Now where was I again? Oh that's right - whacked out on TheraFlu and sacked out watching the West Wing special episode. And for those of you who wrote in and asked, the "riding The Sizzler with Alan Greenspan" is in fact NOT a euphemism for nonconsensual backdoor play amongst incarcerated inside traders in minimum security prisons, nor is it dot-com-era slang for doing coke in the restrooms at an IPO party. It was from a Clinton-era White House staffer in the episode talking about how exciting the job was, and she'd be exhausted and looking forward to relaxing at home, and then pop by a South Lawn carnival with the intention of departing soon after, and instead end up decamped for several hours and riding The Sizzler with Alan Greenspan. Oh, those nutty 90s. Now I can't honestly say that absent the opportunity to nestle my face 'twixt Rovey's manly mammaries for protection, Greenspan would be my automatic thrill-ride go-to guy, but what with his being Federal Reserve Chairman, I'd imagine he's more than used to high-speed ups and downs. Ba dump bump. Thank ya, folks. I'll be here all week. Try the veal.
Aaaaanyhow, I'm wandering through the hallowed halls of the West Wing - at least I assume that's where it is if the TV show is to be believed. Things are all a-bustle, and it occurs to me that I must be dreaming because although I have never been there and as such could not definitively swear, somehow I imagine that in the real life White House, staffers are likely not required to wear adult-sized diapers and terrycloth bibs atop their work attire while humming George Jones' greatest hits. That part's just a guess, but I feel I can with a degree of certainty state that Ari Fleischer and Scott McClellan would not be hanging around the office at the same time, and if so, would likely not be doing it with arms linked, dressed as Tweedles Dum and Dee and skipping about in an exceptionally merry fashion. A hora, perhaps for Ari, and a festive reel for the McClellan lad, but maybe not so much with the skipping. Nonetheless, they bound up a deux.
"What is the message, Ma'am?" "What is the message?"
"Excuse me, um, Sirs?"
"The message, Ma'am" "The message" "We don't" "Know what" "To do" "Unless" "Unless" "We're given" "A message" "A message" "To give"
They grin and cock their heads to the side, seemingly waiting for instruction. It's hard to follow what they're saying, because they're alternating phrases, the one who is speaking stands tall while the other squats down, and they're repeating each other, but eventually I manage to formulate a response. "Uh…I guess I'd like to…see Mr. Rove…If that's allowed…"
As one creature, they spring to their feet, and Tweedle Ari grabs my right hand while Tweedle Scottie squeezes my left. "Only one way" "Just the one way" "That we know of" "To Rove". They're slightly ahead of me, ruffled collars rustling against each other as they mumble with heads bowed toward one another's ears. I can make out very little of what they're saying, but note with amusement as they reach into baggy pockets with their free hands and simultaneously lob over-ripe bananas into an open doorway we pass right before we veer sharply outdoors toward a lavish, manicured garden - the sight of which is ingrained into my memory from photographs and television reports from childhood onward. Flowers bloom prodigiously, despite the light haze of snow that now seems to follow AriScott wherever they bounce about, and the lawn is impossibly lush and green, rolling lazily around what appears to be a carnival ride smack dab in the center of the grounds. I stroll around it, slightly bemused, and a shade overwhelmed by the heady midway scent of popcorn in the air.
"Um, guys? Where's…I mean, this is interesting and all, but you said Karl would be out here and…"
"Oh Ma'am" "Ma'am" "Tee hee!" "Tee hee!" "We never promised" "No we didn't" "We never promised you a Rove garden"
My heart sinks down and leaches into the soil as Tweedle AriScott walk away. So close…so close I was to encountering my lovely Rovey and…"What the hell are you DOING?" The two of them have sidled up and are quickly massaging something warm and oily into my bare calves, knees and arms. Ari is reaching up toward my forehead, when I bat him away and whirl around to see the stand from which they've both returned. I look up from a TV-familiar face to note the banner above - "Hot Buttered Rumsfelds $1". I scowl at the proprietor, and he grins back.
"You'll like him much better" "Much better" "Much better indeed" "After you've been through" "Been through the machine" Now firmly grasping and massaging the goo into my elbows, they're marching me over toward the carnival ride. Now that I'm looking straight at it, rather than darting my eyes around in search of a rambling Rovey, I note that it's seemingly constructed just for one person.
"Just what does that thing DO, and why in the world are you SLATHERING me, you madmen?"
"It's better this way" "It's butter this way" "He'll like you utterly" "Butterly" "Better this way" And by this time they've wrested me into the padded armchair in the center of the ride, harnessed me in, and are walking to opposite sides of the round, lightbulb-bedecked pedestal to which the chair is bolted. "The butter makes it better"
They've each grabbed a handle and begun walking, so the entire device is beginning to turn, and the bulbs have begun colorfully, tourettically flashing. "Makes what better?!?" I'm starting to panic.
"Machine works better" "Works better all buttered up" "No go" "No go to Rovey unless you've ridden it." "He built it himself" "Himself, you know"
"Built WHAT? Ridden WHAAAT?" The words are ripped from my mouth as the Tweedles have sped up their pace. The roses and bushes are blurring, but just before I succumb to sick and dizziness, I hear quite clearly, they speak as one…
"Hiissssss spiiiiiiiiiin maaaaaachiiiiiine…"
(to be continued - sorry, RoveHos - it was a wicked long dream!)