I’m sure the look of pain still carves your tear-lined face even now, since it happened but half an hour ago. Allow me to relive the moment for you, as you no doubt will do thousands of times in the future.
I saw the unmistakeable signs of your motorcade forming up, headed my way down 18th street. Rather than ignore you, as I did the last President, I instead took shelter from the rain in a well-lit bus kiosk and awaited your approach.
I didn’t mention it to you in person, but it is worth mentioning that your ungainly new limousine looks vaguely toy-like and “special,” and I do not mean that in a complimentary way. It suits you well.
Stop crying. I’m not finished with you.
Remember now as you approached me, sitting in the back of your car. I looked straight at you, extended my arm before me, and excoriated you with my raised middle finger. You looked away in embarassment and shame.
Well, actually, you were already looking away, but no doubt you saw my reflection in the windows, and kept your gaze averted out of embarassment and shame.
Oh, yes, others witnessed my powerful insult. As I followed your vehicle into the distance with my contemptuous salute, three open-mouthed ladies gaped at me silently, do doubt overcome by the genius, the audacity, the courageousness of my action. I smiled at them and bravely slipped away into the subway station, and intrepidly got the hell out of town.
You may be interested to know that your father, too, remembers me quite well. He no doubt looked down from his helicopter one sunny day and saw me giving him the same gesture from the Georgetown street. His embarassment was so thourough that he lost his bid for reelection, as I’m now sure you will, too. Perhaps you can console each other by sitting in Poppy’s lap and emptily telling each other it’s all right.
Oh, yes. Now you may cry, Mr. President. But remember that the tears will never shed the pain of my insult. That you shall carry with you for the rest of your life.
