The Great Linguistic Flip Flop of 2006…

A bitch dreamed a little dream last night…about the President (Scooter B. to this bitch), his minions and a certain phrase that just kept playing and playing and playing over and over again for years until reality pissed in the RNC’s Cornflakes inspiring a Congress-based minion revolt which then forced a linguistic flip flop.

Note to newish readers – the following is this bitch’s recollection of a dream my ass had last night and in no way reflects reality. It may, however, reflect the two shots of Nyquil a bitch consumed before slumber (wink).

A Bitch's Dream - The Great Linguistic Flip Flop of 2006
Alone in the Oval, Scooter B. sat staring blankly at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich before him, appetite gone due to the never ending hard work of his office. A minion came forward with a glass of ice cold milk hoping to break Scooter B. of his malaise, but the President seemed not to notice.

Scooter B. sighed heavily and looked up as Karl Rove entered the room.

“Sir.”

“Karl” the president replied.

“I can see by the look on your face that the gravity of the situation is apparent to you.” Rove said, his eyes never leaving Scooter B.’s face.

Scooter sighed again. “Yes, Karl. I just don’t know what to do about it.” His voice took on a whining tone. “Honestly, I think Anna Nicole should submit to the DNA tests! Shit, Karl, if she’s right what’s she so scared of? Why not just…”

Scooter B. broke off mid sentence and ducked under his desk…spilling milk on the disturbingly uncluttered desk surface…as Rove heaved the files he was carrying across the room.

“Jesus H. Christ! We are on the verge of loosing Congress and you are sitting here deeply troubled over Anna Nicole Smith and who her baby’s daddy may or may not be? We are at war, asshole…domestically and abroad!” Rove sputtered and kicked a chair.

Taking deep measured breathes, he counted to 100. “Get up, sit down and shut the fuck up.”

Scooter B. emerged from beneath the desk. “You spilled my milk!”

“SHUT UP!”

Scooter B. took his seat and frowned at the milk spillage like a defiant toddler.

“Congress is rebelling. The polls are showing the most Americans think this war is off course…and that we are insane for wanting to 'stay the course' that is taking us straight into someone else’s civil war. Do you understand me?” Rove paused until Scooter B. nodded. “Good. Our fear based campaigning will only work is the masses think we are the party to protect them. Right now we look like the party most likely not to able to find our ass with both our hands.”

Scooter B. rolled his eyes and stuck his lip out.

“We need to give the impression of being open to exploring options without appearing to change course, because you mouthed off one time too many about how changing the course is 'cutting and running'…you stupid fuck!” Rove bit off each word.

Folding his arms, Scooter B. muttered bitterly…"I’m the motherfucking decider, ass. That means I get to decide. I’m a two termer! Deciders don’t cut and run because…” A book hit him smartly on the forehead.

“Shut up! You will sign this…it will be sent to the minions to calm them the hell down…you will go forth and say 'stay the course' no more. Talk about anything else. The economy even!” Rove rose and shoved the papers under Scooter B.’s nose.

As Scooter slowly printed his name Rove shifted to gaze out the window.

“We will present a united hair splitting rhetoric changing without substantive policy shifting front.”

Scooter B. looked up hopefully “Then I get to be the decider again, right? Right Karl? Right?”

But this time Rove didn’t respond with support, his usual fatherly hair ruffle and the promise of cookies before bedtime.

The room remained silent...with only the ticking of the clock...

Tick and tock.

Tick.

Tock.