Sometimes, if my schedule allows it, I like to pop out of the office in the morning and grab an espresso drink. Things get slow enough around here in August to allow me the luxury, and this morning, that’s just what I did. But when I returned, Monsou was in my office.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he explained, “and thought I’d stop by. When your private secretary said you were free for the next hour or so, I figured I could just wait here for you to get back.”
Monsou brings me plenty of business from the certain federal government agency for which he works, so I consider humoring him good for business. Of course, I knew what he wanted. The man is a totally rabid McCain supporter, and, because of the Hatch Act, subject to a great deal of frustration. On the job, he can’t do anything to get his hero into the White House. So when he’s on his own time, he over-compensates something fierce, and he had that look in his eye – one that I know well.
“What can I do for you, then?” I cordially asked as I took a seat behind my desk.
“Check this out,” he replied, grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he opened a seventeen-inch high-definition LCD-screen laptop and cued up a video for me to watch. A string orchestra quietly played “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” as stirring shots of soaring bald eagles, pounding surf, towering, snow-capped peaks, wheat fields, national monuments and so forth rolled by in an elegant montage while a resonating, authoritative male baritone voice did a voice-over:
You know that Barack Obama is a conceited, posing, vapid celebrity who isn’t qualified to run this country we love. But now, there’s somebody even more conceited, someone who’s an even bigger poseur, someone who’s even more vapid, and she’s started smearing the duly elected Republican candidate. What’s more, this someone is also another celebrity. And we know what a celebrity is – a totally unqualified, no-talent fake who’s famous for nothing more than being famous. That celebrity is Paris Hilton, who has recently declared her candidacy for President of the United States. Stop – take a moment and think. When the election comes in November, don’t throw away your vote on a third party candidate who does nothing but hang out on the beach in Maui looking for a perfect tan. Vote Republican. Vote for John McCain.
“I assume,” I began, “that you produced that video yourself?”
“Well,” Monsou modestly confessed, “It was definitely my idea. A few of my friends did lend a hand on certain parts of the effort.”
“And your plan is what,” I continued, “to give this to the McCain campaign so they can run it on television and the Internet?”
“No,” Monsou explained, “we can’t give it to the McCain campaign outright, because if we did, that would constitute a contribution in excess of the allowable limits. So, instead, we’re going to sell it to the McCain campaign – for a dollar.”
“And that’s legal?”
“Well,” Monsou observed, “since nobody’s done it before, nobody knows one way or the other.”
“Okay,” I conceded, “let’s go with that, then, and assume, for the sake of analysis, that you get that video, or perhaps something based on the idea, anyway, on television and the Internet. Wouldn’t that cause the McCain campaign to run a very significant and perhaps fatal risk?”
Monsou stared at me for a moment, utterly at a loss, I could see, in comprehending what I meant. “Risk;” he finally grunted out in a skeptical tone, “what risk?”
“Look,” I explained, “Paris Hilton is, not to put too fine a point on it, obviously retarded. Okay, she’s filthy rich; granted, her name is a household word; and admittedly, if unfortunately, she’s a role model for millions of young women and girls, but she’s also, clinically speaking, an imbecile, and what’s more, most reasonably intelligent people know that. Now, just imagine for a moment, if you will, that Senator John McCain gets into a spitting contest with Paris Hilton and, because of this or that random twist of fate, some bit of bum luck, a momentary lapse or gaffe, he manages to lose the fight. Do you seriously think that’s going to do poor old John any good? And then, after you’ve thought about that, please tell me what possible good it could do him to win a spitting contest with Paris Hilton? I mean, Jesus Christ, if he won – if he totally demolished her and exposed her for the pathetic specimen of humanity that she actually is – that would do nothing more than convince a significant percentage of the electorate that John McCain is a mean old man who goes around humiliating the mentally challenged.”
“But what about that video she did,” Monsou protested vehemently, “where she calls John McCain ‘the oldest celebrity in the world,’ and ‘super old,’ and says he started drinking beer out of a bucket? She called him a ‘wrinkly, white-haired guy!’”
