[Disclaimer: This article is satire, or what we used to call "fake news" before actual fake news started poisoning the political discourse!]
There was great tension at the Republican Campaign Headquarters that morning as the worker bees entered their office in D.C. As with every campaign, unexpected situations come up. “‘He Who Shall Not Be Named’ wants to endorse Romney,” stated Mitch Couler to the group, his face drawn and pained from the trials of running a difficult campaign that was getting down to the wire.
“Oh my God, no!” Marianne burst out, she always being the first one to grasp the entirety of situations. “That’s all we need now! Between the catalyst the last two debates gave Obama and Mitt sticking his foot in his mouth so often that he has hoof and mouth disease we might as well rename this campaign the Titanic!”
Mitch tried to calm the workers down. He didn’t need to have a mass exodus like the rats leaving the ice berg-rammed Titanic that happened to Gingrich right before he sank beneath the waves.
“Let’s not get too excited yet. We’ve managed to keep ‘He Who Shall Not Be Named’ quiet this long, we can probably find a way to shut him up until the whole hurricane is over.”
“Not a good analogy, Mitch. Remember the convention in Florida?” Andy piped up. He could always be counted on to be a pain in the rectum when the chips were down.
“Yes, Andy, I remember. And do you remember how we pulled together and brought the convention through it all despite that? We’ll get through this too. “
“Let’s get him drunk” chimed Phyllis, the smirk on her face unsettling all who could see it.
“Yeah, that’s all we need. He was bad enough sober; imagine what he would say if he fell off the wagon.”
“Well, at least it can’t get any worse.”
“Mitch, ‘He Who Shall Not Be Named’ just called and said he wants to tour with Romney and help him out by making speeches!” Jacks voice echoed out from the door of his office where he was holding his hand over his phone receiver.
“Oh God no!” Mitch moaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why, why why does this have to come up now?”
“We could have him liquidated. With him it would be easy to make it look like an accident.” said a voice from the back of the crowd of campaign drones. The quiet that followed the comment gave evidence to how seriously they were mulling the option. “We could get him a giant pretzel and hope for the best.”
“Tell him his Dad disowned him. That would probably be enough to drive him over the edge.”
“Have the Secret Service inform him that they outfitted his car to act like a submarine, them point him towards the Rio Grande.”
It was obvious that minds well honed to stimulating political intrigue were now whirling about darker possibilities. Mitch had to end it quick.
“Now, now! He did serve us well acting as a cover for those who were really running the government for eight years. Let’s at least respect him for that. We’ll just keep ‘He Who Shall Not Be Named’ down in Texas, where they seem to like him and even believe what he says. He can’t do too much damage as long as we keep him down on the farm.”
Mitch continued, “We’ve managed to keep ‘Him’ safely out of the public eye for three and a half years now; I am sure we can keep him shut up for another two weeks. Let’s all get to our desks. We’ve got to work up a lot of new angles on Trump’s demand for Obama’s college transcripts thing. Don’t worry, things will get better.”
“Mitch!” Jacks pointy head and face were poking out of his office again, his hand again over his phone’s mouthpiece. “Cheney’s on the line. He’s given his endorsement and wants to get out and stump for Romney too.”
Fortunately there were paramedics next door who were able to stop Mitch’s seizure before he bit his tongue off and hurt himself from flailing about.
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