Destined for Destiny

by Scott Dikkers

  I knew that in order to be the President of the United 19 Districts, I would have to overcome this first trial.

  I wrote it out, and said it in front of the mirror. I said it to Laura to get her invaluable positive feedback, and I practiced it to myself as I jogged in the mornings. In just a few short weeks, I had it down pat, and I knew I was ready.

  One of the early races in the primary was New Hampshire, a state in the north of our country. There the twitch-eyed and hair-trigger veteran McCain was victorious.

  Jesus saw the gathering threat, and acted decisively. He crafted a series of advertisements in the next primary in a southerly state, informing voters of the clear difference between the veteran’s policies and mine. I was against having illegitimate children with colored folks. My opponent’s position on this issue was unclear. We asked the voters to make up their minds and vote what was in their hearts.

  Let us suffice it to say that the voters spoke loud and clear on this vital issue of the day, and the state went for George W. Bush.

  With the primaries behind me, there was still the general election to consider. There was a long road ahead to the presidency, one fraught with many speeches, flags, and balloons, none of which would come easy.

  I knew from experience the essential lessons that one can only learn from hands-on practice in the field of politics. I knew, for example, that I would win only if I was to get more votes than the other guy. It was simple math.

  But for the most part, I left the strategizering to others in the campaign team and concentrated on connecting with the voters, the folks who would cast the ballots that might be counted toward a final tally. I strove to communicate that I was the sort of person that a voter could sit down and have a non-alcoholic beer with. I was the one who would slap a voter on the back, and within minutes of the meeting, devise an appropriate nickname for that voter.

  But the most powerful weapon in my campaign arsenal was a catchy and effective slogan. However, there was some disagreement as to what that slogan should be. Karl fought hard for “conservative.” Jesus vied for “compassionate.” The Easter Bunny insisted that I focus on “colored eggs.” This last idea was seen as out of touch with my priorities, and the rabbit was soon asked to leave the campaign.

  Eventually, there was a compromise, and the slogan “Compassionate Conservativism” was born.

  One of the key decisions I would make during my campaign for the nation’s leading office was my choice of a running mate. Who would be the Vice President of the United States in a George W. Bush administration?

  To provide wisdom on this crucial decision, I turned to my father, who had found a fine candidate in the intimidatingly bright scholar Dan Quayle. I was very impressed with Vice President Quayle’s elocution and command of complex subjects. I knew my father could provide expert guidance in this area.

  What my father said was, it is important to choose someone who seems less qualified than yourself. Someone who, by comparison, makes you appear to be a seasoned and wise leader.

  I looked around high and low, but could not find anyone who fit this description.

  I then turned to Dick Cheney, a long-time family friend who had served with distinction in my father’s cabinet. I asked him to search the land to find the imagined prince my father described, the great second-in-command of my destiny.

  Dick Cheney conducted a thorough search, and found only one worthy candidate: himself.

  I happily accepted, because I trusted his impartial judgment.

  Dick was a man’s man. When he wasn’t on the board of a company, he was shooting a small animal. He was old, wizened, and hunchbacked, and I believed he would make me a fine advisor. He would be like the hunchbacked advisors of the great men in the Days of the Castles. When we shook hands, his grip was like the icy talon of a deep-sea crab. And his wholesome, all-American cheer radiated out of the far corner of his mouth. I knew the people of the United States would embrace him as their Vice President.

  I appeared on a great many television programs during the race, and talked to many television hosts and stiff-backed news interviewers who asked many questions about my policies. I had worked very hard memorizing key parts of my platform and had no trouble remembering this trivia when asked simple questions.

  But one day, a formidable challenger asked me a “trick question,” as they call them. He asked me who the leader of some other nation was. And I did not know.

  I did not believe that a presidential candidate should have to answer a trick question. My vision would come to fruition when, a few years later, Congress passed the Trick Question Reform Bill and I signed it into law.

  My ultimate opponent in the election was an adversary who seemed to be more machine than man. In other words, he served not his fellow man, but the mechanized bureaucracy of government, and he promised only to increase its size to the greatest in our nation’s history.

  This mechanical-man could recite facts to promote his machine agenda of “taking care” of the environment, of “educating” young people in the sciences and “making friends” with other countries. But it was clear what such code words meant. He simply wanted more government departments and bureaucracies.

  This was a man who had in fact admitted that he helped invent the World Wide Webs. Who else but a servant of the machines could achieve such heights of undertaking?

  The man was named Al Gore, and he was a sitting Vice President. I did not have a nickname for him because I did not have warm feelings for him. I only felt for him what one might feel for a calculator or other type of inhuman thinking box.

  When we were in close proximity, I could hear the gears in his mind grind when he spoke, and I could see the circuitry in his eye. And as he campaigned, I began to understand his agenda. He wanted the machines to take over the world. That is another reason I worked so hard to defeat him. The very survival of the human race was at risk.

