Talk About a Buzzkill

So let's just say you're BFF with this guy and his wife in Texas.  Then, one day, the guy tricks the Supreme Court into making him president.  Four years later, a befuddled country elects him again, frightened by the microphone tricks of Howard Dean (those loud noises sure can be scary). 

You move to Washington to hang out with the gang, and eventually they make you White House counsel.  But one night, at a lock-in at Camp David, you tell your BFF that you think it would be really super-cool to be a Supreme Court justice.  He sort of laughs, but then over his third O'Doul's, he tells you that if he ever got to nominate someone, he'd pick you, as long as you pinky-finger swore that you hated abortion and would overturn it in a second if you could. And he'd know if you could, because his eyes are really lasers.

Then, like, OMG!  All the sudden IT HAPPENS. The whole country suddenly knows about every guy you ever dated, all those stupid questionnaires you filled out so someone would give you a frickin' job already, and you're having to trot out your large-rod curling iron to get your bangs JUST RIGHT every day.  Life is like, totally great.  And, you get to hang out with your BFF even more than ever.  He even says you have grace, which, fundamentalist code word or not, you think secretly means he thinks you're, like, hot.  You respond in kind, batting your thickly-mascaraed eyelashes, and tell him he's brilliant.  You know that works on him, since, like, even Laura knows better than to call him that.  But he's your BFF, so it's okay. 

Anyway, then the entire world turns against you. They call you a "crony," which, dude, is like one letter away from being "crone."  WTF?  In an effort to keep up appearances and the height of your bangs, you finally decide the best thing you can do for your BFF is to withdraw.  Plus, he like made you promise to do that at Camp David.  It was the addendum to the pinky swear:  "But, like, if this makes me look bad, you have to stop."  Of course you agreed. The plan was so brilliant, it could like, never fail.

Right?

So now, instead of getting to dress up and go talk to the press about your BFF every day, you just have to go back to your stupid office and feel dumb.  Here you thought you were getting a lifetime appointment to the Big Dance, and instead, you're stuck along the wall by the gymnastics pads, just like in high school.

Poor Harriet.  Props for giving it a try, old girl.  Thank GOD you didn't get in.