She Who Shall Not Be Named
Mitch Couler, the Senior manager of the Romney campaign in the D.C. area, had recovered nicely from the seizures induced when he learned that both ‘He Who Shall Not Be Named’ and Dick Cheney both had come out in support of Romney, and were insisting on delivering speeches in support of the candidate. He came out of the illness so well, in fact, that he was able to return to work two days later, just a scant nine days before the election. His recovery was soon to be curtailed, however.
Jack Ambroce, the campaign worker in charge of fielding phone calls, gave him ten minutes to readjust to the hectic office environment before he delivered the news. “Sir,” he started softly, yet pointedly, knowing that would do little to cushion the blow. “It looks like ‘She Who Shall Not Be Named’ has also given her endorsement and is demanding to give speeches too.”
Mitch’s head did a nosedive for his open hands. “No! No! NO!” his voice trembled “Not this now!”
It was known that Mitch was a strong man and a virtual warrior when it came to political combat, but the knowledge that he was going to have to deal with a female barracuda on top of everything else caused the tears to flow freely. Memories of the campaign four years earlier when he had been a mere go-fer for the campaign and had to deal with a Governor from a hick state and her demands had driven him to the point of exasperation. “Git me some red underwear – only the lacy type now,” “Ah don’t want this silly New Jerk Times newspaper – read me wut it says about me in the Anchorage Daily News,” “Could you keep an eye on Todd fer me? Ah don’t want him sniffin’ around fer exotic beever now that we are in the big city,” and other suppressed headaches now surfaced to plague his now re-tormented mind.
Having to babysit and educate someone so unversed in the intrigues of Washington politics went way beyond what his job description had asked for. It was actually his handling of what is now known as the “Wasilla Weasel” that won him his rapid rise to Senior campaign guru. The thought of having to deal with her again reignited all the long gone migraines that had exhausted him four years previously.
The other campaign workers crowded around him to keep the newbies from seeing his break down. “Mitch! Mitch! Mitch! Mitch!” they chanted, their ineffectual way of dealing with meltdowns in an organization that did not tolerate weakness and did not recognize psychology in any sense except as a tool against the opposition.
Suddenly the cloudburst in his brain burst and a shining light came through. He knew what to do. The chanting stopped as Mitch stood up, the surge of inspiration lighting his face and making it glow with the true strength of inner enlightenment. ” I know what to do! Jack, get on the phone! Call up Furs Are Us and get me a $10,000 gift certificate. I know how to distract her long enough for Romney to win this one! Oh, am I good!”
The entire campaign crew applauded, happy to have their boss back, happy to not have to chant “Mitch! Mitch!” endlessly, and happy to get back to the superficial business of trying to get a candidate elected who was not their fondest image of the one they wanted elected in the first place. But, they were well paid and would soon be able to afford their vacations to California after wards.
Meanwhile, Jack slunk back to his office and made his phone call. Not to Furs Are Us, however. Instead he called the Anti-NRA Federation and told them that he wanted to make a donation in the name of ‘She who Shall Not Be Named’. “Who is it that is sending this donation for her may I ask?” squeaked the voice at the other end. “My name is Mitch Couler.” lied Jack. After giving the money transfer details to the Federation, he hung up the phone with an evil grin upon his lips. Mitch had no idea how much Jack wanted his job.