“Right,” I confirmed, “and then said, that because that ‘wrinkly, white-haired guy’ had used her in a campaign ad, that must mean she’s running for President. Well, then, come on now! Doesn’t that demonstrate conclusively that she’s an idiot?”
“Did you see that video,” Monsou bristled, “did you see what she says next?”
“Of course I saw it,” I shot back, “everybody on Planet Earth, plus the inhabitants of several nearby solar systems, have seen that video.”
“So,” he demanded, “does what she says next – the part about energy policy, sound like what a retarded person would say?”
“You mean the part where she suggests a hybrid energy policy that offers tax incentives for high-mileage vehicles combined with limited off-shore drilling with strict environmental oversight?”
“Yeah.”
“Absolutely,” I affirmed. “That sounds exactly like the sort of national energy policy that a retarded person would suggest – and it’s obviously written by somebody else and read off cue cards, at that.”
“But,” Monsou exclaimed, “that’s what the Bush Administration is suggesting now!”
“Precisely,” I answered. “Quod erat demonstrandum.”
Monsou, ever the loyal Republican, squinted back at me, clearly miffed. “Are you calling George W. Bush a retard?”
“I’m calling him an even match for Paris Hilton,” I assured him, “any day.”
“But what about when she says ‘I’ll see you at the debates, [expletive]?’ Is that any way to address a United States Senator? To call him the b-word?”
“Oh, really,” I chided, “you can’t be serious. Have you forgotten that McCain called his own wife the c-word?”
“What!”
“You didn’t know?” At this point, I watched as his face brightened up nice and red – if there’s one thing Monsou hates, it’s being caught like that. “Oh yes, indeed, my friend. In 1992, while running for Senate, his cute, clever, rich, and, I might add, very intelligent wife teased him a bit about his thinning hair and he said ‘At least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you [expletive].’”
“John said that?” Monsou was incredulous. “No! That’s got to be a lie!”
“Oh yes, he did,” I insisted. “It’s quite well documented, and, since it’s been sixteen years since he did that, I’m rather… surprised you didn’t know.”
“Well, damn it,” Monsou rationalized, “I’m sure it had been a long day.”
“No doubt about that,” I teased, “it’s a long day indeed that makes a man call his own wife a…”
“Ah, horse [expletive]!” Monsou interjected. “’[Expletive]’ isn’t so bad.”
“A lot of people,” I informed him, “would disagree. They would say it’s absolutely the worst curse word in the English language.”
“Oh, come on! Who the hell,” Monsou beseeched me mockingly, “would say that a little synonym for the ‘bearded clam’ is the worst swear word ever?”
“Feminists.”
“Feminists?” “[Expletive] those blow-hard [expletive]! Let’s,” he pressed on with a flourish of rhetoric, “get a real woman in here, and ask her!” At that moment, his entire expression changed, and, I swear, I could see a light bulb floating over his head. “That’s it!” he shouted, leaping from his seat, bounding into my private secretary’s office. In a trice, he returned, dragging her enthusiastically by the hand.
“Mr. Collins and I,” he proclaimed, “have a question for you.”
“My sincerest apology,” I announced, surveying the situation, “I swear I had nothing to do with this and have no idea what question this gentleman is talking about.”
“Of course, Mr. Collins,” my private secretary said sweetly, “I know you would never behave like this. But I don’t mind. It’s been really quiet lately, you know, and kind of slow, and now that it’s August, kind of silly, just like every other year I’ve been in Washington. So,” she smiled, turning to Monsou, “I don’t mind. What’s your question?”
“Do you think [expletive] is the absolute worst word in the English language?”
I have to hand it to her, she didn’t miss a beat. “No,” she giggled, “[expletive] is a cute little word. I call my girlfriend lovers that.”
A toddler could have knocked Monsou over with a feather, I’m sure. “You… I mean… that is.. you’re… a lesbian?”
“No,” she giggled gently again, clearly trying not to humiliate poor Monsou by laughing out loud in his face, “I’m bisexual. And I call my boyfriend lovers [expletive]. I don’t think they mind that.”
