“I suppose the hardest thing with regards to scheduling is balancing your beer drinking parties with the local Confederate secession group and all those pesky cabinet meetings," Howard Dean was lecturing. "We vice presidents didn’t always have to deal with cabinet meetings. You all can thank FDR for that.”
McCain was the sole candidate scribbling down furious notes.
Edwards was mouthing out the words he was writing on his notepad… “Dear Elizabeth…”
Mitt Romney raised his hand, with an arched eyebrow and looked around the classroom at the blank expressions. He was starting to feel aggravated with this whole process and wondered if there was some way he could leave early with an honorable discharge.
“Oh good,” Howard Dean smiled, pointing to Mitt. “You have a question about the FDR-Truman term?”
“No,” Mitt replied dryly. “I have a question about your vice presidency… as in, when did it happen? Because… I’m under the impression that you’re nothing more than a defacto Governor has-been with a failed run for the White House.” He snorted, “You couldn’t even beat KERRY for the Democratic nomination and now here you are, lecturing us about the Vice Presidency, something you’re not even qualified for, nor know nothing about? Give me a break.”
Giuliani reached over and high-fived Mitt.
Dean’s face turned a deep magenta. The formidable vein pulsated on the side of his thick neck, beneath the starched white collar.
"You know, I didn’t want to say it… because I’m a metrosexual professional, but… the Republicans are all alike. They’re not very friendly… in fact, they're a pretty monolithic party. Pretty much, they all behave the same, and they all look the same. It's pretty much a white Christian party of nasty people. I don’t want to hear your notion of how things should be.''
“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong, Dean,” Mitt stood up. “I’m a practicing Mormon. But we separate church and state in this country, and for good reason.”
“I don’t care about yer Mormonism. I’m a committed Christian! I worship my way! I don’t care what the Pharisees believe! I really just hate the Republicans and everything they stand for! They’re ruining this country!” Dean blasted, pounding his fist on the desk.
McCain stopped writing and looked up with scared doe eyes. “I ought to tell it to you straight, Howe. You’re a fool and a coward. I ought to shoot you in your big dumb head. I gave my health and almost my life for this country. How dare you say that!”
Dean continued, “You were not a patriot. Like John Ashcroft, you’re just another descendent of Joseph McCarthy! And… ”
“We really need a uniter in this classroom, not a divider,” Obama leaned over to Hillary.
Howard Dean grabbed the pointer off the chalkboard and came down on it with his big square teeth, chomping right through the splintered wood and spitting a piece out on Romney’s desk with such force that spittle and shards of wood blasted Mitt’s flabbergasted face. “ANY QUESTIONS?” he added in a guttural macho man voice.
“Yeah, are we finished here?” Romney asked quietly.
Then there was a bold rapping on the classroom door.
Edwards looked up from his paper. “Elizabeth? Is that you?”
“We don’t have visitors allowed on base,” Hillary scolded.
“Can I see you a minute?” the voice asked shrewdly.
“Oh… uh… Rummy…” Dean said nervously. “What can I do you for?”
“I don’t do questions and I don’t do diplomacy. Get out here,” ex-Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld demanded.
The candidates heard a series of thuds, thumps, cracks, smashes, whips, bangs, bumps and what can only be described as “the sound of bones breaking.”
“Do you think he’s getting waterboarded?” asked Romney.
“Aw, everybody knows that’s not real torture. I’d expect better from Rumsfeld… maybe attacks by vicious hounds or nude photographs in lewd poses, or death by Oxycontin?”
“I beg your pardon,” McCain said, standing up and sauntering over to Romney and Giuliani.
The door slammed, commanding everyone’s attention.
Rumsfeld was panting, leaned up against the door. He quickly surveyed the room, as he does best, and resumed, “So, protégés… I’m here today because… sometimes you go to war with the army you have, not the army you might want or wish to have at a later time… and someone needs to whip you all into shape in time for the primaries.”
“Don, you have blood on your sleeve!” Edwards shrieked.
Rumsfeld looked down, spit on his sleeve, rubbed it in a bit and looked straight at Edwards. “Look, Freedom's untidy, and free people are free to make mistakes and commit crimes and do bad things. I’m an old man, Edwards. Let me gather my thoughts here."
Rumsfeld walked over to the large mahogany desk, opened the drawer and started digging through some things. He pulled out the items one by one, eyed them and replaced them in the drawer: a yoyo, a bottle of Scotch, a box of Trojans, a flashlight, a tape recorder, a packet of unopened sympathy cards, and a stale piece of turquoise-crusted pizza. “Ewww,” he uttered under his breath. He pulled out a white pad of post-it notes and held them up. “Ok, let’s go over the most important thing in all of congress: writing snowflakes… for your Secretary of Defense to read, of course.”
The class groaned.
“Or I could give you a pop quiz on where we found the weapons of mass destruction… would you rather have that?” he demanded. “I’m fairly confident not one of you knows how to spell Tikrit… or whatever the Hell that place was… I don’t know… I don’t do geography… or spelling…”
No one really knew where Dick Cheney’s secret VEEP boot camp was going, or if there was really a plan at all. In the back of her mind, Hillary was starting to get nervous about being off the campaign trail for so long, sending Chelsea to all the public appearances wearing her power suits and a wig. Sooner or later, someone might catch on. Chelsea phoned last night and said that the appearance on Larry King had gone very well. She said the toughest question he asked was, “Do you feel any degree of loyalty to Bill Clinton?” She said answering made her feel a little creeped out, but her performance as Hillary had been seamless. Hillary was seized with a sudden pang of panic: what if this was all a ruse to keep them preoccupied, while other candidates sprinted ahead? Her heart was racing. She looked around the room and tried to pinpoint who was missing… Kucinich, Richardson, Huckabee, Thompson, Tancredo, Hunter, Paul, Biden, Gravel, Dodd… who among them was being secretly trained for president, she wondered?
TO BE CONTINUED.....
