Three Men and a Bunker
The meetings are top secret, of course, and held annually in a secure basement somewhere in the nation’s capital. George W. Bush and Bill Clinton provide the snacks (and occasional imported cigars), while President Barrack Obama stocks the bar with wine and spirits for their annual boy’s night out, or as they like to call it, Bunker Bash.
“So good to see you guys,” Obama says, doling out fist bumps and shoulder lean-ins. “It’s been a rough year and wow, do I need to vent!”
The men grin and exchange knowing glances as they move in unison to the small trunk perched on the pool table. Inside are matching navy cardigans with red-striped sleeves and a varsity-like “S” on the left breast. They somberly don the garments, reach for pre-filled tumblers of bourbon and toast, “To the States!”
Savoring the first collective gulp, they nestle into their custom leather chairs. Bush tosses out a can of mixed nuts and a box of Ho Hos.
“Who wants to start?” asks the host, as he crosses his legs and fumbles for a pack of Nicotine gum. “What’s the latest, G.?”
“I’m blocked,” Bush says. “Painting isn’t as easy as you might think. There’s so much to consider … light, composition … sometimes I just jump in and stroke my brush without thinking it through. That doesn’t always work out.”
“I know what you mean,” says Clinton. “Premature strokes can come back to haunt you. The canvas doesn’t lie. And neither does a dress …”
“Guys … guys,” says Obama. “Can we please talk about my job for a minute? I’m dealing with crazy be-headers over here and I need your advice!”
“Well, B., handling conflict abroad is kinda like art,” says Bush. “It’s all subjective, so just go with your gut. Can we sing our new club theme song now?”
Obama stares, unable to find a response. He shifts his focus to Clinton. “B.C., help me out over here. Whatcha got?”
“It’s complicated … you want me to have a news conference to explain it?”
“No, I need ideas! Options! A plan!”
The three ponder in silence.
“What if you say that ISIS is making nukes? Then just go in and blow those suckers away!” says Bush.
“G., have you learned nothing?” asks Clinton. “Just state that you’re not really going to war, even though you are. When the press gets curious, simply reply, ‘It depends on what your definition of war is.’ OMG, it works every time!”
Obama sighs. This isn’t the conversation he was hoping for.
“You know what? I’ll tackle this one by myself, fellas. I always do.” He raises his glass. “Cheers, and now it’s time to sing.”
Let it go, let it go!
Can’t hold it back anymore.
Let it go, let it go!
Turn away and slam the door.
I don’t care what they’re going to say.
Let the storm rage on.
The cold never bothered me anyway.