Nine p.m. Tuesday, Nov. 5, I was so engrossed in my baby chemistry notes it slipped my mind that Joe and Jill Q. Uninformed were deciding this country’s future in voting booths across the country. Flipping on CNN Headline News, I drummed my fingers to a salsa beat as I waited for a pressing story concerning J. Lo and Ben Affleck’s romance to end before the election update.
“Affleck, you bastard,” I muttered under my breath. “We may be from the same area, but if you keep stealing my girlfriends I’m gonna hit you wicked haahd, knowwhatImsayin?”
“Who are you talking to, baby?” cooed Gwen Stefani as she sipped cognac from a glass slipper.
“Ah, nobody, babe. Just an old score I have to settle. Go back to bed.” I lit up a Cuban and furrowed my brow, searching my brain for the difference between an N-type and a P-type doped semiconductor. All I could retrieve from my cluttered head was the individual statistics of the 1995 Red Sox, so I gave up on the chemistry and hunkered down for some quality time with Greta Van Susteren, James Carville and the rest of the election gang on CNN.
“Gee, I sure hope all the Republicans win big tonight,” I thought to myself. You see, I’m a hardcore Republican. War with Iraq, huge tax cuts, blaming everything on Bill Clinton – that’s what I’m all about (Other things I’m all about include Persian cats and multivitamins). In fact, George W. Bush occasionally stops by for a grilled cheese sandwich when he’s not too busy – about six times a week (he likes them slightly burnt, if you have to know).
Sure enough, CNN told me that Republicans were edging Democrats left and right, even in Massachusetts. I was thrusting my index finger in the air to indicate that Republicans are “No. 1,” a la Joe Namath, when a staccato knock at the door brought me to my feet.
“Who could that be at 9:24 on a Tuesday night?” I wondered aloud.
“Probably Ice Cube,” Gwen Stefani yawned. “He left a message saying he was coming over.”
Just to be safe, I grabbed my glock semiautomatic out of the drawer (if not for my beloved Republicans protecting my right to own a phat handgun, I would have had to rely on my 6-foot-2, 220-pound frame to see me through the situation). The silhouette at the door looked instantly familiar and I dropped the gun, which unloaded a shot toward the fridge. The man outside fired a pistol and whooped in celebration upon seeing me. It was none other than the 43rd President of the United States, with secret service and Ice Cube in tow.
“Hey, good buddy, I came by for a grilled cheese and a quick update on the Wizards score,” Bush said, smiling broadly. “Think you could cook me up a little something?”
“Sure, but I thought you came by to watch the election coverage.”
He looked confused.
“You mean Election, the 1998 Alexander Payne satirical high school comedy?” he asked.
“No, Mr. President. Haven’t you been following the midterm races? I read that you were campaigning like crazy for them.”
President Bush patted me on the head gently.
“Whatever you say, Hart. Sounds like you’re going a little cuckoo, if you ask me. Maybe if the Democrats win, you can get free mental health coverage under your insurance! Wouldn’t that be the day?”
We both guffawed and shot our pistols in the air again.
“Man, I love guns,” we said simultaneously.
“Jinx! Got your power!” President Bush shouted.
“Well, it looks like your party is going to regain control of the Senate. Because we’re such good friends, you can tell me in confidence – are we going to war with Iraq?”
President Bush’s expression morphed from good ole’ boy giddy to presidential dignified in a split second.
“Ben,” he said. “There are only two things I know for sure in this world. One is that Saddam Hussein is an evildoer. The other is that rich people deserve tax cuts more than anyone. Also, I am from Texas.”
“Even though you didn’t answer my question, Mr. President, I couldn’t agree more. Being a Republican is fun because you can bypass all morals and social responsibility!”
The President and I high-fived. Ice Cube shook his head.
“I can’t believe Gwen Stefani dates a Republican,” he muttered. “I can’t wait until Friday.”
-The writer, a junior majoring in history, is a Hatchet humor columnist.