Tubularsock and I have been inventing our own conspiracy to get rich quick.
It has been proven that people from the politically left--progressives, collectivists, socialists, union leaders, commies, environmental whackos, do-gooders, civil liberturds, liberty-taker-awayers, lazy whiners, and activists who can't get a job except holding a protest sign-- really don't want to change the system such that people like Mr. Trump and Ms. Clinton won't rise too high. The left are as addicted to the drama of politics as everyone else--and would much prefer to read about the salacious and incorrigible details (real or imagined) of the Trump administration than to actually fix things.
So the plan was to use Tubularsock's vast journalistic and political connections to get me a job in the White House. Going from history, the average employee lasts about six months there. But I should be able to fill my notebook in that time and pass it on to Tubularsock. He would then use his unique writing style to create a best seller. We were going to be so rich in telling how the rich exploit the poor that we would need to set up a few offshore accounts to reduce our taxes.
Tubularsock told me to "go now." So I put on my best and only suit and headed for the Calgary Airport. Rather waste time going through all those connecting cities to get to Washington DC., I just rented a private Leerjet, maxing out two credit cards: Calgary to Washington non-stop. That sacrifice proves my dedication to the leftist cause!
I got to the front door of the White House and rang the doorbell. A cyborg-type guy with black suit, white shirt, deep sunglasses, and two blue-tooths answered.
"Tubularsock sent me," I said.
"Come this way," said Mr. Cyborg without hesitation. We went down a flight of stairs, two-rights and a left, down three flights of stairs, three lefts, up one flight of stairs, a left and a right after passing some poster of the current president, straight through two intersecting hallways, got on an elevator and went six floors down. Then left, go passed the potted rubber tree, right, left again to the "Office of the New Hires". I learned from James Bond movies that it is best to remember the path out of a building. The chicks dig that kind of intellect!
The cyborg said to the clerk: "Here is the guy Tubularsock recommended."
She handed me a badge that said "New Guy #37".
"Your office is Room 121." the clerk said. That was it! No security checks, no citizen checks, no civics test, no Republican Party loyalty check, no checking under the fingernails for Democrat Party fungus: I was going straight to work! The Tubularsock must have a lot of power and influence in Washington to bypass the usual protocols.
So the cyborg escorted me to my office. It was back to the elevator, up four floors, left-left again passed the men's washroom sign-right-left, down one flight of stairs, one right, one long walk to the end of a hallway, and one more right, and there was office #121.
I was greeted by my four interns: Stephanie, Tiffany, Tiffany, and Tiffany. They told me that I was the Secretary of Nuclear Bored Games, and my job was to devise strategies for deflecting the media away the nuclear war with North Korea when we reach that state of affairs.
They were already at work. Stephanie had a plan to deflect media coverage of the nuclear war by increasing the coverage of an event of no consequence: the Russian tampering of the election. Tiffany was comparing blue prints from 18 engineering companies for a big wall. She had a list of pros and cons of each wall. If that list was dumped on America, every American was likely to have an opinion of which wall was best and then the contest for shouting loudest and longest would begin. Tiffany was looking for buildings in St. Petersburg to rent as the American embassy in Russia. The last time an embassy changed locations, it took so much attention away from government that a tax bill passed to make rich people even richer. Besides Moscow was too far away and too cold for ambassadors. And Tiffany was drafting a bill to charge an import tariff every time cold air moves from Canada to the USA. Not only is this a deficit buster, it would unite Americans of all political stripes and stars, and woe to any Congressman who votes against it. Surrounded by so much competence, I decided to focus on organizing my desk and let these capable people to their jobs.
On the third day, I finally got my paper clips in my paper clip DIA and my thumb tacks in my thumb tack DIA. Some guy called Veep stuck his head in my door and said: "You're fired".
"Why" I asked.
"The boss doesn't like prime numbers today" he said.
Not thinking about myself, I asked, "What about Stephanie, Tiffany, Tiffany, and Tiffany?"
"They will be reassigned" Veep said.
Thinking about myself, I asked "What about my three days pay?" Hell, three days of a White House Secretary's salary should almost pay off my Learjet bill.
"The Secretary to Pay Secretaries was New Guy #11. He didn't get your paperwork done in time." Veep seemed to have an answer for everything.
Two Cyborgs extradited me out of the building. They took different path and my James Bond memory skills were then really put to the test. As they pushed me out of the back door, they took away my New Guy #37 badge. "We'll need this again" the bigger cyborg stated.
The only useful thing I learned was that DIA stands for "Desk Impingement Area." If you say this acronym enough times in the White House, it makes you sound smarter than you really are. But that's not enough to write a bestseller.
Stuck in Washington with no money and maxed out credit cards, I turned to Tubularsock. He said "Go back to your Leerjet rental. Everything is taken care of."
I was back in Calgary in eight hours. Inside my mailbox was a bill for $23,000 from Tubularsock (and US $ at that). How he could get the Canadian Post Office to deliver a letter faster than a Leerjet trip shows how powerful he really is. Don't mess with this guy!
I really tried to save the world!