze,” I suggested. “The man sleeps most of the day, wakes up, yells ‘Mr. Kruschev, Tear down this wall!’ and goes back to sleep again”.

“Wasn’t it Gorbachev?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, well, Fred's an actor, not an historian.”

Gayle laughed. “Here’s Mitt Romney’s order. Are you ready? Two cases of ‘Sean Hammity Self-Righteous Hypocrite Blend’ bars, and 6 pounds of our ‘Oblivious Self-Contradiction’ salts as well. They’re very popular this year. Hillary bought a bunch too.”

“What else did you sell Hillary?”

Gayle flipped through a dozen pages. “Hillary’s been a big buyer. She’s bought a kilo of ‘Newt Gingrich Neo-Con Tendencies Masker’, 2 gross of ‘Bill Clinton Smugness’ pills, and a quart of JFK Extract.”

“Really? A quart? I thought the JKF Extract was pretty powerful stuff?”

“It usually is,” Gayle said, frowning. “There may be something wrong with this year’s batch. Obama bought 45 gallons of it, and it doesn’t seem to be working at all.”

Gayle got to her feet. “It’s good to see you, but I’ve got a big sales call lined up and I should really get going.”

“New client?”

“No.” Gayle smiled. “I have a sideline of Humorless-Hatred Hi-Colonics for Venomous Tarts, and Anne Coulter and Michelle Malkin are in town. I could make enough on this order to spend January in Rio this year.”

I nodded and she left. I sat at my desk, watching the coals glow in the fireplace, and noticed that Gayle had left a bottle of ‘Barry Goldwater Nuke ‘Em All’ powder on my desk. I grinned and picked up the bottle. It would be a Very Bad Thing indeed if any of that got mixed into Dick’s coffee. I looked at my watch. I just had time to get to the Executive Dining Room before breakfast was over if I hurried...

BAM!

As much as I may try, I will never forget the day George Bush, Dick Cheney and Condi Rice were contestants on “Top Chef”.

You may or may not have seen the show- it’s one of a slew of new ”reality” contest shows on cable television. They start with a dozen professional chefs, and each week they get them all together in a big studio kitchen facility and give them a limited amount of time to make a specific type of meal. At the end of each show the loser gets kicked off, and everyone else comes back and tries again next week. The point is to be the last person standing once everyone else has been eliminated. It’s sort of like serving as a cabinet member in the first Nixon or Reagan Administrations, except that in this case the contestants all have large, sharp knives. Well, ok, so it’s a lot like serving in the first Reagan Administration...

Anyway, some numbwit in the Press Office thought it would be a great idea to have George, Dick and Condi do the show. I guess the thinking was that once your poll numbers hit the low thirties, almost any publicity is good publicity as long as it doesn’t involve video of you burning pictures of the Pope or strangling live kittens. It’s a good theory, but as it always seems to, reality reared its ugly head and took a big bite.

“Sounds like fun,” George said to me when I told him about it, digging a “Kiss the Cook” baseball cap out of his desk drawer and sticking it on his head. “As long as they don’t want us to cook anything French. That wouldn’t be right. It would be wrong. And anyway, French food is over-hype-enated. Did you know there is no word in French for ‘hors d’oeuvre’ ”?

We arrived at the set shortly before lunch.

Dick immediately made a beeline for the table with the biggest knives and wrapped his arms around it. When Condi approached he hissed at her. She took up a station across from him, and the two of them stood there, brandishing their Wustoffs and glaring at each other.

George ambled over to a table near the bank of stainless-steel-fronted refrigerators, and then started rummaging through one of them, looking for a snack.

The floor director got the cameras rolling, and Emeril, who was acting as a special guest host, ran onto the set and shook hands all around. “I’m so glad to be here!” he burbled. “I’m so glad to see all you fine folks here!” He turned to the camera. “We’re gonna do some hot cooking tonight, boy, and just when you think we’re done...” he wound up his face and then delivered, at full volume, his trademark exclamation- “BAM!!!”

Poor Emeril... George and Dick immediately dove for the floor in a shower of clattering pots and pans as six secret service agents sprang from the rafters, guns waving. Two of them gang-tackled Emeril while a third jumped on Condi. After they got things sorted out, and George and Dick got out from under their tables, and we pried the secret service agent off Condi (he seemed reluctant to release his grip), things settled down and they started taping.

For this special episode they had a chili cook-off, which was right up George, Dick and Condi’s alley. The rules were simple- they had two hours to work, and you could only use the ingredients in the kitchen. What the poor simpletons who set this up were thinking I’m not sure. Dick immediately ran over and stuffed all the beef into one large pot and took it back to his table, and then proceeded to sell Condi some of it for $50 a pound.

