Tuesday, October 19, 2004
"Come on, Karl," Pat Robertson says, "it's time. We're ready to roll." He's got that look of a Boy Scout hot on the trail of a merit badge. Merit badge in killing Lincoln.
"I, uh," Rove says, "I can't seem to move."
"What," Robertson says, "paralyzed? could be part of your post-dildonic symptomatology, along with the thirst."
"No," Rove says, "I can move my muscles. I just can't get up."
"Hm," Robertson says, and bends in close to inspect. "I don't see any reason for you--here, let me give you a boost."
He takes Roves arms and pulls gently but steadily. Rove grimaces, then cries out in pain.
"I think I'm--attached," he winces, feeling down under his rear end with both hands.
"Attached?" Robertson says. He looks closer, digs a little at the soft wet dirt Rove's been sitting in. "Oh, shit," he says.
"Do what, now?"
"You've put down a taproot," Robertson says. "Maybe some smaller roots too. Probably looking for water."
"So what you're telling me," Rove says, his eyes glinting hard and brittle through his glasses, "is that I'm some sort of fucking plant?"
"Maybe," Robertson says. "You never know with these Olympian spells. We need to send somebody out to buy a copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Give us some idea of what to expect."
"Well can you, I don't know, dig me up or something?"
Robertson shakes his head. "Could be dangerous," he says. "Could even be fatal. You could wither right up. No, what we need is a big pot on wheels. They carry em at Wal-Mart. We'll dig up the dirt around you and transplant you right into the pot. Take you with us on the Million Mantid March."
"As a potted plant?"
"Could be symbolically powerful," Robertson says. "Make George look like a good steward of the land."
Rove looks at Robertson sourly. This is no time for joking!
But he can't help it. He cracks a smile. Robertson cracks one back. When Dick Cheney comes in a minute later to see what's holding them up, they're both giggling hysterically.