"The Oligarchs in Russia put us to shame," Said Frank Carlucci to Donald Rumsfeld as they pumped iron together in the Super Secret Trilateral Commission Gym.

The television was set to CNBC. Lawrence Kudlow was going on and on about how the tax cuts would spur investment, create jobs, and boost the economy. Both Frank and Donald were laughing so much, they had to stop what they were doing.

"God, that guy's an asshole," said Rumsfeld.

Frank took on a more serious tone. "They don't pay any taxes in Russia," he said. "Free, democratic society. Those goddamn oil barons own the bloody country."

"Could be us," winked Rumsfeld, "But for free elections."

Carlucci nodded. "What I couldn't do with a hundred million dollars more than what I have now. I could build myself a little launching pad for my very own space shuttle. I could make a climate controlled balloon for my son-in-law. You know, I hate the guy, but he's family, you know."

"I'd like my very own missile defense system," mused Rumsfeld.

"Hey, look."

The television was now showing Bush getting off the plane to meet Putin. As he strode across the tarmac of the airport, something happened, and Bush disappeared.

"I'll be," said Carlucci. "It's a freaking pothole that just opened up and swallowed old Dubya."

"Goddamn Russians haven't privatized their airports. That'll teach them to rely on government funds." Rumsfeld began counting his fingers. "Let's see...Cheney has a heart attack, Powell resigns on account of his son being a jerk, Hastert goes down in an airplane crash...that leaves...me...me in charge."

"Fancy that," said Carlucci. "You know, I've always fancied Idaho."

"It's yours, Frank." Rumsfeld said, patting him on the back.

May 31, 2003

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