All the Presidents' Pets by Mo Rocca

Like the flag at Iwo Jima, though, the cigarette was still there. This could well be her last breath and she knew what to say.
    â€œFrom . . . my . . . cold . . . dead . . . hands.” Other restaurant patrons had gathered round and began screaming—a couple of them even tried to help me, to little avail. Then with her trembling left arm Ann felt her way around the Bloomin’ Onion to a bottle of Corona. She carefully lifted it up and smashed it over Colmes’s head, creating a jagged weapon. Before she could plunge it into her enemy’s face, the waitress came to her senses and jumped back.
    â€œAre you fucking crazy?” she asked. It was a reasonable question.
    Ann shook her head, amused. “Democrats. Always weak on defense.” She took a sip of water, stood up, and hobbled out of the restaurant still puffing away.
    Hannity was halfheartedly holding a wadded-up napkin against Colmes’s profusely bleeding head wound. “I’m sorry for bleeding on the tablecloth, Sean,” stammered Colmes. Hannity wasn’t listening but looking off in Ann’s direction. “She’s going to go hook up with Drudge, I know it,” he muttered desperately before giving his ailing cohost one last look. “Sorry, guy.” He instantly let the napkin drop and chased after Ann. “Hey, Ann, wait up!”
    It all seemed so surreal. I turned to Candy.
    â€œPolitics,” she shrugged, then turned to the waitress. “Could you wrap up the rest of the onion?”

11
    Federalist Smackdown
    Â 
    â€œTake a deep breath. You’re hysterical,” Helen said.
    I’d made my way back to her lair; I’m not sure why. Something told me she’d give me perspective. But first I needed to be talked down. I was hyperventilating.
    â€œAnd Ann was so angry and Candy had a gun and the waitress’s flesh was burning and Colmes was just bleeding everywhere.” My voice started to crack. “Oh, Helen—”
    Helen pulled my head to her breast and dabbed it with a cold compress. “There, there, Colmes’ll be fine. The truth is, he likes getting roughed up. That’s his job.” Helen was so motherly and I didn’t want to reject her, but pressed up against her like that, my nose immediately began itching. Was there a cat somewhere? I backed off as I let out a big sneeze.
    â€œBless you, dear!” Helen exclaimed.
    â€œPardon me. Anyway, Helen, I couldn’t believe the disgusting display. I can appreciate people disagreeing but it was so uncivil, so deeply personal. Violently
personal.
Maybe I’m sounding naive.”
    â€œYou’re sounding naive. If I’ve learned anything about Washington culture, it is that it’s about extremes. On the one hand you’ve got the cocktail party set who like to make nicey-nice. With them you can’t tell the difference between a San Francisco Socialist and a Birmingham Bible Belter. Then you’ve got the true believers, also known as the Screamers. The problem with them is they don’t just believe they know the truth. They
know
they know the truth.”
    â€œOkay, you can call me a drip, but why can’t anyone just talk calmly, honestly—and substantively? I’m sure that the Founding Fathers would be appalled—”
    â€œDarling, you’re sounding like a drip. You don’t think the Founding Fathers could go on the attack? They were the ones who started all this partisan nonsense. Sure, there were a few who tried to keep discourse on a higher level. President Washington was pretty ‘dignified’—which is a nice way of saying he was boring,” she added under her breath.
    â€œBoring?”
    â€œOh, please. The man’s biography was written by a guy named Parson Weems. Jefferson on the other hand? What a life. Kitty Kelley would have gone to town. But I digress. Washington didn’t like conflict and more than anything he feared the