The Early Morning Musings of John Kerry
It was the birds that woke him up, a distant, soothing sound drifting into the room through an open window, accompanied by a crisp breeze.
And not for the first time in his life, John Kerry asked himself the question, “Where the hell am I?” He had six choices. Was he in Boston, in either his brownstone, or was he in Theresa’s town house, the one with the six fireplaces? He cringed at the thought. If he heard her say one more time, “Darling, take me in front of the fire” as she slapped his bare butt, he was going to pull the plug on the marriage and trade up. The problem was, trade up to what?” Damn that pre-nuptial agreement. Or was he at the working farm in Fox Chapel, the one staffed by the “serfs,” as Theresa liked to jokingly refer to the farmers. He sniffed the air. No manure smell. That ruled out Fox Chapel, and the Kennedy compound for that matter, where the smell of political bullshit was as thick as the one that emanated from the Fox Chapel farm. He chuckled to himself. Who says I don’t have a sense of humor? Wouldn’t the Boston Globe love to hear that that line? He hoped he wasn’t in Ketchum, Idaho, at the mountain retreat purchased by John Heinz. He hated that house. Theresa had pictures of John Heinz (“My number one man, sweet cheeks”) all over the house. It was hard to compete with a dead man, a well hung dead man if Theresa was to be believed, particularly when you were sucking at the teat of a family fortune not your own. Ah, the story of his life.
When he finally stretched his body, his smooth skin sliding against the silk sheets, he suddenly knew where he was. Nantucket. His skin felt sensitive, a little raw. Then he remembered. He had shaved off all of the hair on his body yesterday before wind surfing. Less wind resistance, not that it mattered, because all afternoon he kept falling off of that damn board. Thank God that didn’t happen in 2004. He had wanted to shave off his hair that day in 2004, but one of his campaign aides had grabbed the razor out of his hand. In retrospect, the wind surfing was probably a mistake. Here you have that damn George Bush pounding the pavement in a pair of shorts and racing up hills on a mountain bike, and there I am wind surfing. I should have listened to the girls and done something a bit more manly. Alexandra was right when she told me, “Dad, a spirited game of lacrosse will let the American people know that you are one of them.”
When he finally opened his eyes and focused, the first thing he saw was The Hair, sitting on the dresser across the room from the bed. It was the best-kept secret in Washington. John Kerry was bald. Bald as a newborn baby’s butt, though not nearly as cute. He had six wigs, all of them identical, and each morning Theresa helped him attach one of the wigs to his head, first slathering his dome with industrial strength glue. Hairless, he looked like a cadaver. Truth be told, he looked like a cadaver even with the hair.
By the way, where the hell was Theresa? Since the election they had been sleeping in separate bedrooms. She was still pretty pissed at him. It wasn’t so much that he had lost; it was the fact that he had lost and still had $14 million in campaign funds in the bank. He still vividly remembered her screaming at him (he also recalled Bill Clinton’s comment to him when he told him the story, “At least she didn’t throw anything at you.”), “You stupid bastard, how the hell can you look at yourself in the mirror and know that you pulled up lame? You pampered son-of-a-bitch, don’t you want to be president?”
Actually, that was the problem. he really didn’t want to be president. He certainly enjoyed the attention and the fact that people listened to what he had to say, even if it was pablum. And the girls! If it wasn’t for the fact that Theresa would bust him down to one house, it could have been a sweet two-year run. He could certainly understand why Bill was still out there hustling votes. Poor Bill, his run was coming to an end. It is only a matter of time – next spring probably – before Hillary had him surgically neutered. She is not going to let him service the voters individually.
When he thought about it, and that is what he was good at, thinking, not doing, who in their right mind would want the responsibility of being president? It’s too much to even think about. The decisions! He hated making decisions. He knew that he used to drive Bob Schrum crazy. They would settle on a policy position and Schrum would start working on a press release, only to have to rewrite it three or four times. Anyway, screw Schrum, he’s a serial loser. Why the hell did he hire him? I must have had a death wish. Hmm, I wonder if Schrum is available for 2008?
He wished that Robert Kennedy would stop his bleating about vote fraud in Ohio. One, it makes him look weak and unmanly because he didn’t complain for two years. And two, there was no fraud. He knew it and Kennedy knew it. Kennedy was just trying to suck up to his uncle and those netroots geeks.
What the hell, he would probably run again in 2008. The money is just sitting there, ready to be spent, and it would be good to get out of the house…ah, houses. He figured that he would get knocked out after the first few primaries, which was okay with him. He could retire from the field, take off the wig, become the party’s revered elder statesmen, and hope that everyone forgot that he had not accomplished much in the Senate. He just didn’t want to get knocked out by Al Gore, that, simpering sweaty, rotund, lunatic. “Porky Pig,” as the girls liked to call him. Anyway, he figured that Hillary would eventually clean everyone’s clock. She has a bigger set of balls than anyone else in the field. He couldn’t wait until she wiped that smirk off of Feingold’s face. And he would hate to be Howard Dean once she gained control of the party. She will ship him off to Abu Ghraib, if he’s lucky.
Thank God for the Swift Vets. Without them, I might have won. I really should apologize to those guys.
He remembered that he had to go down to the police station this morning. Theresa wanted him to sign a complaint against that guy Spirit Man, is that the name? Theresa had caught this guy licking his leg when he fell asleep on the beach. She said we had a restraining order put out on him in 2004. He was a weird looking guy.
The above is a work of fiction, I think. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used satirically. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Coming soon: Theresa Kerry Meets The American Spirit…Again
The Sexual Musings of American Spirit: A Day in the Life
Message 19794763
A Wolf Blitzer Interview With American Spirit
Message 19991207
The Sexual Musing of American Spirit: Part 3
Available at no charge via PM |