“Law of Supply and Demand,” I heard him say when she objected. I didn’t quite catch her reply, because at that moment George started turning on all the electric power mixers, but I think she made some sort of helpful suggestion about where he could stuff the beef.

I had to leave for a while to have lunch with Hilary Clinton and Steven Spielberg to talk about a new game show Steven is planning for Hilary called ‘Where’s Bill Now?’, and when I got back they were taping the judging segment. It seems that all three contestants had cheated. Well... now I love George, Dick and Condi like they were my twins, but I have to say- what the fuck were the producers expecting?

It seems that Dick had sent his personal bodyguards out to buy some special ingredients.

“You can’t do that!” Emeril told him. “It’s against the rules.”

“Whose side are you on?” Dick asked him, glaring and brandishing his knife. “It’s talk like that that gives aid and comfort to the enemies of America. The Paprika in the kitchen was defective, and I have evidence that the chili powder had been compromised by Al Quaeda.” He waved his knife under Emeril’s nose. “Whatever I may have done to the ingredients was done with the best interests of America in mind, and was done with the full support of our intelligence community.”

Emeril took a look at the knife, and at the two Secret Service agents looming over Dick’s shoulder, and turned to Condi.

“Now, Ms. Rice,” he began, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but the chili you made is about the worst I’ve ever tasted.”

Condi didn’t even bat an eyelash. “No, it’s not,” she said firmly.

“You put oranges in it,” Emeril said, holding up a tomato-soaked orange wedge with his fork.

“That an onion,” Condi said evenly.

“It’s an orange,” Emeril said, sniffing it and wrinkling his nose.

“It’s an onion. Are you saying I’m lying?” Condi snapped.

Emeril shook his head, “No, but-“

“Then I think we have an agreement. That is an excellent chili, isn’t it?”

“But Ms Rice-“

“Is it or isn’t it? It either is or it is not, there is no in-between. You either believe me or you don’t. You are either with me or against me. If you agree I am not a liar, then you also have to agree that my chili is the best you have ever tasted.” Condi folded her arms and sat back, a small smile playing across her face. Emeril blanched and turned to George.

“Mr President,” he began.

“Call me George,” George said, graciously.

Emeril nodded. “George. Well, George, Mr. President, sir, I couldn’t help but notice that your chili came in a container marked ‘Big Al’s –Houston’s Best Chili’, and that it was brought in by a Secret Service courier about ten minutes ago.”

“So what?” George asked.

“But that’s against the rules, Mr. President,” Emeril said.

”But I’m the President,” George said. “However it got here, that’s the President’s chili, and if I say it’s mine, nobody can say it’s not. I have the power, in time of war, to make chili any way I see fit. That’s good chili, American chili. It’s not French chili, it’s my chili, and it’s all right because I say it is. The American people want a strong President, and a good chili, and that’s what I gave them.”

George smiled. “Laura and me, we always watch your show,” he said. “Could you do that ‘Bam’ thing you do again?”

Emeril frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

George started to look pouty. “But I’m the President. If I ask you, you have to.”

“Bam,” Emeril said softly.

“No, no, you know, the way you usually yell it.”

Emeril shrugged, looked around, and then let it go at full throttle-

“BAM!”

This time when the Secret Service agents gang-tackled him they dislocated his shoulder, which pretty much brought the proceedings to an end. The good news is that Emeril is not going to sue us. The other good news is that I made a few phone calls and was able to make sure the episode would never air, not that the producers needed much persuading.

“I thought that went real well,” George said in the limo on the way back to the White House, “I like that Emeril fella, he seems like good people.”

George leaned back. “BAM!!” he suddenly shouted. Condi jumped and George grinned.

“Gotcha!” he said proudly.

They say that when your poll numbers crater, any publicity is good publicity, and it may be true, but then again, the person who said that may never have worked for George and Dick and Condi.

BAM!!

Job Opportunities-

I was in my White House basement office eating a bag of hot sulphur chips and bullshitting with Hillary on the phone, when there was a soft knock on the door. I hastily hung up and a second later Dick Cheney entered without waiting to be asked. He poured himself a scotch from the bar, took a long sip, and then sat down in one of the leather office chairs.

Sure, I thought. Go ahead, act like you own the place. Then it occurred to me that this was the White House and he actually did own the place.

“I wanted to talk to you about careers,” Dick said slowly. “Don’t you think it’s time to move on to better things?”

