From the desk of Margie Preston – our quirky and irreverent political reporter.
It looks like President Austin Bain is using his time in office to come up to speed. Did you see how I took yet another sex scandal and did a double entendre?
But in all seriousness, critics of the President were quick to charge that he was cheapening the role of the office and no other voice was as loud as the ever-present critic of the administration, Speaker of the House Bob Walker.
“The President has a job to do that the American people elected him for, and I suggest he spend more time doing it, and less time learning the ins and outs of all the pretty Washington ladies,” the Speaker commented to me when I asked him what he felt about the current situation.
Allies are resolute however that the President really hasn't done anything wrong. In fact, they sort of have a point. Was there anything really wrong with a man finding comfort, or whatever you want to call it, in the arms of a woman? The President isn’t married. He’s not got a girlfriend as far as we can tell. No one exclusive.
Additionally, he hasn’t given up any state secrets. He hasn’t done anything criminal. He hasn’t lied about it. In fact, it’s quite the opposite according to those closest to him. An almost TMI like culture has developed around the President when he recounts his past experiences with women he has been known to associate with. Stories that are best “left in the locker room and not bandied about with men who no longer have the drive, stamina, or ability to match them,” according to one source.
So if anything, this has been just an embarrassment once again for a White House that has become used to having to excuse a single P
resident’s extra-curricular activities. And while there may be nothing criminal about it, in the court of public opinion, the real loser here is Austin Bain.
And America.
America needs a decider. What we have instead is President Player.
That’s right. That’s my new name for Austin Bain apparently given to him by the media. President Player. And it’s this man’s job to somehow keep his finger ready on the nuclear launch codes all while he’s fixing schools and bringing back jobs.
I don’t know if we’re supposed to be excited. Or scared.
Because President Player has so much promise and potential. But it seems to get lost every time an attractive woman comes into the room. Will we be on the road to making America Tremendous Again? Or will it all end with the flushing of a condom down a toilet?
Only one man knows the answer to this question, and his answer will impact 320 million Americans.
And that man we call President Player.
It’s going to be a long, long four years. That’s for sure.
4
Austin
"'President Player' is breaking news sir," Tracy, my Chief of Staff says, slapping the front page of today's New York Daily Journal down on my desk.
"What the fuck? You think I live under a rock? I know; I've read the headlines on my phone about a hundred times today," I reply, shaking my head. The truth is, the headlines make me sick. I look across the oval office, beyond the serious and somber faces of my trusted staff, across the curved walls, and I realize that I'm furious.
I can feel my heart kick in my chest with tension, and I shove one balled fist into the pocket of my suit pants.
Why is the press focusing on my personal life, instead of what I'm accomplishing?
Can't they see what I'm doing? Is everything about scandal and click-bait?
Where the fuck is the interest in the common everyday American? Who’s struggling? No one cares about that. More about what kind of pussy my cock is going into.
I look back at Tracy. She's a petite woman, but don't let her size fool you. She has the tenacity of a bulldog.
"My personal life isn't the issue," I say, shaking my head. "I've been through great fucking pains to keep my personal life totally private during the campaign."
Tracy nods her head and says, "That's true, but there were still rumors."
"Sure, there were rumors," I reply. "Rumors, rumors, rumors. It doesn't stop. There are always fucking rumors, but nothing was ever provable during my campaign. Nothing is ever provable—campaign or not. Don't you agree?"
"Sir, that's exactly the problem," Tracy says, trying to drive her point home.
"I'm not following," I reply, raising my eyebrows and pressing a finger to my temple. I can feel my pulse throbbing just beneath my fingertip.