Since resigning as the Secretary of Defense last November, Donald Rumsfeld has mostly kept out of the public eye, raising worries that he may be building some kind of walking tank with which he intends to menace the world’s commerce. Fortunately for us, Rumsfeld’s daily activities have ranged more towards the mundane. Even more fortunately for us, Rumsfeld has been diligently recording his thoughts and activities as a service to future historians. Armed with this knowledge, a false beard, and a specially trained parrot, I’ve managed to obtain a few pages of his journal, which I present here as a service to my readers.
Monday, March 5th
A moving truck pulled up to the house next door this morning. The Peerson’s had moved out six months ago, their place sitting unsold the whole time. Someone finally purchased it last month, and the neighborhood’s been abuzz with excitement about who our new neighbors will be. I stepped outside to watch as the movers started unloading the truck, when a blue SUV pulled up in the driveway.
It was Colin Powell, and his family.
“Oh for fucks sake.” I muttered under my breath. Powell used to work down the hall from me at the office. He was a loser, and I hated him.
Powell stretched, and looked up at his new home, before turning his gaze to me.
“Oh for fucks sake.”
I snarled at him, “I thought I told you to never show your face in this town again.”
He sighed, in that irritating self-superior way of his, and replied, “No, you said that I shouldn’t let the doorknob hit my ass on the way out. Then you attacked me with a doorknob. At the time, I wasn’t sure why you had a doorknob sitting on your desk, although it later occurred to me that you might have had it there specifically to hit me with.”
I walked quickly up to Powell and slapped him in the face. “That’s one.” I said.
He reeled, clutching his jaw. “One what?!”
“For correcting me.”
“I didn’t correct you. What are you retarded?”
I slapped him again.
I turned on my heel and walked away.