Bimbo’s Emergency Aid
By Bimbo de Bourgoyne y los Lobos Contreras
One morning my cell phone rang. And it was awkward timing -
especially as I was barely into my first bottle of Cliquot
and reclining on the deck of the Godfather’s yacht “High
Times” (moored somewhere off the coast of Sardinia).
The number flashed “Restricted”, and so I could
only guess as to who might be calling, given that my writings
and reportage through the years had served to greatly reduce
my circle of friends. It was with utter consternation that
I answered, only to find that fair and balanced Mr. Faux from
Fox News on the line. It turned out that he was only an interlocutor
for the the White House, which was currently en crise -
this due to the horrific mishandling of the hurricane fiasco.
What a tempest in a teapot, I thought! But after some 30 minutes
of threatening persuasion, I at last agreed to fly from Rome
to Washington on an urgent mission. The Godfather’s right
hand man, Seignior Faggiolini, ordered the Captain to turn
the boat towards the coast and Fumicino, full steam ahead.
After a turbulent Atlantic crossing on an Air Force jet code
named “Salvage
the Poll Numbers”, I arrived in the Diplomatic Reception Room of the
White House under the veil of darkness, from whence I was subsequently ushered
into the Red Room for an impromptu tête à tête with
Dubya, Père, and the Rovester.
It was Père, dressed in a dusty tweed suit so befitting his patrician
lineage, who first spoke, as he summoned all of his diplomatic skill to bear.
He said they were befuddled because the boy had tried everything from photo-ops
with brown babies to the Rolling Stones lighting system to illuminate St. Louis
Cathedral, and still the poll numbers were lower than whale doody at the bottom
of the sea. People, he added, had somehow got the idea that compassionate conservatism
did not extend to anyone outside the country club.
Dubya chimed in that it was all unfair, especially since he’d done more
to abridge rights for minorities than anyone since Ike, even Tricky Dicky.
“Enhance rights,” corrected Père.
Dubya admitted that he hadn’t seen the wind coming, especially since
he’d been distracted by the Woodstock-era hippies congregating outside
his ranch - all protesting his policies aimed at elaborating terrorism in Iraq.
“Eliminating terrorism,” corrected Père.
Then the Rovester, who was attired in a freshly fumigated blue polyester tent,
explained that they were turning to me, since I had (quite unknowingly) helped
so much with the reelection campaign by publishing accounts of my intercourse
with Stepmoney and the Giant. He was referring, of course, to my visit to Boston
and the Beacon Hill Townhouse, when Stepmoney had become so enraged that she
threw a Waterford vase at the very mention of Hillary’s name. But I digress.
The Rovester explained that the War Council had been convened, and that the
decision had been made, and that it was my duty to improve transatlantic relationships
by providing aid. After all, Dubya had enough other troubles on his over-stretched
mind, especially since Iraq was going up in flames, along with America’s
global image.
Dubya said he’d had to run for his life the last time he was in Paris,
after a crowd of protesters somehow got through the lines of riot police that
had locked down the Place de la Concorde and expectorated the safe zone bubble.
“Penetrated the safe zone,” corrected Père.
Dubya said he didn’t want to get into the morning after debate, and he
wasn’t gonna be drawn there. Hell no, he already had his plate full without
getting the feminists all exacerbated.
Père said he was sure that wasn’t the word, but wasn’t sure
what the word was.
The Rovester said it didn’t matter, because the Feminists had all been
written off anyway, and it was the Blacks that counted. They had tried to make
up for lost time by sending Dubya back to Nola for photo-ops, and then getting
a Pentecostalist preacher in front of the cameras for a prayer day. Hell, they’d
even hauled in a Black Republican or two, but that nothing was helping get
traction. They needed, he said, for me to turn it all around by smearing the
reputation of anybody I could find and taking the heat off the White House.
I asked, quite naturally, what was in it for me.
"Well, err", said Dubya. "A year’s supply of champagne, and the pièce
de résistance, a free membership to the Marine’s pool in the
Paris Embassy."
It only took a moment for me to make up my mind, and I saw that it was my duty
to help victims so much in need. So here it all is in black and white for the
world to read:
HILLARY - 2008
And now, as I’ve done my duty, I can turn my attention to Corporal Skip,
a nice boy that hails from the cornfields of Iowa and who I met at the pool
the other day. His natural penchant for Louis Vuitton and the widow’s
bubbly has won him respect, or as my dear friends in Washington like to say:
Mission Accomplished.
