Source: Soylent Green
I was just about finished polishing the last of my 7,001 gold bars, doing what rich white racist community organizers do when shamelessly hording our money from the IRS to fund secretive political missions from K Street, when the phone rang.
“Dr. Dave, I presume?”
“Yep,” I said into the Bluetooth headset the Republican National Committee bought me last fall during the infamous “Barack Obama Is a Kenyan” rallies, aimlessly rubbing circles over the gleaming gold bar in my hand.
“This izzzz Elllll-Russsshhhbo.”
“Hey, there Mahatma. Been reported to the White House today?”
“Dr. Dave, I’m sure Rahmbo records streaming audio of my voice every day; there’s no need for anyone to report me.”
“Good point. What can I do for ya?” I set down the gold bar and picked up a swastika arm band. I had a feeling it was going to come in handy.
“Glad you asked, Dr. Dave. I have some marching orders for you.”
I knew it, I thought. I’d been so bored of late, having been mundanely blogging thousands of words about the details of the president’s energy and health care policy and helping to bring down his popularity. I had a pretty good feeling that “marching orders” meant there was opportunity to be had in crisis. I was not disappointed.
“It’s time to load up the busses and haul in the grannies and granddads from all over the country. We’ve got to hit these Townhall meetings with force.”
Secretly inside I felt like a kid, as if I were again wiggling in delight over dropping a squirming frog down the front of Miss Wilson’s blouse and watching my third-grade teacher scream in revulsion, as she tore off her shirt to keep the frog from crawling into her bra, revealing what I figured at the time to be the greatest thing any 8-year-old had ever seen.
“No Brooks Brothers crowd, Rush? No seersucker suits and Bulova watches? You want straw hat and pitchfork types, right?” I said, trying to shake off the memory of my first community disruption to focus on the task in front of us.
“Righto, Dr. Dave. We need angry mobs.” I could hear the giddiness in his voice. He was reveling in the president’s Waterloo moment. He wanted this president to fail. “Make sure you round up lots of Libertarians and independents and pissed off Democrats, just to make it look good. We want to achieve deception here. We’ve got to make it look like the majority of Americans don’t want this health care business. We’ve got to make it look like people have just had enough.”
“Yes, Godfather,” I said.
And Rush went on, making it clear that his and Sean Hannity’s and Michael Steele’s and John Boehner’s and Mitch McConnell’s names were never to be associated with such shenanigans.
As he wrapped up, the doorbell rang.
Explosions erupted inside the house. The dog, barking 40 times a second, came racing down the hall, the sound of her claws scraping the floor growing louder and louder as she approached. My kids, emitting high-pitched screeches, ran like banshees right beside the dog, the cacophony so loud I could barely hear Rush saying “What the…..What IZZZ that racket?”
I opened the door to find the FedEx man standing outside, holding an envelope. The two children dashed out to greet him, one coming from each side of me, the dog barreling out between my legs, almost knocking me over. In fear, the FedEx man flung the envelope at me and dashed down the steps.
I caught the envelope on my chest and fell back against the open door, balancing on one leg while using my other foot to hook the dog under her throat, to keep her from chasing the poor guy.
“What the hell is going on?” Rush said in my ear, clearly not happy.
“Sorry, Rush.” I made sure everyone was back in the house and took the Bluetooth off my ear for a second and screamed, knowing full well Rush could still hear me but at least I wouldn’t be ruining his cochlear implants. “KIDS!!! I’m trying to plan something here on the phone. Will you SHUT UP?”
My question was immediately ignored.
“What, Daddy? What? What? What are you planning?” my 8-year-old said, hopping up and down with the unabashed glee I recognized in myself the day I disrupted Miss Wilson’s classroom.
“Yeah, Daddy. What? What? What?” said my youngest.
“An angry mob. Now give me just a minute.” I put the headset back on and opened the envelope and took out a check. “WOW, Rush. Just a million this time?”
“Yes, Dr. Dave. It’s a tough economy, but we know you will use it wisely.”
“Sure, Rush. Heck, with the Cash for Clunkers discount, we might be able to use the money to buy a couple thousand Toyata Priuses and have the rabble rousers show up at the Townhall meetings disguised as anthropogenic global warming believers.”
“Good thinking, Dr. Dave.”
“Are you going to make fun of the president,” my youngest asked, adding: “Rock Obama! I don’t like him!”
“Me neither,” the 8-year-old chimed in. “Barack Obama: KING OF THE MOONBATS! Hey, Dad. Can we come too? We’ll have Mommy paint swastikas on our cheeks!”
“Dr. Dave,” Rush said, having listened to my family dynamic all along, “you’ve been raising them right. I think your angry mobs are going to be wildly successful.”