Friday, July 15, 2005

The Rove-bird

The Rove-bird
Lame-Duckwalks and Goosestepping, Frogwalking, Perpwalks on the
White House Chicken Ranch

Once upon a time there was a Rove-bird that laid golden eggs. He was a funny-looking bird, with a bald head and wire-rimmed glasses, but his owner didn’t care, because without the Rove-bird’s golden eggs, the owner would still be stuck in Midland, Texas, instead of living high off the hog in a grand White House in the nation’s capital.

The golden eggs the Rove-bird laid were called elections. Some of the biggest eggs were the Texas gubernatorial triumphs of ’94 and ’98, the ‘2000 South Carolina Republican primary, and, of course, the Presidential elections of 2000 and 2004.

But in 2003 the Rove-bird allegedly laid an egg of another color. It was laid and brooded over and hatched just like the election-eggs, but this egg was tarnished. Some even whispered it was the color of treason. It outted the covert identity of a CIA agent defending America and tracking down evildoers’ Weapons of Mass Destructions.

When reporters asked about the egg back in 2003, Mr McClellan, the White House Press Secretary, said it was ridiculous to assert the Rove-bird had laid it. But two years later the Rove-bird himself as much as admitted he had laid such an egg, not once, but two or three times, and had given said eggs to journalists Novak, Cooper, and Miller. When reporters asked Mr. McClellan about this last week, McClellan said he couldn’t talk about it, but he nonetheless emerged from the press conference with egg on his face.

Some in the press said that the President, who owned the Rove-bird, though some say the Rove-bird owned the President, also had egg on his face. So the President made an public announcement with the Rove-bird roosting right behind him, and made it clear he was sticking with the bird whut brung him to the dance, errr, White House Chicken Ranch, in the first place.

Then, as if on cue, other Republicans went on the offensive, squawking that the Democrats were flinging rotten eggs at the Rove-bird because they were jealous that THEY didn’t have a such a brilliant bird themselves. And the Republicans were at least half right. Who WOULDN’T be jealous of a golden-egg-laying bird-genius? If the Democrats had a Rove-bird, they wouldn’t be retreating on all fronts before the advancing Republican Party, which had managed the miracle of failing upward, of winning political victory after political victory, even as its popularity plummeted.

Then the tarnished Plame-blame-egg began to spin in a wondrous new direction. The word went out that columnist Novak had not received the Plame-blame-egg from the Rove-bird. Rather, Novak himself had laid the egg. He had taken the egg to Rove and Rove had said, “Yes, I have heard of such an egg.” This Novak-egg was remarkable because usually eggs of this sort come from anonymous or not-so-anonymous sources WITHIN the government. Columnists are thought of as chicken-ranchers who go out in the early morning and gather fresh laid eggs from the nests of their sources. The columnist are rarely said to be egglaying chickens themselves, though many of them are chickenhawks.

So another great hue and cry went up in the capital. Did Bob Novak himself lay the egg? But how? He wasn’t even an egglayer. Or did he get the Plame-blame-egg from someone ELSE in the government? And if so, who? And how did the Rove-bird know about Bob Novak’s egg? Did someone else in the government give the Rove-bird a Plame-blame-egg, as well? And why would the Rove-bird need to gather eggs from others when he was perfectly capable of laying them and brooding them and hatching them himself? In fact, he was the best hatcher in the whole country!

One recent morning, upstairs in the White House, the President looked at himself in the mirror. “I can still shave my shapely bikers’ legs easily enough,” he said, “but it’s murder trying to shave my cheeks with so much egg on my face,” he said to Laura.

“Which cheeks?” she asked, as she shaved her own legs. They both had a good laugh. Laura was a much funnier, raunchier, lady than most of the world knew, and that’s part of the reason George loved her so. One of their favorite rituals was their morning leg-shaves. It, and the soapy hanky panky which often followed, helped keep their marriage zesty.

“This is no laughing matter,” George said, trying to stop laughing. “Without the Rove-bird, I’d be nothing. I’d probably be mowing my dad’s golf course in Kennebunkport. But with all the rotten eggs the Rove-bird’s been laying lately, the whole White House is starting to stink.

“But George, you can’t run for re-election again. You’re a lame duck. You’ve flown about as high as you can fly.”

“But what about my agenda? If the Rove-bird makes me look & smell bad, how am I going to sell the Iraq War, or privatization of Social Security, or more taxcuts for the rich, to the American people?”

“Sweetheart, the Iraq War is a rotten egg, privatization is a rotten egg, taxcuts for the rich are rotten eggs….” said Laura.

“Lord but you’re a smarty!” said George. “I can see where you’re going with this. What difference does it make if I’ve got a little egg on my face from the Rove-bird? Somebody done egged the whole White House Chicken Ranch already!!!”

“It was you, George,” said Laura. “You egged the White House. You pushed the Iraq War, and Weapons of Mass Destruction, and privatization of Social Security, and taxcuts for the rich, and Abu Ghrai…..”

“Don’t say it!” said George. “You may be my dearly beloved, but that doesn’t give you the right to pelt me with my own rotten eggs!”

“I just have one question for you, George,” said Laura. “Do you have to let the Rove-bird lay his eggs here in the harsh light of the White House? Why don’t you make a big show of firing him and kicking him out of the White House Chicken Ranch? Then he can just change his title to private consultant, get himself a big fancy coop, and continue laying the same eggs he’s laying now. And there’ll be no more egg from him splatterin’ onto you because he’ll lay all his eggs in the dark. That’s where he’s laid most of them over the years, anyhow.”

“You’re nearly as smart as he is, darling,” said George. “But if there’s one thing I am, it’s loyal to my friends. How can I possibly even pretend to fire the Rove-bird?”

Just then the Rove-bird, who pretty much had the run of the White House, goosestepped into the bathroom. “I heard what you said,” he said to George. “That’s not a very nice thing to even think, much less to say.”

“Honest, Rovey. I wouldn’t fire you. I need you more than I need my wife.” Laura, upon hearing this, broke down sobbing and desperately tried to cover her half-shaved nekkidness, but George didn’t pay her any mind. “But if you stay in the White House, I’m afraid that one day you’ll be duckwalking, or perpwalking, out of here in chains. And how would that help advance the fortunes of your beloved RNC? Can’t you just resign and take a gorgeous new coop over on K-Street?”

“K-Street!!!? K-Street?! Hell, I’m more President than YOU are. You’d be NUTHIN’ without me,” squawked the Rove-bird.

“Just tell me one thing,” said George. “And Laura, you take your hands off your privates and put your fingers in your ears when the Rove-bird quacks.” George paused dramatically then asked, “When Bob Novak phoned you to tell you about HIS egg, how did you already know about Valerie Plame? Who gave you YOUR Plame-egg, nameless though you claim it was?”

And just then a another pale, balding, figure, a Halliburtonian chickenhawk who had made many visits to the CIA, poked HIS head in the bathroom and put his finger to his beak, and all were frozen in silence as the Rove-bird dared not open his bill.