The sullen President sat in his office. The

The sullen President sat in his office. The election returns were in and he had lost big. He contemplated his options. He was still Commander in Chief, so perhaps if he

started some kind of war and made some inspiring speeches, the people would rise beneath him. Slowly he took the box from the second drawer and opened it. He chose the gold dart.

He threw it at the emerald dart board. Number 13. The panel flipped around revealing the satlink. He dialed Chavez. Let's get a riot going. He poured himself a single malt

liquor 40-ounce straight down his gullet in one gulp. He belched and waited for Chavez to pick up the phone. It was time for a regime change and he was

in the right place, at the right time. Why wasn't Chavez picking up? Goddamn oil reserves weren't going to exploit themselves, goddammit! He might not be a financial wiz, but he

knew if he didn't get these Chavez brothers off his ass he wouldn't see the new year. Slamming the phone down, he put on his thinking cap. It

was a natty tan number with a pink and black burberry check band. His thinking was that it takes a certain type of man to carry off a hat like that. His thinking was, of course,

a product of his father drunken bouts of haberdashery. He reminisced about waking him at noon, pleading for him to make a nifty panama so food would be on the table. His own style,

oatmeal. He loved oatmeal and it worked wonders for chicken pox.