I may not be a Vice President in Hell or anything, but I got my Demon First Class badge a few years ago, I’m upper management now, and I didn’t think it was any of Dick Cheney’s business telling me when a job I'm on was done. Besides, I serve a higher (well, ok, lower) Authority. I told Dick all that in a way that may have been a bit more dramatic than I really intended.

“You misunderstand me,” he said hastily, looking down at the scorch marks on his lapels with some annoyance. “I meant me. It’s time I moved up.”

“You want us to call in George Bush’s contract so you can take his job?” I asked. “That’s highly irregular. It still has more than a few years to go.”

“No, no, I don’t want to be President,” Dick said scornfully. “I think my record is deserving of bigger, better things. I was wondering, um, just what the qualifications for your line of work might be?”

I was surprised. I knew that quite a few people hoped Dick Cheney would go to Hell, but it never occurred to me that he might want to come on down himself. I mean, sure, he’s signed a contract with us and all, but to be quite frank, Dick has always struck me as the type who’ll try as hard as he can to wiggle out of it on a technicality at the last minute. I opened my drawer and took out his folder.

“Well, you’re certainly qualified,” I said. “You supported the Vietnam War while refusing to go yourself, in Congress you voted against sanctioning South Africa for apartheid, as Secretary of Defense you directed the invasion of Panama, you were CEO of Halliburton, you picked yourself as George W. Bush’s running mate, you’ve sold your country’s energy policy to your friends in the big oil companies, tried your best to create an “Imperial Presidency” which doesn’t have to answer to Congress or the courts, you used lies and falsehoods to start a disastrous war in Iraq which has ended up only benefiting your own corporate interests and friends, you’re a vulture, a liar, a hypocrite, a mass-murderer, and-” I flipped the page, “you shot a lawyer in the face. Well, we’ll give you a mulligan on that one.”

I put the folder back. “As you know, you’re coming down anyway, as stated in the contract you signed with us, but I’d be more than happy to put in a good word and see if we can get you a commission in Hell’s Cadre of Demons.”

Dick shook his head impatiently. “I think I’m more than “cadre” material,” he said roughly. “With a resume like that, I was thinking upper management.”

I had an unsettling thought.

“You’re saying you want my job?”

Dick looked at me, his lips curling into that slight smile that so reminds me of the look on Hannibal Lechter’s face when he’s getting the fava beans out of the cupboard for a dinner guest-

“Dear me, no,” he said softly. I don’t want your job. Taking orders is boring. I want to give the orders.”

The realization hit me hard enough to make little wisps of smoke come out of my nostrils. Of course Dick Cheney didn’t want to be a mere Demon. As usual, he was playing the all-or-nothing game. Dick wanted to usurp Satan himself!

I said nothing, but nodded slowly. Dick’s little smile turned into a grin and he put his scotch down, stood up and walked out the door without saying another word. He didn’t need to. If it had been anyone else I’d have laughed in his face, but Dick...?

I just hope it doesn’t come down to choosing sides, because in a contest between Dick Cheney and Satan to see who's more qualified to run Hell, I’m not really sure who’d win.

Turkish Delight

State of Denial features the continuing adventures of one of Satan’s loyal minions, a demon assigned to duty at the White House.

-

I was in Iowa drawing mustaches on Hillary Clinton posters with Michelle Malkin when my cellphone rang. It was Dick Cheney. He wanted me back at the White House immediately.

“And I mean now” he snarled. OK, I couldn’t let that one pass.

“Or you’ll do what, exactly?” I asked.

“Oh.” Silence. “Well, I mean, could you please get here as soon as possible?”

I could almost hear Dick grinding yet more enamel off his teeth as he said that. I know baiting him is evil but, hey, I’m evil. Sue me.

I made a dinner date with Michelle for next Thursday, kissed her goodbye and knocked my cloven hoofs together three times. The next instant I was in the Oval Office, wafts of sulfur steaming from my horns. George and Dick were there. Dick looked flushed and upset, George was playing Halo 3 at his desk, his eyes fixed on the screen, making soft bam! bam! sounds with his mouth. In other words, everything was normal. I smiled graciously at Dick.

“Yes?”

“The fucking Congress needs to be stopped!” Dick snarled. “They’re about to screw up our entire foreign policy by voting to condemn the Turkish genocide of the Armenians after the First World War!”

“So?”

“So!?!?” Dick’s face turned that interesting shade of purple it sometimes does. I swear to God (oh, give me a break, it’s an expression) that can’t be healthy.

“The Turks are bullshit. They’ve withdrawn their ambassador. We need them on our side to stabilize fucking Iraq. This can’t happen!”

