Free Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey Page B

of imagination. From there, everything falls into place. Instead of Edith, the guy you live with who drives the snowmobiles would be “Ed” the dingbat. And of course Levi is “Meathead.” So let’s start making some calls!
Meanwhile, I’ll work on your PR. If we’re going to be seeing each other, we have to be honest, so don’t take this the wrong way: You tend to polarize people. There, I said it. But it’s not your fault. The people polarize themselves. Everyone thinks baseball’s the national pastime, but a big chunk of the constituency has always had a dick-hard need for second-class citizens, and the loss of white-only drinking fountains has finally caught up and made them lose their fucking minds. To watch the news (if you did), you’d think half the country was illegal Latin Muslims from Arizona holding gay marriages at the World Trade Center. But back to your polarity, which I’ll boomerang to a super advantage. People think you’re only about money. And just because you quit your old job. What’s wrong with that? It’s the all-American story. Hundreds of campaign volunteers working tirelessly on your campaign, residents counting on a diligent administration to steer the ship of state, but you saw Russia out your window and took a valiant stand against communism by selflessly bagging your responsibilities for millions in book deals and appearance fees. Now, that’s character.
And if money’s what it will take to get you to go out with me, so be it. I know this guy in Africa named Bobo, and I’m just about to come into $50 million, which I’ll gladly split with you. In fact I might need your help on that because I think it’s supposed to be hush-hush. I’m sure you have contacts who can help me move the money, and we’ll probably also need to get Bobo out before they use the face-spreaders. If I’m going too fast, you can just write all this on your hand.
Finally: the press. They’re so unfair: “Which newspapers do you read?” “What parts of the Bush Doctrine do you support?” Those are disingenuous “gotcha!” questions. If they possessed any honesty or courage, they’d directly ask, “Do you read?” and “Do you know what the Bush Doctrine is?” So next time they give you some bullshit pop quiz, here’s what you do, and trust me: America will be totally behind you on this. You kick ’em in the balls! (Or in Katie Couric’s case, the twat. You know you want to. And then you can yell at her, “That’s my Bush Doctrine, bitch.”)
Can’t wait for our first date! Please wear those jeans. Rrrrrrrrow!
The Next Mr. Palin,
Serge
    Coleman finished reading and looked up. “How are you going to get this to her?”
    “I’ll just send it through her website.”
    “So you really think you’ll get a date? . . . Serge?”
    Serge had become locked on the view through his binoculars. He tossed them in the backseat and threw the Road Runner in gear. “We’re on!”
    Fifteen minutes and ten miles later:
    A limo sat on the side of a dark access road next to the Dolphin Expressway.
    A carjacker with a shaved head threw the chauffeur over the trunk and stuck a gun in his ear. “Don’t move!”
    A second assailant in dreadlocks ran to the side of the stretch and aimed a TEC-9 in the back window. “Get the fuck out of the car or I’ll blow your motherfucking heads off!”
    The limo people watched the man outside with the submachine gun as if he were on TV.
    “What are we going to do?” said the chief of staff.
    “Is this glass bulletproof?” asked the president of Costa Gorda.
    One of the bodyguards shook his head.
    “Then I suggest we get out of the car.”
    A fist banged a window. “I said get the fuck out right now!”
    A back door slowly opened. “We’re coming out. Don’t shoot.”
    The president emerged with raised hands. He was seized by his jacket and thrown face-first against the side of the vehicle.
    Soon they were all lined up, hands against the roof. The shaved head