Trouble At The White House
by Liam Laviche
* * * * *
Hello all. I hope you're having a great summer. As many
of you may remember, I was recently appointed to the Senate.
I've been in the Upper Chambre for a few months now. Nobody
here really does anything. Everybody's old (except me).
It is a boring place and I believe I am the most bored
of all the members. That makes me Chairman of the Bored,
Anyway, a few weeks ago I decided it was time to spice
up my life. And so I did in a way most familiar to yours
truly. Again, I wrote a letter to a head of government.
In this case, my ink spilled toward the occupier of the
most powerful office in the world: the President of the
United States of America. My goal: to become the first
Canadian to run for President.
Once again, here is yet another letter ... and the resulting
* * * * *
Dear Mr. Bush:
Please allow me at this time to extend my belated congratulations
to you on your "winning" of the White House and becoming
the 43rd President of the United States of America. (As
my dad used to tell me whilst I played minor league hockey
and got away with cross checking an opponent in the face
behind the referee's back, 'if you can get way with doing
it, you should be congratulated.')
Mr. President, I write you today as a Canadian citizen
(a Senator, no less) with a truly deep admiration for
the country you lead along with its ideals, guiding spirit
and founding principles. In many respects (primarily in
regards to matters financial and military), your country
is both the world's biggest and best. In short, your country
is both the world's most rich and powerful.
Today, however, I write you with tremendous concern
over the fact that your Constitution, while enshrining
much of the spirit that got you there, is also contaminated
with hypocrisy. In fact, it is a hypocrisy that runs counter
to the aforementioned spirit.
It concerns your Constitution which permits only those
American citizens born in the United States to hold your
job, arguably, the most powerful post in the world, that
of the Office of the President of the United Sates of
Mr. President, I think you must agree that America is
about competition. After all, it is only through competition
that one can lay a claim to truly being the best as it
is the means to determine whether one has won or lost.
Competition is the underlying concept of free markets.
In these, regulations are torn asunder so that everyone
can compete for consumers' favour and then win or lose,
prosper or perish.
Why then, Mr. President, are the doors to the Oval Office
closed to anyone suffering the misfortune of being born
outside of the world's richest and most powerful nation?
Are Americans not ready to put their money where their
mouths are and allow a free electoral market devoid of
Constitutional regulation so that we can truly have the
best president available to lead the nation?
Mr. President,: I call upon you to stand behind an Amendment
to the Constitution to make this so. Americans know what
is best for America. They carry this knowledge with them
to the ballot box. Clearly and without question, they
should be given the most and widest choice as possible.
Why exclude those who made a conscious decision to be
American? As it stands today, only those citizens made
American by natural default can occupy the highest office
in the land.
Myself, I wish one day to be an American, but only if
I can run for President. You can see from this letter
how impassioned I am for America. Now, if only you could
know the lengths I would go to make it freer, braver,
richer and stronger. I challenge you to give me a chance
to show you and your fellow Americans, those by birthright
an those by choice, my vision for the nation.
Liam Laviche, Member, the Senate of Canada
Not more than a week after the letter was sent, I got
my response. Like when I wrote the Prime Minister, I didn't
receive a written reply. Unlike last time, though, I didn't
get a phone call, either.
The response from the Chief was far more intimate.
On a hot July day, upon finishing a game of Tetris on
my Senate office computer, I began to clear some excess
paper form my desk when it happened. Two non-descript-looking
men wearing dark sun glasses and suits entered my office
Talking into his wrist, one of my uninvited guests uttered,
"Fort York is on fire." As the words left his lips, his
partner reached into his inside jacket pocket from where
he produced a syringe. In no time, the needle pierced
Upon the piercing and resulting blackout, I awakened
in the presence of Dubya himself.
"Have a good sleep, you socialist dog?," said the President,
with that famous sarcastic smile smeared upon his face.
It's a look that seems to say "I got here 'cause o my
Daddy's old CIA buddies and there ain't nothin' nobody
can do about it!" "Let me get this straight," I said as
my vison became fully cleared. You sent two CIA agents
all the way to Ottawa to apprehend me because of a frivolous
(Looking into his increasingly-lost-looking eyes, I
could tell he knew not the meaning of the term frivolous.)