I shrugged. “Well, it was a genocide. I know the demon who was in charge of it.”

“WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT GENOCIDE?!?!” Dick’s face went from purple to green. I’d never seen that before. I briefly wondered if Dick was perhaps going to come join us earlier than his contract called for.

“Can I bomb Iran now?” George interrupted.

Dick whirled around and cuffed him across the head. George frowned and went back to his video game. Dick took three deep breaths.

“I. Do. Not. Care. About. What. The. Turks. Did. 90. Years. Ago.” He said slowly. “You are talking about human rights and ethics. I am talking about American fucking FOREIGN POLICY!!” He was shrieking again.

“You don’t care about human rights?”

“FUCK NO!!!”

That blast startled George, who looked up from his game. I turned to him.

“America apparently doesn’t care about human rights, Mr. Decider,” I said, my voice dripping innocence. “Don’t get me wrong, that’s fine with me, I don’t care much about them either. But, just so I’m clear, remind me again why you invaded Iraq?”

George started to say something, then stopped, puzzled. He turned to Dick.

“Why did we invade Iraq?”

OK, now, did any of you watch the old Looney ‘Toons cartoons, where Elmer Fudd’s head expands to three times it’s normal size and smoke comes out his ears? Dick’s head did that. I was very impressed. That man has a bright future in Hell.

“I don’t want to talk about Iraq,” he gasped. “We need to do something about Congress”.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like change their votes. Call in their contracts!”

“You’d be surprised how few contracts Satan has with Congressmen,” I told him. “Sure, we have some, but the Big Game is Presidential Candidates. I’ve got every one of them except Obama, Edwards and Kucinich.”

George looked up. “Can we bomb them?” he asked.

“Bomb who?” Dick muttered, annoyed at the interruption.

“Congress. If I can’t bomb Iran, can I bomb Congress?”

Dick looked at me.

“Can he?”

I shrugged. “Up to you. Satan has no opinion on the matter. He’s in charge of Hell down below, but you’re free to create whatever Hell you want to up here.”

A smile began to creep over Dick’s face. “Yeah!” he said. “YEAH!”

He barged by me to grab the telephone on George’s desk. “Get me the Joint Chiefs of Staff!” he bellowed into it.

George shrugged disinterestedly and went back to his video game. I ducked out the side door. It looked as if Dick had things under control again, and if I hurried, Michelle wouldn’t be done with her magic markers...

Evensong-

I originally wrote and posted this last year for a now-inactive blog of mine, but it still seems to be relevant...


Diary entry-

January 17th, 2016

Had dinner over at George and Laura's ranch in Crawford, Texas yesterday. It was fun, as always. George did the barbeque thing, and then we sat back on the porch and watched the sun set over the new inland sea. George and Laura are very excited about having a beachfront property, though they both agree it's a real shame about Oklahoma...

We were interrupted by a call from Vice President Cheney, who wanted to bring George up to date on the search for Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. He thinks he might have found some in the utility closet in a toy store in Najaf. It's nice that Dick keeps George up to date on that sort of thing.

George is very excited about the new round of Heresy Trials taking place in Detroit. I’d been wondering myself if the prosecutor isn’t overstepping a bit, I mean, putting folks on trial for their lives simply because they didn’t send their kids to a state-approved Sunday School? Sure, the “Detroit Six” aren’t helping themselves by questioning the Constitutionality of the Great Patriotic Christian Mandatory Church Attendance Act, but still, the whole thing makes me a bit uncomfortable. Just like when they shot those Evolutionists last year. I dunno, I suppose it’s like George says- ‘Freedom of Religion’ don’t mean ‘Freedom from Religion’.

George turned on the radio, because Jenna was addressing the nation about the latest oil riots in New England. George shook his head. “You just can’t please some people, you know? You give them nice weather through Global Warmy and they go and riot over $300 a barrel oil. Go figure.”

Laura poked her head out the screen door. “You two better come in, now,” she called. “It’s almost 8 o’clock, and the radiation cloud must be just about here.”

George groaned. “What a pain in my ass,” he said as he slowly got to his feet. “Twice a day, gotta go in so the radiation cloud don’t get us. Pain in my butt, boy.” We looked out over the waters of the Inland Sea. Over to the west we could just see the edge of the purple, glowing cloud as it advanced across the horizon. “Still,” George mused, smiling, “it’s real pretty, ain’t it? And we really showed them Iranians. I’d have to say it was worth it.”

We went inside as the three-headed peepers began to croak their evening song.

"God Bless America," George murmured, and closed the door.