Editor’s Note: Several weeks ago the HPR received a series of letters from one of our former staff writers, who currently works as a journalist in Washington, D.C. She has recently been following a prominent politician and has transcribed the following narrative without him knowing. Apparently, he began to watch House of Cards, and subsequently started speaking to himself in extended monologues.
Read Chapter 1 here.
Read Chapter 3 here.
The U.S. Capitol is an extremely tall building. If I were Speaker of the House, I would have my office at the very top of it. I would make all of the freshmen congressmen climb up all the stairs, and I would make them bring me gifts, like chocolate or commemorative mugs from their home states. And then I would take their gifts and throw them from the top of the Capitol building.
But I am not the Speaker of the House. For now.
Two weeks ago the President of the United States called me into his office. He is a weak man, buffeted by the fickle winds of his party and the insistent nagging of his own sense of inadequacy. He tries to be a puppeteer, the poor man, but he doesn’t realize that he has tied the strings of the marionette onto his own hands, and the puppet, this Pinocchio, mocks him, singing, “There are no strings on me.”
I am the Pinocchio. And Gepetto is dead.
The President had been hinting for weeks that he would make me the nominee for Secretary of Defense, but in that meeting he told me that he had decided instead to nominate Andrew Carter, a nobody, a safe bet.
But now my Buzzfeed listicle has gone viral, and CNN’s around-the-clock news coverage is talking about how Carter is anti-vaccine, anti-government, anti-defense, anti-America. To quote Rudy Giuliani, “I do not believe, and I know this is a horrible thing to say, but I do not believe that the president loves America.” Rudy, dear friend, you’re right. It is a horrible thing to say. But, as the adage goes, if the shoe fits … then you’ve got yourself a comfortable, socialist shoe for a president. Like Crocs.
Today was Carter’s first confirmation hearing, and it went predictably terribly for him. Most of the questions were about measles.
“Do you believe, Mr. Carter, that measles could pose a national security threat?” Senator John McCain asked.
“I feel like my quote was taken out of context.”
“It seemed pretty straightforward to me, Mr. Carter.” McCain took out a piece of paper. “You said, and I quote, ‘I don’t believe in vaccinations, because measles is a myth created by the socialist American state.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes, but I kind of meant it in a philosophical way more than a real way.”
“How so?”
A senator from Iowa interrupted. “I would just like to say that we have no proof that measles actually exists.”
“No, we actually have a lot of proof,” said McCain.
“I have never seen a measle.”
And so on. The little people can play their games, but I will always win. I don’t care what kind of game it is: Monopoly, Risk, Clue. I own Boardwalk. I’ve taken Kamchatka. The answer is Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the lead pipe.
I am always Colonel Mustard.
* * *
I returned to my office to find Raymond Danforth sitting in front of my desk.
“You’re sitting in front of my desk, Raymond.”
“Indeed I am.”
He remained sitting. I hate it when he does that.
“I have a message for you, Fred,” he said.
“You only come whenever you have a message. It’s always a message with you. Remember the times we used to just hang around and talk? Remember when we used to be friends?”
“No.”
“We were great friends. We would get coffee.”
“You made me bring you coffee.”
The poor man has a memory problem.
“I want to talk to you about 2016, Fred,” said Raymond. “My employer is planning to run, and he needs your help.”
“What makes him think I want to help him?”
“We think there might be a space for you in a certain capacity. A vice presidential capacity.”
He paused, as if he thought that this would entice me. And I’ll admit that it was enticing, like a piece of fudge that lingers in your tastebuds long after it goes away. But this is not the first piece of fudge that I’ve eaten. I eat fudge all the time! If he thought he could give me this little, miniscule taste, he was sorely mistaken. If I’m getting fudge, I want the whole box.
“But there might be a little problem,” Raymond continued. “That’s why we need your help.”
“What’s the problem?”
“His last name.”
“It’s Santorum, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“My God, you people will never give up.”
“It’s not Santorum!”
“Well, who is it, then?”
“I can’t tell you just yet,” said Raymond. “But I will say that his name rhymes with Keb Kush.”
“Raymond, you’re talking nonsense,” I said. “Come back when you’re being serious.”
Image credit: Wikipedia
