“By this time next year – for God’s sake, don’t fuck it up, Bill! – I will have been President for one whole day. I’ll be sleeping in the big four-poster bed, and Bill will be sleeping in the smallest guest bedroom in the White House. (Memo to self: check floorplans to see which one is smallest and furthest from mine.) With Secret Service men in the hall round the clock to make sure he’s sleeping alone. (Memo to self: make sure his detail is all male, and old, and ugly, just to make sure.) I’ll tell him the CIA got word of a plot to kill him, so it’s for his own good. He always knows when I’m lying, but in this case that’s a good thing: show him who’s boss. Who’s the boss now, Bill? Hahahahahahaha! (Memo: check to see how long it would take to redecorate the smallest bedroom and make it really uncomfortable. Too cold, with a bed that’s too short for him and way too narrow for two, and not enough blankets, and mice. Can I have mice in his bedroom and make damned sure they never get near mine?)
“By this time next year – for God’s sake, don’t fuck it up, Bill! – that moron Bush, and that fat bastard Cheney, and all their minions (God, I love that word) will be out in the cold. Maybe even literally! Can I arrange to have their cars inspected as they leave, and all their luggage unloaded and searched very slowly and thoroughly right out on the White House driveway, and make them all stand around in the cold for at least an hour? I could claim I heard that they were taking White House property with them, and of course I don’t believe it, so thorough inspections are for their own good. Maybe my men can find a souvenir paperweight or two, or maybe I can have some planted, or why not just leak it that way to the press? They’ll eat that shit up, they always do, and I can pretend to be all solemn and forgiving and more-sorrow-than-anger and shit. Or maybe I could claim the CIA told me there was a bomb in someone’s luggage. A bomber in the White House who only kills those who are out of power? Lame, but they’ll eat that shit up.
“By this time next year – for God’s sake, don’t fuck it up, Bill! – A, and B, and C, and especially D will be in the White House with me. Also E, and F, and G. E’s a fat slob, and totally inept, and F’s too vicious even for me sometimes, but the looks on the faces of the Rethugs when they see them riding in the front gate in their limos will make it all worth while. (Memo to self: make sure they have competent deputies. And remember not to call the assholes ‘Rethugs’ or ‘Repugs’ – or ‘Assholes’ – out loud. Time to schedule a couple more hours of smiling exercises with H? Check with her agent to see when she can fit me in, then arrange a fund-raising trip to SoCal.)
“Best of all, by this time next year – for God’s sake, don’t fuck it up, Bill! – I will have personally fired J, and K, and L, and M, and (won’t they be surprised!) N and O and P. And Q. And I forgot R, and S, and T, and U. Who was that chef who annoyed me that one time, but Bill wouldn’t let me fire him? Find out if he’s still there, and fire his ass. If he’s retired, or changed jobs, order up a tax audit or an immigration investigation or something. Maybe both. Jesus, how could I forget V? And W, and X, and of course Y and Z. (Memo to self: make a detailed list, and make sure it has an innocuous title.) Wait, maybe I shouldn’t fire them personally. Have them fired without even acknowledging that I know they exist? That needs more thought . . . WWSD, What Would Saul Do?
“Now what was the first thing I did? I mean what will it be? I really need to spend less time on these fantasies, and more time campaigning. But they’re so delicious! Better than sex, or at least sex with Bill. So what should I do first? How about firing the entire staff of the White House Travel Office, just to show I can? Who works there now, anyway? Who cares? It would show the bastards who’s boss now – I mean then. Fuck, time to stop dreaming and worry about crushing Obama first. Like a bug. A big juicy bug. A big juicy bug with a little human head saying ‘Help Me’ as it wiggles it’s crushed legs and antennae and it’s gooey white bug-blood oozes out on the pavement. Wait, that’s another fantasy I don’t have time for now . . . .”