At those words, Monsou was at a loss for words and had to sit down for a minute. I’ll give the young lady credit, straight up – it certainly isn’t easy to get Monsou to sit down, much less shut up, too.
“While we’re talking,” she said, shooting me a matter-of-fact glance, “there’s something I have been meaning to ask you, Mr. Collins.”
“What might that be?”
“Well,” she related as she perched on my desk, “I was Googling around a couple of months ago and I ran across your blog.”
“Yes?”
“‘Tom Collins’ World Wide Web Log,’ I believe it’s called.”
“That’s me. Which is to say, I am the author. What about it?”
“I’ve noticed,” she told me, in a slightly scolding tone, “that you mention me, but you never use my name. It’s always ‘my private secretary’ this, and ‘my private secretary’ that.”
“Well, ah, sure,” I replied in an exculpatory tone, “I didn’t want to take liberties with my private secretary’s… uh… privacy.”
“But you use your brother’s name, and his wife’s and his son’s, and your sister’s name and her husband’s…”
“That’s different,” I interrupted. “Those people are my relatives!”
“Well, anyway,” she insisted, “If you’re going to post on the Web about me, Mr. Collins, then from now on, I want you to use my name.”
“No problem,” I assured her. “From now on, you got it.”
Monsou, recovering from his fit of prudish shock, suddenly brightened as the realization dawned upon him that he had been vindicated. “See?” Monsou demanded, rising from his chair, “she’s young, urban, professional and what do you liberals call it – post-modern – just exactly the demographic John’s going to need in order to win, and she doesn’t think [expletive] is a dirty word!”
“Two points for Monsou,” I surrendered, laying on the irony nice and thick as my private secretary made ready to leave my office and get back to work.
“One more question, ma’am,” Monsou persisted. “At the end of her video, Paris Hilton says she’s hot. So, speaking as someone who can appreciate that from, ah, both sides of the question, tell me, do you think Paris Hilton is hot?”
“Yeah, she’s hot,” my private secretary adroitly assessed, “but she’s not my type.”
“You mean,” Monsou pursued, “that you wouldn’t have sex with her, even though she’s a celebrity?”
“Paris is not my type,” she elaborated, “because she’s a celebrity.”
“So,” Monsou went on, “I guess that means you wouldn’t want to be a celebrity? If that’s so, why not?”
“It’s not that I would mind being a celebrity,” she confided, “it’s that I know I will never be one.”
“Why?”
“Because celebrities have names like Britney Spears and Miley Cyrus. Nobody named Gretchen Isabell Ziegeschaefer could ever be one. And I’m Gretchen Isabell Ziegeschaefer, so [expletive] it.”
“No need to feel bad about that, Gretchen,” I consoled. “Most celebrities live miserable lives, you know – always being stalked by photographers, not to mention deranged admirers, living in a fish bowl all the time, everybody second guessing them when they take their pet or child out in public. Some of them even end up being used as objects of ridicule in political campaign advertisements.”
“He’s right, Gretchen,” Monsou agreed. Then changing the subject back to himself and his concerns, as would be expected by anyone who knows him, he blurted out “And, as I said, what about that part at the end where Paris says she’s hot? Would you say that you’re hot?”
“Yes,” Gretchen nodded confidently, “and I want Mr. Collins to put in his next blog post that I’m going to be hanging out at the 9:30 Club, starting on Friday, August 8th, through Sunday August 10th and then at Chief Ike’s Mambo Room from Tuesday, August 12th through Sunday, August 17th, and I want to meet some [expletive] and some [expletive] who want to [expletive] me.”
“My goodness gracious,” Monsou remarked, “how in the world did a nice, blonde, blue-eyed, and, I must say, hot, young lady like you become such a rapacious libertine?”
Gretchen giggled as she smiled shyly. “My parents are Amish. There’s nothing like having something significantly repressive to rebel against, you know.”
“Now that,” Monsou vouched, “is hot.”