Friday, July 01, 2005

Help Me Sandra

Sandra... Sandy. Can I call you Sandy? Sandra, hear me out. We need you right now. What’s going on in your head? Why would you leave now? We all know what you think of Bush and these crooks. You know they’re liable to replace you either with Satan himself or with a monkey that’s been trained to pray to Jesus and throw feces at civil rights groups. Clearly you’re a patriot. Clearly you care about the future of this country. You’re the first woman appointed to the Supreme Court. What an honor! What a life! Why give it up now?

Look at your boss, Billy. The guy’s 187 years old with fucking cancer and he’s still going to work. What is work for you anyway? Sitting around reading for three months a year, talking to idiots at the highest point of their careers and then making huge decisions that literally change the course of history? Who would give that up? You get most of the year off, you get to “think” for a living, you don’t have a boss with B.O. and bad teeth barking orders at you. You couldn’t handle that for a measly three more years?

I’m begging you, Sandra. We’re tight, right? Oh… well we’ve had a few laughs anyway. Remember that time the bonehead lawyer was all up in your grill about corporate corruption and you made him sit under the table for 10 minutes? That was hilarious! Where are you going to get your power fix now? You know how your husband can be. Once he gets out in that workshop, it’s like he can’t even hear you. Him and those stupid toy trains, huh? And don't you like getting out of Arizona for a few months a year? Washington is so pretty in the spring. All the cherry blossoms in bloom; the weather isn't too hot yet. Tell me you're not going to miss that.

How about that nut, Nino? You guys always had so much fun together. Think of the bowling nights! Remember when you guys bet that whoever lost had to bowl in their robe next time with no clothes underneath? Shit, I’ll never wash the image of his ass pressed against your windshield out of my brain. Years of therapy, I swear. But aren’t you going to miss that? God, and that time you sent C-Tom to hunt the stacks for the book, “The History of Nuclear Weapons in the Renaissance.” Four hours later, he comes back all panicky and you all are chanting, “Rook! Rook! Rook!” Boy, was he pissed. And stupid - damn is he stupid! And think, Billy’s going to be leaving soon, you’d have another rook to haze. You don’t want to miss that, do you?

Sandra. Your country needs you. I need you. And you need us. You’ve got 20 good years left. Don’t you want to change the world one last time? Please?

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