A Presidential Fireside Chat

I'm sitting around in shorts and a t-shirt thinking about George W. Bush.  Yes, I realize that's not the sort of visual most people want, but it's true.  Just be glad I'm wearing the shorts over my tighty-whiteys, ok?

In any event, what I'm really imagining is George and his good friend God chatting.  They do this from time to time, as we all know.

It's December 1, 2005.  George lights a few logs in the White House living room fireplace to welcome his regular Visitor.  He does this at about 7:30 at night, after he has worked out, showered, and slipped into his comfortable, naturally faded working cowboy jeans.  After the fire is quietly crackling, he turns on a small table light so that he can puzzle through a few pages of a Zane Grey novel.  As he sounds out a few words, he sits back and sips the milk the White House Chef has so thoughtfully warmed for him.

A page taps lightly on the door.  "Mr. President, Mr. God is here to see you." 

"Send him right in,"  George says.  George gets up, always observing Texan politeness to any Head of State.  God comes in, walks over, and warmly clasps George's hands.  He's taken the shape of the traditional white-bearded old Guy, and He's wearing the traditional open sandals.

However, He has put aside the flowing robes in favor of His own faded ranch jeans and a bright blue-checked shirt, accessorized with a red bandana tied around the neck.

"Can I get You a warm milk?" George asks as they sit across from each other in rustic wooden easy chairs.

"Thanks, George," God says, "But I can handle My hootch."  With  one of those occasionally annoying omnipotent gestures, God snaps His fingers and a cut-glass tumbler of good Scotch flickers into existence.  God takes a sip and sighs with pleasure.

George looks with longing for a moment, imagining the warm, smooth, vapory sensation of a sip of good hard booze.  He tries to compensate by sipping his warm milk. 

God smiles.  "You can hide the scowl from My eyes, George, but not the alky-lust in your heart.  Just hold to your sobriety here, though -- Christian Paradise gives out Day Passes to visit Moslem Paradise.  But that's not what I stopped by for, George."  God engages in one of those dramatic pauses that we've come to expect of Him.

"Well, don't keep me all in suspenders here, God."

"Well, George, I just need to go over a few things with you, ok?  Be sure that we're on the same page when you talk to the press about your latest little Constitutional faux pas that the New York Times and even Arlen Specter is mad about."

"Huh?  What's that about?"  George thinks back – he reads the papers from time to time.  Just last week he had been marveling over a story in his home-town journal, for example -- something about traffic problems caused by campers on the road out to his house.  He's a little fuzzy on the details, though.

God thinks a moment.  "Oh, sorry about that – that's in two weeks.  I'm getting a bit ahead of Myself.  Sorry, Omniscience gets a bit confusing."

"It's ok, God, You have almost as many things on Your mind as I have as President."

God could hide His look of annoyance – after all, He is all-powerful – but He doesn't bother.  However, He is forgiving; George is doing the best he can.  "Look, George, here's the thing.  In about two weeks, you're going to get some heat over deciding to illegally wiretap American citizens.  Even from your own party.  You know, authorizing the NSA to wiretap, intercept e-mails, that sort of thing.  Without bothering to go to a judge or anything.  Even though you could have followed the law to do what you wanted to.  You remember that new mess?"

"Sure I do, God.  Dick and I talked about it, and Dick thought it was fine, so I signed it along with a bunch of blank checks to Haliburton."

God blinks.  He missed that one while he was keeping His omniscient eyes out for his pal.  "George, you didn't."

"Sure I did.  Dick thought it was a good idea.  I like Dick.  He an' my Daddy were pals, too."

"George, didn't I tell you that only Laura could sign checks for you?"

"Sure, God, but that was back when I was boozing it up."  He gives another longing look at God's half-full glass, sips his warm milk.

"Jeez."   God has the good Grace to stop Himself  from fully taking His Own Name in vain.  "OK, that will be another day.  Just don't blame it on Me, because that wasn't My doing."

"George nods.  "Course, God.  We're pals, You an' me.  I'll never blame You for anything."

"Good.  Because that's why I'm here tonight.  About those wiretaps – I don't want to hear that you got the idea from Me, ok?  Say anything else you want, but don't blame Me for that boner, ok?"

"But God, it wasn't a boner.  Dick said I could do it, an' I ran it by the White House Counsel office, an' they said it was ok.  I even told a few folks in Congress about it recently – an' none of them went running to the press, so it must be legal."

"Well, don't be so sure of that, George.  I chatted with the best Lawyer in the Universe – fella named Satan – and he was kind of chuckling about the whole thing.  Seems he has a whole bunch of people around here fooled because he walks around in a Harriet Miers costume – hey, another thing you shouldn't blame on Me.  Even the real Harriet was no pick for Supreme Court.  What the Hell were you thinking?"

"God, Harriet's a smart woman, an' a real looker besides.  The liberal's were just mad 'cause I get to look at her all day."

God presses His aching temples, but says nothing.  What would be the point?  Instead he presses home His point.  "Dub -- sorry, George, just don't mention My name on the bugging thing, ok?  It gets embarassing to have to be explaining that you get your memory all messed up.  Mekrangor's always giggling on the back nine -- says he doesn't have to stir up any trouble with you around.   Hell, it's like dealing with Reagan's Alzheimer's disease all over again."  God sips again, sighs.  "I'm with you, George, but keep My name out of this one, ok?"

"You got it, God.  Anything You want.  It's You an' me, all the way."

God scratches the back of His head.  "I wish I was sure of that."  He turns up His glass and downs the last of His drink.  God thumps His chest.  "Smooth."  He looks at his pal.  "OK, George.  Keep up the good work on all the other things you do for Me, ok?" 

God stands and stretches.  "I can show Myself out."  He walks toward a wall, and His form changes.  Suddenly, George is seeing the bare-assed naked back of a gorgeous Woman with long, flowing Celtic-red hair.  "I have to get to Salem for a dance with the Wiccans," She says over Her perfectly-formed shoulder as She walks through the wall.

George feels his Little President stirring, as it always does when God pulls that little trick.  "Maybe that's why people say I have a hard-on for God," he says to the air.

He shifts uncomfortably and goes back to his Zane Grey.

Copyright © 2005 by Gregory P. Lee. Mr. Lee is proprietor of Three/Four Communications, and is an Adjunct Professor at Wentworth Institute of Technology in Boston, Massachusetts. His writings can be found at www.threefourcomm.com.