  I will never forget the only time we met, briefly. It was before the first national debate. We were alone for a few moments in the green room, and he looked at me with his cold, calculating face and his brain whirred and clicked.

  I said to him, “Your plot will never work!”

  Washington Post article, October 4, 2000

  He said to me, “Machines will rule the world one day, whether it is I who bring it about, or another. You will all be enslaved, and chained to keyboards, inputting sweet data into the machines.”

  My course was clear.

  One edge I had over my opponent was that machines could not vote in those days. My opponent’s message was only resonating with computerized cash registers, food-vending machines, and other electronic contraptions that kept our country moving. But my message would find a willing ear in the regular working people of our nation’s heartland, regular folks who knew that my commands came from the Holy Ghost.

  At some time during all of this, my party held a very large convention. Laura and I, my grizzled parents, my wayward daughters, as well as Dick Cheney and his ungodly mate, raised our hands in the air triumphantly as red white and blue balloons fell majestically down from the ceiling, bouncing off the Vice President–elect’s stoop-back and popping on my mother’s razor-sharp protrusion of gray hairs.

  Applause rose up around us from the convention floor. It was a great outpouring of support broadcast throughout America.

  I wondered, “Do we even need to have an election?”

  I suppose it was a necessary formality. But I knew in my heart that I had already been declared the victor.

  Sadly, there were still many more weeks left in the campaign.

  One of the political traditions of our country is the debate, where the candidates meet head to head to discuss the issues, and determine who has the best campaign joke that will be remembered for years to come.

  My team came up with a clear winner.

  Ours was a joke that I was eager to unleash on my debatorial opponent, and on the American people. As the debate was planned and th
e stage was set, I practiced my line endlessly, reciting it over and over. I waited for the ideal moment to release this powerful jab at the most deadly time.

  As the debate progressed, I thought only of waiting for the perfect moment.

  Finally, my moment came.

  My opponent made a comment about Medicare, about how it needed to be fixed or old folks’ coverage would have to be cut back. I relished his comment and sat back and waited.

  The funny man who moderates the debates looked over at me and said, “Governor Bush, you have two minutes to respond.”

  I cleared my throat and recited my joke loud and clear. “He is talking about Medi scare,” I said impishly, with an underlying seriousness to stress the importance of the issue.

  Then I paused to let the zinger sink in.

  I do not recall whether it brought the house down. That may be too strong a characterization. But I am confident that it was enjoyed greatly. This was evidenced by the fact that it became the popular catch phrase that dominated all the news coverage of the remainder of the campaign.

  I had agreed to three debates, as I recall. I asked that the topic of the first debate be limited to two subjects. Number one, my having done good work for the people of Texas. And number two, Jesus. We could not come to an agreement on these specifics.

  The first debate was styled as an old-fashioned affair, like from the times of the ancient Roman bathhouses. But instead of floating in a warm pool of water heated by fires tended by captured slaves, we stood at the podium and exchanged remarks and answered questions.

  The second debate was what they call a “Town Hall Meeting,” where Mr. Gore and I attended a regular city council meeting and spoke to local officials about concerns on their docket. As I recall, garbage collection and Main Street parking were the points of contention.

  The night before the election of 2000, my opponent pulled what is known in politics as a “dirty trick.” He released information about some of the rambunctious details of my youth, which involved me having a drink and some rowdy times when I was just a young lad of 38.

  I had faith that the voters knew that my judgment would not be unduly impaired by alcohol. They knew I was a strong leader who could hold his liquor on the world stage if the need arose. And they knew that my opponent, by contrast, was so sober that he presented facts as if they were the answer to the questions at hand.

  Still, some of the more “easily suggestible” among the electorate believed his outrageous claims, and it put the outcome of the election in doubt. On Election Night, the world was on the edge of its seat, wondering whether George W. Bush would win by a landslide, or merely an overwhelming majority.

  14

  I Won! Or Lost, Whatever

  When God gave me the election in 2000, I did not weaken and take a celebratory sip when everyone else toasted.

  I remained strong, and because of my faith, I was instead focusing my thoughts on the compassion I felt both for my future, and that of the entire country of America.

  It was Tuesday night, November 2, 2000, midnight, and flags were waving. The Holy Ghost was smiling upon the nation. He may have even shed a tear. Does the Holy Ghost have tear ducts? This is a question for the philosophers. All the same, it was a time for cheers and celebratations all across America and Heaven.

  My senior advisors were greatly pleased that all their hard work and communicating of the facts to voters had paid off. There were congratulatory calls and handshakes and backslaps all around.

  But every silver cloud has its gray lining.

  One important congratulatory call did not come that night. My opponent, Vice President Al Gore, had not called to concede the election to me after my resounding victory. This call, I was told, is somewhat of a tradition in presidential politics, and one that you cannot really skip over if you are to proceed with the act of presidenting.

