No Man (Least of All this One) is a Hero to His Valet

The president entered the Oval Office in an exuberant mood. The Senate had just passed its version of the stimulus bill, and the Democrats were on the verge of nationalizing the economy and strengthening their stranglehold on the public treasury. Obama was so excited he could hardly contain himself; he shadow-boxed for a few seconds with sheer glee (accidentally hitting the wall and bruising his knuckles), and then, while sucking his hand, did a touchdown dance of the sort performed by professional football players. There was a knock on the door.

“Enter! Ah! There you are!”

A silver tray glided through the air borne upon the massive palm of Obama’s personal gentleman’s gentleman, a Haitian immigrant by the name of Gustave Napoleon Toussaint D’Orleans – known to one and all as Gus. He was a tall, well-built man whose skin glistened like highly polished ebony, and his eyes shone with a sardonic intelligence that, truth to tell, frequently made his employer feel a bit uncomfortable.

“Your refreshment, monsieur le President.” Gus set the tray on the president’s desk, heaved an enormous sigh and turned on his heel to leave, when Obama called him back.

“Gus, the Senate passed the stimulus bill! Isn’t that great news?”

“If you say so, monsieur le President.”

Obama was not about to let anyone dampen his joy tonight, so he said to his retainer, “Why so gloomy, Gus? This is a historic victory.”

“If you will permit me, sir, there are une or deux little items that I fail to comprehend.”

“Such as?”

“Well…in some of your speeches, you have blamed our economic malaise on monsieur Bush’s excessive spending, no?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And yet, thees…how do you say…thees steemulus bill is énormément.”

“So?”

“Eef ze spending, she is bad under monsieur Bush when she is so big” (he held his large hands about six inches apart) “then, how can it be zat ze spending, she is good when she is so big?” (he now held his hands three feet apart).

Obama smiled somewhat condescendingly. “It’s all in who is doing the spending Gus. Bush spent a lot of money on two foreign wars which made him very unpopular.”

“Ah, but eet was to defend us from ze mussulmen terroristes, no?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the way you build up a permanent constituency of dependant voters.”

“And yet, zere are zose pipples who say zat ze steemulus bill will cause more harm than good.”

“Gus, have you been watching Fox News again?”

“Eet is ze opinion of ze Congressional Budget Office, monsieur le President.”

“Listen, just ask any economist on the staff and they’ll tell you that this bill is the only way to avoid catastrophe.”

‘But zere are many economistes who deesagree.”

“Oh, sure, guys with bachelor’s degrees from some of those cow colleges in flyover country.”

“Ze leest includes at least trois Nobel laureates.”

“Well, then, ask Tim Geithner; he’ll tell you.”

“I took ze liberté of do-eeng zat ver’ theen, sir, when he was waiting to see you zis morning, but monsieur Geithner just gave me ze blank stare and said he did not have time to discuss ze matter because he was late for a rendezvous with H&R Block.”

Obama pursed his lips in frustration. Obviously, Gus was immune to logic. He decided to try the tack of raw self-interest.

“Look, Gus, consider this. Now, you’re an immigrant to this country, right? The bill even lets undocumented aliens benefit from its provisions.”

Gus drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height of six foot two. “Pardon, monsieur le President; I was an immigrant, but I am now a naturalized citoyen. I deed not come to zis country seemply to make ze monnaie, but because I am devoted to ze liberté. And I pay ze taxes, no?, so I why should I, who waited six years for ze privilége of becoming a citoyen of thees great conetree pay for ze benefits accorded to zose who brak ze law?”

“Come on, Gus! Now you’re just being a stuffed shirt. Take my word for it; this is a great piece of legislation.”

“Oui, monsieur le President…eef eet works.” Gus withdrew from the office, with something of the hauteur of an Austro-Hungarian ambassador who has just delivered an ultimatum to a Balkan princeling.

Obama’s cup of Hawaiian Isles Kona Coffee Mocha Latte Light stopped half way to his lips. “’If it works’”, he thought to himself. “What could Gus possibly have meant by that?” The beverage went down hot, but it did little to dissipate a sudden icy feeling that had arisen in his stomach and was spreading rapidly up the very elastic cord that constituted his spine.