"Well, if there's anything I learned from my Daddy and
his old boss, Mr. Reagan, anywhere America is dishonoured,
the CIA will be there to take avengeance." (Now, I knew
'avengeance' was not a word, but I decided not to take
him to task ... he'd already ordered me injected, so,
I thought, what could be next?)
"Did you read my letter? I thought it was fairly complimentary
Just then, the President's Press Secretary, Ari Fleischer,
whispered something into Dubya's ear.
"No, it's that you dishonoured the Constitution. Furthermore,
you suggested the possibility that some Red could run
for President. Don't you see what's going on in the world?
The damned Commies in China are trying to make America
look foolish again, just like the Russians before them.
Believe, me, we have no idea of knowing how many died
in the wool Reds have immigrated here over the years or
how many Commie moles still exist. We need to gather our
strength for the oncoming Second Cold War."
"What makes you think that's going to happen?"
"Because it has to be so. I have to make it so. And
I will. That way I can go about justifying massive increases
in defense expenditures, thus warding off the job losses
to come from the future collapse in the auto industry
and the resulting recession."
I looked toward Fleischer who was red faced and preparing
"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! YOU BLEW IT! YOU TOTALLY BLEW IT!
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO STOP AT 'THE ONCOMING COLD WAR!'
YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO REVEAL WHY WE'RE PROMOTING THE
IDEA OF ANOTHER COLD WAR! MY GOD! I WRITE MEDIA LINES
AND YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO STICK TO THEM! GODDAMMIT! WE'RE
GOING TO HAVE TO KILL THIS GUY NOW! YOU KNOW THAT, RIGHT!!!
"But I'm just telling him why we decided to use those
"GOD HELP ME, YOU DON'T GET IT! YOU JUST DON'T GET IT!
WE DECIDE WHAT WE'RE GOING TO TELL PEOPLE ABOUT WHY WE'VE
CHOSEN CERTAIN POLICIES! WE CHOOSE THE WORDS VERY CAREFULLY!
WE CHOOSE POLITICALLY PALATABLE REASONS! THINGS LIKE NATIONAL
SECURITY! NOT COVERING OUR ASSES BECAUSE THE ECONOMY'S
GOING TO SHIT! THAT'S IT! YOU'LL NEVER GET THIS! YOU ARE
AS DUMB AS A HORSE'S ASS! I QUIT!!!
And out went Fleischer. Looking ever more lost, Bush
went flying out of the room after him.
There, alone, I sat. Again, just as before when Jean
Chrétien had brandished a carpet knife, I believed my
death was imminent. For what, I couldn't understand. Everybody
knew why the Bush Administration is in need of a common
enemy. The rationale was obvious. Dubya, though, had sated
Now, I had just one thought: get out alive!
Just then, the winds of fortune blew my way. Into the
room stumbled the bush twins, Jenna and Barbara, positively
reeking of Old Milwaukee.
"Hi Sugar!," slurred Jenna with enthusiasm dulled by
"Come here often," gurgled Barbara, following the line
with a soft belch.
"Actually, no. Your Dad brought me here as his special
guest for the day. I'm a Senator from Canada."
"Really!," the 19 year-old twins chimed in unison. "The
age is 19 up there, ain't it?" said Jenna.
"Actually, it's 18 in most provinces."
"Too bad Daddy ain't the president of Canada. That way
we could avoid gettin' arrested and makin' Daddy feel
sad for what gets in the newspaper."
With these words, the political hamster began running
in the wheel in my head. A deal was in the works.
Behind the twins entered Vice President Dick Cheaney.
His words: "How do we clean this mess up?"
Then, I put it on the table. I offered to allow the
twins to crash at my place during weekends so they could
drink without legal repercussions. In exchange, I was
allowed to live.
Next time you're out drinking in Ottawa, be wary of
the Bush twins. They'll be out, getting bombed on the
bar scene in disguise, but surrounded nonetheless by a
cadre of nondescript-looking-men in dark sunglasses and
suits talking into their wrists.
So ends another tale. My objective of getting to run
for President may not have been realized, but I once again
escaped the clutches of death. I also gained the weekend
company of drunken twin girls. On the whole, not bad.
Not bad at all.
Liam Laviche hopes to marry into power.