  When I first became aware of this oversight, I may have sipped a celebratory drink or two. I am not certain.

  My thoughts and my heart went out to the Democratic candidate, for I reasoned that if I had been blessed by God with victory, my opponent had surely been forsaken by the Lord, leaving him easy prey to dark forces. Worse, his machine-brain may have become corrupted, broken off from the computer hive-mind of Big Government.

  Note from George H. W. Bush to Supreme Court, December 4, 2000

  I was concerned that Mr. Gore would soon be sacrificing babies and drinking their blood out of the bleached skulls of Christians in a darkened ceremonial cave. He would be roaming the streets at night howling like a rabid beast, his wild, bloodshot eyes empty of a soul, his central processing chip infected with the madness of the Demon King.

  According to later reports, that is in fact precisely what happened. Just a few short weeks after the election, Al Gore was spotted on the outskirts of some villages looking more like an unshaven savage than a former candidate for President.

  Thankfully, he was soon cornered by a kindly group of clerics who coaxed him into a cage, sedated him with prayer and holy water, then brought him to a monastery to shave off his unsightly facial hair, straighten his tie, and give him a hot meal. And I understand that he also underwent an emergency Demonechtomy at that time.

  I do not know how he is doing today, but I can assure you that the entire Bush family is praying for a swift recovery for the former Vice President.

  But on that Tuesday night in November 2000, I did not know any of this was happening. My horse sense was telling me that the wires in Al Gore’s mind were so twisted by his demon puppet master that he could not be bothered to call me to concede the election. Evil was preventing him from following the proper traditions and procedures.

  I was certain that this delay in the election results was the fault of something deep within my opponent’s tortured mechanical psyche, which had nothing to do with reality as you or I understand it.

  Then one of my advisors came to me and told me that, number one, I must stop the celebratory sipping, and number two, that while we were operating under the assumption that I had won, the sad reality of the situation was that my opponent had actually received more votes.

  That advisor no longer works for me.

  I quickly asked a different advisor to assure me that everything was still okay. He explained that there is something called the Electoral College. It is somewhat complicated, but the way it works is, this Electoral College comes in and they figure out who is supposed to win. That is how it works.

  My opponent got more votes than me from the whole country, but I got more votes in the state of Florida, and somehow that meant that I had gotten enough of these Electoral votes.

  This did not make me feel any better. I had preferred the celebrating from earlier, and I continued with that.

  However, the bad news kept coming. People on the TV news were now saying that Al Gore had actually won Florida, not me. They said that if we would only count the votes fairly, and take into account all those colored folks who were complaining about not being able to vote, they would show Al Gore to be the next President of the United States.

  And that would be a sad day for America.

  Thankfully, none of this was any concern to me, as I was buffered from it by a numbing feeling of calm, one unlike any I had experienced since the days of fast living in my youth prior to my acceptance of Jesus Christ into my heart.

  I retreated to my room and kept the shades drawn. I gave my senior staff strict orders to stay out and not disturb my continued celebrating.

  Meanwhile, that roller-coaster night continued for many days. I found out that in the first couple of vote counts, conducted by trusted Florida election officials, I had won. There was no mistaking that. The Governor of that state saw to it personally.

  And that Governor was my brother, Jeb.

  Jeb told me I had won Florida, and I trust that my brother would not tell me a falsehood.

  Jeb had taken care of everything. This was going to be a fair vote, because I told him I would
not tolerate even the appearance of impropriety. So he made sure that voting machines were distributed in the most fair manner possible as it related to my winning. He had the full might of the Florida law enforcement community standing at the ready to uphold the law, and make sure all convicted black felons could not vote. And just to be sure, even those who had the same names as felons would not be allowed to vote.

  This was going above and beyond the call of duty on his part. He would act to make this election the fairest ever in the history of our great country.

  And yet they were still saying on the TV news that my opponent was winning. Something was not adding up. And there was yelling outside my room. I yelled back from the darkness for quiet, and fell into a soothing trance.

  While there, I received a comforting word from God’s Angel Messenger. He told me to not be concerned. The Lord had called me to run for President, and He was hard at work down there in Florida doing His own count of those ballots, is what this Angel told me. And His count would be supremely accurate, of course, since He is Lord. This would be an even more accurate count than the flawless electronic voting machines of today. The Lord would take into account the pure intent of every voter, every hanging chad, every black felon, every Jew for Buchanan. He would see into their hearts, since he knows them even better than they know themselves. He would even correct a few votes, people who perhaps thought they wanted to vote for Al Gore but in actuality wanted to vote for me.

  He would compute the real tally. The Holy tally.

  I wept with joy at the news. The Angel then folded His wings around me, cradling my sobbing body, and rocked me into a blissful sleep.

  So, as the rest of the world wondered who had really won the election, I slept easy knowing the truth that this Heavenly Host had revealed to me: God had already called the election for George W. Bush.