Imaginings

1) Tim Blair links to lefty Australian blogger, Mark Bahnisch at Larvatus Prodeo (Latin for “the grubs of God”), who writes, “McCain’s mob have worked out how to game not just the media but also the liberal blogosphere.”

“McCain’s mob”…hmmm….m’yes…

Andrew Sullivan sat in front of his computer, a pensive expression on his face. He was writing another attack piece on Sarah Palin; a poem, this time. “What rhymes,” he mused out loud, “with ‘vindictive harpy’?” He was startled by a loud knock on the door. “Oh, bother!” he muttered, as he interrupted his work to see who was paying him this unexpected visit.

As soon as Sullivan unlatched the door, it seemed to open of its own accord, as two large men burst in. They were dressed in double-breasted suits and wearing fedoras pulled down low. The first man grabbed Sullivan by his shirt front and pushed him back to an arm chair, into which he unceremoniously dumped him; the high-tension springs caused Sullivan to bounce up and down several times.

Sullivan was incensed at this gob-smackingly unwarranted intrusion. He started to rise from the chair, shouting, “How dare you come in here like this!”

The first man clapped an enormous hand on Sullivan’s bald pate and shoved him down in the chair; Sullivan again bobbed up and down, like a cork on a fishing line.

“Siddown, punk!” The first man smiled, and fished a cigarette from the recesses of his suit jacket, lighting a match with his thumbnail and touching it to the end of the coffin nail.

Sullivan looked on in horror. “Listen, I’ve got allergies! If you insist on smoking that thing, I’m going to have to turn on the ionizer.” He began to stand up.

Clap, shove, boing, boing boing…

The man turned his head slightly, and, without taking his eyes off of Sullivan, spoke to his colleague over his shoulder. “Open de windah, Johnny. Mr. Sullivan feels a little faint.”

Johnny walked to the window and threw it open. “Howzat, Tony?”

“Poifect.” Tony’s smile quickly evaporated, like the water on a hot asphalt driveway after a light rain. “Now, listen up, Andy. Mister McCain sent us, see? Mister McCain says ya got to stop writin’ dem slanders against Sarah Palin, see? Mister McCain says if you wanna do – hey, Johnny! What’s de woid? Polecats?”

“’Polemics’, Tony”.

“Yeh, dat’s right. Mister McCain says if ya wanna do polemics, dat’s ok. But ya gotta cut out de smears, see?”

Sullivan said, in a small voice, “This is an abridgment of my freedom of speech.”

Johnny – who was better educated than Tony, and who had a reputation as the mob “wit” – responded. “Well, dat’s an abridgement to nowhere, Andy, if ya see what I mean.” He idly threw a potted petunia out of the window of the high-rise apartment. After a few seconds, the far-away sound of car brakes could be heard, and a noise like an automobile careening into a row of garbage cans.

Tony concluded the interview. “Mr. McCain don’t do e:mails, Andy, so we’ve delivered the message in poi’son. Come on Johnny.” They were leaving, but Tony stopped on the way out and picked up a framed photograph from a table; it was a picture of two beagles. Tony smiled. “De family? Very nice.” He stared meaningfully at Sullivan, and gently set the picture down. Then Tony and Johnny quietly left, closing the door softly behind them.

Sullivan was, for a moment, reluctant to get out of the chair for fear of being shoved back into it. Once he was convinced that his guests had truly departed, he finally rose and ran to the door, turning the lock. Then he went into the kitchen and poured himself a crème de menthe to settle his nerves. He returned to his living room, and saw his two beagles stick their heads out from under the sofa, where they had taken cover upon the arrival of McCain’s goons. Sullivan scowled at them.

“I knew I should have bought a rottweiler!”, he said.
* * *

2) It’s 3:00 a.m. The red phone rings in the presidential sleeping quarters in the White House. Barack Obama slowly raises his hands to his face and pushes the sleeping blindfold over the top of his head. He kicks the sheets off and sits on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, yawning and lazily scratching a leg. He is wearing the sky-blue pajamas covered with a repetitive pattern of the Winnie the Pooh character, Piglet, that Michelle gave him as an inauguration day present.

He walks to the table where the red phone is located, and answers. “Yeah?”

An excited voice is speaking non-stop from the other end of the line. The sleep rapidly melts away from the President’s eyes, and his face takes on a look of horror, as an international emergency of gigantic proportions is outlined to him by the caller. The excited voice of the caller ends with a desperate interrogative (obviously a request for orders). Obama, whose brow is now covered with sweat, utters the word “Present”, and hangs up. He then sneaks into the bathroom and turns on the shower and the tap in order to mute the sound of his voice – he doesn't want to wake his wife - as he quickly punches the numbers on his cell phone.

“Hello, this is the President. I’m sorry to disturb you this time of night, Cindy, but can I please speak to John?”