Breakfast with Harry

Harry Reid sat in the kitchen of his Washington townhouse, as the early morning sun streamed through the window. He was dressed in Winnie the Pooh pajamas and a blue-and-white checked bathrobe; his long narrow feet, resembling giant banana clams, were wedged into worn leather slippers. Just as he was about to shovel his first spoonful of cream of wheat into his mouth, the doorbell rang. “Oh bother!” he muttered, before shuffling to the front door.

Reid (opening door): Yes?

Delivery man: White Flag Service! Here with your weekly supply.

Reid: Oh, yes…just a minute. I’ve got a duffle-bag full of dirty ones I need you to take back.

Delivery Man: Incidentally, sir, it’s the first of the month. Your bill is due [hands Reid an invoice].

Reid [studying the bill]: Say, when did prices go up?

Delivery Man: They didn’t, sir. Or rather, your monthly bill did go up, but it’s because of the increase in your bulk usage; it’s a different rate because you exceeded the white flag ceiling in effect under your particular plan. You seem to be surrendering more than usual, lately.

Reid: How do you figure that?

Delivery Man: Well, let’s check the log book, Senator [pulls a three-inch thick three-ring binder out of his satchel, marked “Reid, Harry”]. Now, you see here? You signed up for four years’ worth of white flags, to be delivered monthly, for the purpose of attempting to surrender in Iraq.

Reid: Right.

Delivery Man: But you also vowed to seat Al Franken in the Senate on the first day, and you backed down. Then you swore you wouldn’t seat anybody Governor Blagojevich chose, and now you’ve caved on that. Oh, you’ve surrendered lots of times, sir, and not just in Iraq.

Reid: Hey, wait a minute! Those last two were more like truces.

Delivery Man: It’s still a white flag, Senator.

Reid: All right, all right. Here’s your money. But don’t be surprised if I wind up switching to disposable white flags, young man!

Harry Reid closed the door and returned to his breakfast – which, unfortunately, had grown cold and congealed into a gummy mess. He sighed, and called out to his cat. “C’mere, Quisling! Here, boy! How’s about some nice cream of wheat?