Trouble At The White House
by Liam Laviche

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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, I guess.

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 story.

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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 America.

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.

Sincerely,

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 unannounced.

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 my neck.

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 letter?"

(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 of America?"

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 to speak.

"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 lines."

"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 the obvious.

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 drink.

"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.