Dear Diary,
I’m in great physical pain as I write this entry, dear diary. Every muscle, tendon, ligament is throbbing. I’m covered in Ben Gay from head to toe. How I got this way is a long, involved story. Let me explain.
Every Saturday morning some of the gang would meet in the oval office to dole out torture edicts. It was a fun group. George Tenet would bring the coffee and Condi would bake blueberry muffins. We’d get briefed by some military poo-bah about someone who deserved a good “spanking”. Then we’d discuss how we should deal with the evildoer. I was always partial to sticking a funnel in their mouth and forcing them to drink anti-freeze. For some reason that never caught on and I was always outvoted. We creative types always have to suffer for our art.
As usual, GW would have the final say and it would always be waterboarding followed by lashings. We’d haul out a wheel leftover from the last White House Casino Night, spin it and which ever number it landed on, that’s the number of lashings the evildoer would get. Come to think of it, I’ll bet that’s why GW always chose the same torture. He loved spinning that wheel.
Anyhow, somebody opened their trap and blabbed to the media and the club was forced to disband. With my Saturday mornings now free, the Ol’ Ball and Chain mentioned that I should get a hobby. I told her I already have one, hunting. She whined that we should do something together. I suggested drinking and she threw the bottle of Johnny Walker Red she was polishing off at my head.
Francisco suggested that since we liked “Dancing With The Stars” we try ballroom dancing. Apparently before he became my trusty manservant, he was a champion ballroom dancer in his native Tijuana. I motioned for him to shut up but it was too late. The Ol’ Ball and Chain decided for both of us this would be perfect. Francisco would teach us a Tango and we would perform it at the upcoming birthday dinner bash for the Pope. Good God, can my life get any worse?
The next morning we met in the basement for our lesson. Francisco explained that the Tango was the dance of passion and we should treat our partner like we do during sex. “How can he dance while he’s asleep?” Ginger Rogers slurred. I felt humiliated and wanted to smack her silly, but Francisco stepped between us, telling us to save the emotion for the dance floor.
He showed us a few steps and we tried it out. Unfortunately my passion was unbridled and I spun her so hard she lost her balance went crashing face first into the wall, falling to the ground unconscious. “Well, that’s the end of that” I sighed as the esteemed Dr. Arturo Steine rushed in and attended to her.
“Not so fast Mr. Dick” said Francisco. “I alerted the White House last night that you were going to perform for the Pope. They absolutely loved the idea and have already printed it on the schedule of events.” “Why you lousy fruit, you’ll ruin me!” I yelled as I lunged for his throat. Dr. Steine pulled me off Francisco just as I was about to crush his windpipe.
“I can’t perform alone. My partner is finished” I sneered. The Ol’ Ball and Chain opened her eyes and motioned for me to bend down. She spit out a couple of broken teeth and whispered “Do it for me…. Please….Dance for ….me” Then she coughed up some blood. I turned to Francisco who smiled. “Not to worry, Mr. Dick. Like you always said, have a back up-plan.”
That night (against my better instincts) I had Rusty the Limo Driver drop me off at the service entrance to the White House. I wore a long winter coat to hide the ridiculous costume I was wearing. I glanced at the evening’s schedule posted on the wall and there it was, right in between the all-you-can-eat sundae cart and Liddy Dole’s Marilyn Monroe rendition of “Happy Birthday”: “Vice President and Mrs. Cheney’s interpative dance to salute to His Holiness on his birthday and trip to the United States”.
I felt the color rushing from my face as Francisco entered the kitchen with my new partner: Senator Barbra Mikulski from Maryland. She’s four foot nine and weighs about 200 pounds and was wearing a way-too-tight spangled mini-dress that accentuated her already ample boobs. “Hey Veep! I got ants in my pants and I gots to dance! Hot cha!” she chirped. I couldn’t hide my disgust and threw up a little in my mouth.
“What are you staring at, Bub?” the portly pepper pot huffed. “You’re no George Clooney yourself”. Francisco explained that he’d been earning extra money on the side teaching senators how to dance. Mikulski was his best pupil.
Before I had a chance to deck him, I heard the voice of the headwaiter shouting, “Mr. Vice President, you’re on!” Francisco and Senator Mikulski pulled me toward the entrance of the East Room. Francisco ripped off my coat, revealing my spangled puffy shirt decorated with musical notes and the vice presidential seal with matching glitter pants. The kitchen staff started to laugh so I yelled that there would be a visa check tomorrow morning. That shut them up, quick. Francisco gave me one last shove and the next thing I knew, we were standing in the east room, blinded by the spotlight as the army band struck up the opening refrain of “Hernando’s Hideaway”.
I heard a couple of snickers as Mikulski grabbed me and led me through the dance. It was hard to make eye contact with her since her head came up to my sternum. She yanked and twisted me in ways I didn’t think were possible. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Pope clapping along with the music. Was he enjoying the performance or mocking me? I couldn’t get a good look because Senator Mikulski was pressing her body against my pelvis and trying to drape her pudgy arms around my neck. We had trouble with the move where she slides through my legs. She couldn’t fit and we both tumbled to the floor. We struggled to our feet and soldiered on. The music reached a crescendo as I dragged her across the dance floor, throwing out my back and we finished our routine in a passionate embrace.
Before I had a chance to free myself, she planted a fat, sloppy wet one on my kisser. I distinctly heard GW say “Eeeewwwwww…..” as we took our bows and rushed back to the safety of the kitchen, passing Liddy Dole in her blonde wig. Francisco was beaming like a proud parent.” You were wonderful, Mr. Dick. If I were a dance judge I’d give you a ten!” he gushed. I lunged for him but he was too quick as he flitted around the kitchen. In the background I could hear Liddy wrapping up her tribute, breathlessly singing “Happy Birthday Holy Father…” when I finally caught him. I grabbed Francisco by the hair, marched him over to the stove and pushed his face onto the sizzling griddle. He began to screech like a little girl when suddenly everyone in the room froze. I looked up. It was GW and the Pope.
I released Francisco’s head and GW introduced me to his Holiness. We shook hands, the Pope looked at me in my puffy shirt me and said “I gotta hand it to you, Mr. Vice President. You really got some cajones. This is some birthday.” He and GW laughed and high fived, I muttered thanks and fled outside to Rusty and my waiting limo.
When I got home, I went to the bedroom, where the Ol’ Ball and Chain lay, propped up so she can see the evening’s events unfold on C-SPAN. She smiled weakly and motioned for me to come closer. I did. She leaned over to speak and whispered, “I saw… you… dance tonight. You… looked… really… gay.” I smiled weakly and retired to the bathroom where I spent the entire night soaking in the tub.
All this because we can’t meet anymore on Saturdays to talk torture. Sometimes this job sucks.
Dick
