Revolution
Laura Moreno finished unloading the donated household goods she had scrounged up for Angela de la Paz's family, stuff that was probably much more valuable to them than the hundred hours of pro bono work she had already done on their behalf with nothing yet to show for it. Laura looked sadly at the large bed which Angela shared with her grandmother and sister. They had so little, but they loved each other and were probably happier than Laura was. When a woman on dialysis three days a week can smile at you and tell you everything is going well, you realize you need a better attitude, thought Laura. Was this family really that optimistic and joyful, or were they putting on a brave face for Laura?
Laura returned home to pound out another job application, desperately trying to get away from the purgatory of Prince and Prowling, where Laura'a underpaid position with no benefits was enabling greedy male partners to install a partners-only game room stocked with pool tables, wide-screen TV, and bourbon, while the greedy female partners ordered flowers delivered to themselves every Monday morning and got manicures every Friday afternoon. They didn't know how tired Laura was of serving their kingdom by day and taking bread crumbs to the peasants by night. Laura wanted a revolution.
Charles Wu wanted a revolution, too. At least, he did today. He was a little ambivalent about these things, and being a double-agent was not helping him decide. He sat quietly in Dupont Circle, listening to some perky high school marching band while idealistic 20-somethings milled around so cheerfully you would swear they were in a soft drink commercial if not for the 50-somethings milling around gloomily with tobacco-stained teeth and urine soaked clothes. What a strange place this country was. His contact at the State Department sat down. Wu knew the man only as C. Coe Phant. "Is Israel going to nuke Iran?" asked Wu softly, staring intently at the sports pages. "Only the blood-sucker knows for sure," C. Coe Phant replied, typing fake emails on his PDA. They turned the conversation to Asia.
Over at the Watergate, Condoleezza Rice was sitting in her red leather recliner, reading intelligence dispatches from Tel Aviv, Tehran, and Islamabad. She sipped her pomegranate/tomato/cinnamon/goat milk/dill/gingko smoothie. Things in the Middle East were finally getting interesting again! She looked out the window at the dark, churning Potomac and smiled without opening her mouth, but a little red liquid dribbled out just the same. Beneath the water's surface, Ardua belched with contentment. Ardua believed this would be the year she could come out of the Potomac and start the revolution!
Back at Dupont Circle, the freaks living in Dupont Down Under were also discussing whether this was the year to start the revolution. They didn't know how much longer The Beaver would be able to keep building dams against the encroaching presence of the secret government underground. They also knew that the death of Gerald Ford fulfilled Stage 17 of the Prophecy, but they were arguing about what Stage 18 was because nobody had ever written the Prophecy down. They agreed to defer discussion of the Revolution until the high school marching band stopped playing the tubas and snare drums.
Over at the White House, butler Clio was washing up the dishes after dinner, annoyed at the loud band music being performed in the Rose Garden. It was always something with these people, she thought. She was so damned tired, she could barely imagine playing with the twins even a half-hour before bedtime. Sitting on the rug in front of the TV, Reggie and Fergie were chattering away in their secret twin language. Fergie said it was time to start the revolution, but Reggie said it was not.
Outside, catbirds on the First Lady's balcony began imitating the sounds of the band music drifting up from the Rose Garden. She unconsciously hummed along, typing up important, anonymous comments in her chat room devoted to helping American boys. If she could fix American boys, everything else would follow! The First Lady loved American boys. Something radical had to be done, and that was it! Character, leadership, integrity. Down in the Rose Garden, President Bush sat glassy-eyed while the band played on, entertaining his guest from one of those little countries he had never heard of before the Iraq war. The band was playing a song written about the American Revolution--the first one. President Bush stifled a yawn.
Laura returned home to pound out another job application, desperately trying to get away from the purgatory of Prince and Prowling, where Laura'a underpaid position with no benefits was enabling greedy male partners to install a partners-only game room stocked with pool tables, wide-screen TV, and bourbon, while the greedy female partners ordered flowers delivered to themselves every Monday morning and got manicures every Friday afternoon. They didn't know how tired Laura was of serving their kingdom by day and taking bread crumbs to the peasants by night. Laura wanted a revolution.
Charles Wu wanted a revolution, too. At least, he did today. He was a little ambivalent about these things, and being a double-agent was not helping him decide. He sat quietly in Dupont Circle, listening to some perky high school marching band while idealistic 20-somethings milled around so cheerfully you would swear they were in a soft drink commercial if not for the 50-somethings milling around gloomily with tobacco-stained teeth and urine soaked clothes. What a strange place this country was. His contact at the State Department sat down. Wu knew the man only as C. Coe Phant. "Is Israel going to nuke Iran?" asked Wu softly, staring intently at the sports pages. "Only the blood-sucker knows for sure," C. Coe Phant replied, typing fake emails on his PDA. They turned the conversation to Asia.
Over at the Watergate, Condoleezza Rice was sitting in her red leather recliner, reading intelligence dispatches from Tel Aviv, Tehran, and Islamabad. She sipped her pomegranate/tomato/cinnamon/goat milk/dill/gingko smoothie. Things in the Middle East were finally getting interesting again! She looked out the window at the dark, churning Potomac and smiled without opening her mouth, but a little red liquid dribbled out just the same. Beneath the water's surface, Ardua belched with contentment. Ardua believed this would be the year she could come out of the Potomac and start the revolution!
Back at Dupont Circle, the freaks living in Dupont Down Under were also discussing whether this was the year to start the revolution. They didn't know how much longer The Beaver would be able to keep building dams against the encroaching presence of the secret government underground. They also knew that the death of Gerald Ford fulfilled Stage 17 of the Prophecy, but they were arguing about what Stage 18 was because nobody had ever written the Prophecy down. They agreed to defer discussion of the Revolution until the high school marching band stopped playing the tubas and snare drums.
Over at the White House, butler Clio was washing up the dishes after dinner, annoyed at the loud band music being performed in the Rose Garden. It was always something with these people, she thought. She was so damned tired, she could barely imagine playing with the twins even a half-hour before bedtime. Sitting on the rug in front of the TV, Reggie and Fergie were chattering away in their secret twin language. Fergie said it was time to start the revolution, but Reggie said it was not.
Outside, catbirds on the First Lady's balcony began imitating the sounds of the band music drifting up from the Rose Garden. She unconsciously hummed along, typing up important, anonymous comments in her chat room devoted to helping American boys. If she could fix American boys, everything else would follow! The First Lady loved American boys. Something radical had to be done, and that was it! Character, leadership, integrity. Down in the Rose Garden, President Bush sat glassy-eyed while the band played on, entertaining his guest from one of those little countries he had never heard of before the Iraq war. The band was playing a song written about the American Revolution--the first one. President Bush stifled a yawn.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 8:46 PM
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