As a grateful nation grinned happily at the “warm smile and kind of eyes” (or is it the other way around?) of the Dear Leader that gleamed at them from the thousands of Commemorative Plates (as seen on TV!) which cluttered its walls, cabinets and desktops and as the unwary Barack and Michelle prepared to tuck into their poisoned meal and as Hillary, Joe and John held their breath in suspenseful anticipation…

“You miserable pig!” screamed Pierre the head waiter, slapping the hapless wine steward’s face “How could you (slap) allow zis (slap) to happen?! (slap slap slap). “How could you let us run out of Train Nocturne? You know it is le plus favourite wine of cher Monsieur le Président-Elect?”

“Désolé, mon chef” snivelled Marcel. “Désolé! I shall reorder at once!”

“Trop tard, fool! Too late! I must find a substitute acceptable to heez Cheecago standards –and queeckly. Plus vite!”

“Perhaps ze Chateau Margaux ($400)? Or ze St-Emillion ($550)? Or ze Lafitte Rothschild Pauillac ($600)?”

“Such trash! Non, non and non! Nozzing but ze best pour Monsieur Miracle – I shall bring him ze ‘Oiseau de Tonnerre’!”

“Mon Dieu!”

“Do eet, pig!”

**
“Great Foster’s Ghost! What’s the holdup?” snarled Hillary. “Why won’t they eat?”

“Yeah!” echoed Joe.

“Yeah, yeah” re-echoed John.

**
“Well, if you don’t want any I’ll just tuck in” said Barack.

“Fine” muttered Michelle, her arms folded tightly. “You do that”.

“I will”.

“Okay”.

**
“Here we go” whispered Hillary. “Making history one more time…”

**
“This sure looks good” said Barack, piling his plate high. “I could eat a horse”.

“There’s probably one in there if you dig deep enough” murmured his irate consort.

“Ah, Monsieur et Madame Président-Elect!” fluttered Pierre. “A million pardons pour ze delay. I have brought a special wine – ‘Oiseau Tonnere’ – to accompany your meal. On ze house of course!”

“Of course” said Barack. “‘Wawso dee Ton Air’? What’s that?”

“’Oiseau de Tonnerre’. It means ‘Thunder Bird’, Barry” scolded Michelle. “You monolingual dope”.

“Shall I pour?” inquired Pierre, unscrewing the cap.

“May wee! Tray bong!” said Barack, demonstrating his mastery of languages, while Michelle sniffed disdainfully. “Fill ‘er up!” she said, holding out her glass, which Pierre filled with practised skill.

“Well, here’s to me – to us, honey!” said Obama, raising his glass.

“Whatever” said Michelle, draining hers.

**
“Oh, crud” Hillary groaned. “That’s the wrong wine! I never put anything in that one. Did either of you, by any chance, you know…add anything to that one?

“Nuh unh” said Joe.

“Unh nuh” said dyslexic John.

“Well, maybe. Kinda. Sorta. Possibly” said a new voice. The murderous trio wheeled around.

“You!” they gasped. “Nancy!”

“Hi kids!” grinned Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. “It’s always the one you least expect, isn’t it?”

“But why? What’s in this for you?” wondered Hillary, as Joe and John nodded in puzzlement.

“Have you ever read this ‘Constitution’ thing? No? You should; its way interesting” advised Nancy. “According to this, if the President and the Vice-President die or are “unable to perform their duties” the President becomes…”

“Oh no!”

“Unh huh. Yours truly. First female Prez. Cool huh? Better than you could do, Hill”.

“Except everyone’s still alive” said John, who never missed a trick. “You didn’t think of that!”

“Yes, they are” said Nancy, with a little smile. “And alive they’ll stay – but in a coma so deep it’ll make Ariel Sharon look hyperactive”.

They could hear sudden cries of alarm from outside. A quick glanced showed the First Couple face down in ‘Pork Obama’, surrounded by shouting waiters and Secret Service guys.

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” mumbled Hillary. “Uh oh” gurgled Joe, suddenly remembering he was VP. “Uh oh” and then he keeled over. “Not me!” wailed John. “I’m nobody! I’m nothing!”

“True, but you always bugged me, John; so, nighty night” said Nancy and the lanky New Englander hit the floor.

“What about me?” choked Hillary. “You didn’t…”

“Naaah” said Nancy, draping an arm over Hillary’s shoulders. “Don’t sweat it. We’re pals, right? Say, listen: are you familiar with the concept of a ‘cabinet of rivals’?”

