Osama, Obama, & Me

On the day after Osama bin Laden was brought to justice I ran into Vince McMahon, the Head Hookah of the WWE, at Tommy Burgers.  It's my favorite place to eat in Washington DC.  I was there being debriefed by the CIA.  It went quickly.  Pakistan.  "I wasn't there."  Bin Laden.  "Never heard of him."
     Vince was in Viet Nam with me, but he was there as a conscientious objector.  Why wasn't he conscientiously objecting from the United States?
     "Because," he once explained to me, "who's gonna notice one more conscientious objector in a country filled with conscientious objectors?"
     Even back then McMahon knew how to shine the spotlight on himself.  What I remember most about Vince was that he couldn't wait to get out of Viet Nam.
     "Vince, I haven't seen you since the fall of Saigon."
     "Yeah, I couldn't wait to get outta 'Nam."  See?  I told you.
     "So what brings you to Washington?"
     He chuckled.  I knew I was going to get an honest answer from him, because McMahon's an honest man.  He'll cheat you out of millions, but he'll be upfront about it.
     "I'm here to write the script for the killing of bin Laden," he said, simply.
     "Is that a fact?" I answered, not quite meeting his eyes.  It was more a statement than a question.
     "What, did you think our government was going to release the true story?  Do we even know what the true story is?  No, the story is gonna be so fake even Hulk Hogan will be laughing at it.  Just like the budget negotiations.  One hundred billion in cuts?  Please, there was no way that was gonna happen.  Defunding Planned Parenthood?  What, and offend half the voters?"
     "The women?"
     "No, the men!  Can you imagine the cost in child support payments without Planned Parenthood?  Why, in Congress alone..."  He paused, and then got back on track.  "The outcome of the budget negotiations couldn't have been more predetermined than if it had been foretold by Nostradumas."
     "So what's the story on bin Laden?"
     "Nobody can make up their minds.  He's killed in a firefight.  He's not killed in a firefight.  He uses his wife as a shield.  He doesn't use his wife as a shield.  He dies from a bullet to the head.  He dies choking on a ham sandwich while singing California Dreaming.  We're all over the place." 
     His cell phone went off. 
     "Oh, oh," he said, reading his text message.
     "What's up?"
     "I've gotta go.  It's from Obama.  He wants me to help him explain how higher taxes and six dollar a gallon gasoline will be good for the economy."
     He looked at me and I could almost swear he was sincere.
     "Sometimes," he said, wistfully, "I wish I was back in 'Nam."
 

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