What with all the political angst going on here today, I decided that a short political tragicomedy was in order. Without further ado, I present "John McCain's 3 AM Phone Call." Please leave your praise and/or constructive hatred below the fold.
[A day in 2009, 3:01 AM: somewhere in the White House, a telephone rings. A switchboard operator sleeps at her desk, an empty coffee cup beside her. The phone rings twice before the operator wakes and pushes her headset back into place.]
OPERATOR: White House switchboard, how may I help you?
GENERAL: Hello, this is General Daviding. I need to speak to the President. It's urgent.
OPERATOR: I'm sorry, what is this in regards to?
GENERAL: Ma'am, get me the President. We have a Level 4.
[Slow camera zoom: we see John McCain sleeping soundly in bed, his wife, Cindy, in a separate bed next to his. A pair of thick reading glasses lay askew on the nightstand next to John's bed, along with a gold pocket watch, large red telephone, and small pile of crushed Coors Light beer cans. A large black Secret Service agent enters from the right, approaches the bed, and clears his throat.]
AGENT: Mr. President, sir, I'm sorry to wake you--
MCCAIN: [Unintelligible grumble.]
AGENT: Sir, we have a Level 4.
MCCAIN [Opening one eye groggily]: Damn it, boy, what does a man have to do around here to get a little sleep?
AGENT: Mr. President, it's urgent. It's a Level 4.
[Fumbling for his glasses, John accidentally pushes several cans onto the floor. Stale beer splashes on the Secret Service agent's suit.]
MCCAIN: What is that, the thing with Russia? Have they invaded again?
AGENT [Looking uncertain]: Sir? Russia has never invaded the United States. It's the liberals, sir. They're going to protest again.
[Cindy McCain groans sleepily and rolls over in bed. We catch a glimpse of a negligee made out of the American flag.]
MCCAIN: Boy, this had better be serious.
AGENT: Yes, Mr. President.
[We cut to the White House Situation Room. The Joint Chiefs of Staff are sitting on one side of the main conference table, with the National Security Advisor and the Secretary of State on the other. Vice President Dick Cheney sits at the near end of the table, fiddling with the corpse of a freshly-killed kitten. He eyes several large wall-mounted television screens, displaying confusing charts and satellite images.]
CHENEY [Mumbling to himself]: Goddamn Hollywood liberals and their educations.
[The Agent from the bedroom enters through a door facing the opposite end of the table.]
AGENT: Mr. President!
[John slowly enters the room, pushing a walker ahead of him. The clear plastic tube feeding him oxygen leads into a small tank strapped to his feeble, ancient back. Everyone at the table immediately stands.]
MCCAIN: This had better be serious, people! I've got a nasty hangover.
CHAIRMAN: Mr. President, we've located a group of '60s hippies convening on Pennsylvania Avenue. They appear to be contesting our invasion of Iran and Russia, sir.
MCCAIN [Rolling his eyes like a flustered teenager]: And? Can't we bag 'em and beat 'em as usual? What the hell do we have Gitmo for if we can't just use it? Damn it, people, I said I've got a fucking hangover! Why the hell are you all standing?
[All standing sit back down at the table. John makes his way agonizingly slowly to the end of the table and sits, wincing as he does so, his geriatric knees sticking out from under a bright red nightgown.]
CHAIRMAN: It's not that simple, Mr. President. The local media are here to film them.
MCCAIN: Jesus Christ! You let the media get involved?
CHAIRMAN: Sir, Keith Olbermann himself is here.
MCCAIN [Pounding his fist on the table]: Shit! Who else knows?
CHAIRMAN: The Georgian ambassador.
MCCAIN: From Atlanta?
CHAIRMAN: No, sir, not that Geor--
MCCAIN: If we let the Sunni take hold of Atlanta, we're screwed. Send troops to Atlanta immediately!
CHAIRMAN: Well, sir, first of all, the Sunni aren't--
MCCAIN: Am I the Commander-in-Goddamn-Chief or not? I said send the troops! Now what's this about hippies?
CHAIRMAN: They're going to protest, sir. And we can't just ship them off as usual.
MCCAIN: I see. I think I understand.
[An awkward silence follows.]
CHAIRMAN: Sir? What do you recommend?
MCCAIN: What?
CHAIRMAN: Sir, with respect to the protestors. You asked us to declare a Level 4 if we should encounter any dissent.
[Another long silence. Cheney begins to gnaw on one of the kittens' paws. The agent accompanying John shifts his weight uncomfortably, scratching his nose. He makes eye contact with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who nods almost imperceptibly.]
MCCAIN: I frankly don't know why you all called me here. First you said that Israel had declared Christmas a national holiday, and now you're telling me that we can't find the damn tooth fairy. Will you make up your mind?
CHAIRMAN: The tooth fairy sir?
MCCAIN: That's right. Hussein's right-hand man. Found 'im in Afghanistan myself. Bastard was hiding there all along! And we can't just--
[The agent quietly pulls out a hypodermic needle, taps it with one finger, and inserts it into John's neck.]
MCCAIN [Slouching over onto the table]: We'll just... ahhhhh....
[The Chairman nods.]
CHAIRMAN: Good work, Johnson. It's a shame his senility has hit so hard. We tried to keep it under wraps during the election, but the strain was too much. After we discredited Obama like that and disenfranchised so many young voters, he just didn't have the energy anymore. His mind's almost entirely gone.
AGENT: Will he be alright, sir?
CHAIRMAN: Oh, yes. He'll wake up a little later and probably won't even know what happened. Not like anyone would believe him anymore, either. Well, men, we've got work to do. These damn hippies aren't going to stop themselves. Somebody unleash Lieberman! And get the fire hoses. This news story won't censor itself.
[Fade to an American flag waving over black, then fade entirely to black.]