Outside, the Only Man Who Didn’t Vote for Obama scuttled with a furtive, haunted step along the frozen sidewalks of Chicago.

Men, clutching their commemorative plates, pointed at him and muttered oaths and angry threats. Dogs snarled and strained on their leashes. Mothers pulled their children back and covered their innocent little eyes.

“Don’t look, Timmy! Don’t look at the bad, dirty man!”

Inside, the hungry eyes of Hillary Clinton (for who else could it be?) watched as the unknowing Barack tried to feed Michelle the perfidiously poisoned pork. The gleaming fork hung suspended before the First Spouse’s lips, adamant in their refusal.

“Come on, honey” coaxed the clean and articulate quasi-divinity. “Eat it up”.

“Go ahead…eat it all up! Eat it up and die!” Hillary hissed. “Come on! Don’t keep me waiting!”

“Hi Hill! What up?”

“Joe! Oh my gosh – you made me jump!” exclaimed Hillary, quickly hiding the lethal bottle behind her back.

Vice – President Elect Joseph Robinette Biden, for so it was, grinned in that goofy trying-too-hard-to-be-friendly way of his.

“Nice to see you, Hillary. What’re you doing here?”

“Um, nothing. Nothing at all. What are you doing here?”

“Er, I too am doing nothing” lied Joe, stuffing the loaded syringe into a jacket pocket.

“Well…fine. Carry on, then”.

“I will. You, um, carry on too”.

“I will”.

“Okay”.

“Hi guys!” interrupted yet another voice. “Whatcha doing?”

“John Kerry! What are you doing here?” exclaimed the astonished progressives.

“Um, nothing. Nothing at all” replied the shellac-haired traitor, stuffing the blow pipe and quiver of poison darts down his pants leg. “Why do you ask?”

“Er, no reason”.

“Well…fine. I am doing nothing as well”.

“As are we”.

“Good”.

“Colleagues, colleagues” said Hillary “We’re all gentlemen, aren’t we? Our party has always stood for candour and truth, so let us not dissimulate. We can be honest about why we’re here, lurking in this darkened kitchen with the cooks and staff all drugged and tied up in the corner, spying on America’s First Couple, can’t we? We can explain all of this, right?”

“Um…not exactly” stammered Joe. “Er, maybe not” gulped John.

“Sure we can! We’re here because of our boundless admiration for the man who has captured the hearts of both our party and of America, right? We just can’t get enough of him!”

“We can’t?”

“No, we can’t! We’re not here because we’re plotting anything or hoping for some misfortune to befall him which would enhance our own positions. The idea! We’re not barbarians. We have nothing but love in our hearts for this upstart – this statesman – and there is no place within us for the burning heat of anger or the harsh taste of bitterness or…disappointment. Cruel, cruel disappointment…”

Hillary’s voice kind of trailed off there.

“You said it, Hillary” enthused Joe. “We love the guy! That’s our story and I’m sticking with it”.

“Me too” chimed in John.

“Well, fine” said Hillary. “I suppose there’s no harm if we just hang around for a few more minutes, feasting our eyes on them, so to speak. See if they keel over in agony. I mean…enjoy their meal. Yeah, that’s it. Their last meal”.

The six eyes of the disappointed Democrats now turned toward the unsuspecting couple. Their breath caught in their throats as…

Wow! Cliffhanger city, huh? Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion (if I can think of one).

One customer who had been at the store for a while became concerned and walked over to the car. He noticed that Linda’s eyes were now open, and she looked very strange. He asked her if she was okay, and Linda replied that she had been shot in the back of the head, and had been holding her brains in for over an hour. The man called the paramedics, who broke into the car because the doors were locked and Linda refused to remove her hands from her head.

When they finally got in, they found that Linda had a wad of bread dough on the back of her head. A Pillsbury biscuit canister had exploded from the heat, making a loud noise that sounded like a gunshot, and the wad of dough hit her in the back of the head. When she felt the dough she thought it was her brains. She initially passed out, but quickly recovered.

Linda is a blonde and an Obama supporter, but that could be irrelevant.

And what does one give for Obama Day? Maybe an empty box wrapped in brown paper?

Relax. Take another day off.

SR: you’re assuming that they understand the concept of cause and effect…of course, I’m being facetious. (One of only two words in the English language that uses all of the vowels only once and in order – no ‘y’ doesn’t count, unless you use it facetiously.)

Me too Colonel, but what more could we expect. I mean the best we could come up with for state quarter was Helen Keller. It’s like we go out of the way to prove that we are stupid P.C. or something.

BTW, is this the same county that has more registered voters than people?