Inside The Loony Room

The Loony Room is buried deep in the catacombs that lie beneath the White House. It sits to the right of Cheney’s Hidey Bunker, where he goes for snarl augments whenever he feels his nastiness waning, and to the left of the special guest suite where the party hides Republican luminaries who need to lie low until some media firestorm blows over. Newt Gingrich stayed there until the newspapers forgot about his fall from grace; Trent Lott recently moved out, and Tom Delay’s about to move in, bringing with him enough ethics violations to fill an Ethics-Violations-A-Day calendar.

But the Loony Room is something else entirely. It’s where Bush goes to make all of his major policy decisions.

It’s staffed by two men who go by the names Lefty Bobblehead and Ignatius Beef Stew. Lefty is a former South African mercenary who wakes up to twenty thousand volts of shock therapy every morning. It makes more of a man out of him, he says, and also drives away the demons who hover around his head like a cloud of gnats. Ignatius is the former Jester to King Henry VIII, recently revivified by Karl Rove, who, in addition to his duties as deputy chief of staff, is also an Arch Necromancer. Doodleplex was able to infiltrate the Loony Room at the beginning of Bush’s second term, posing as a Democratic Pinata. More on that later.

On this particular day, nothing much was going on. Lefty Bobblehead was carving dozens of little puckered mouthes onto the forehead of a marble bust of Beethoven, while Ignateous Beef Stew was campering around the room, making strange noises and screaming at all the lampshades that displeased him.

Bush walked in. He seemed nervous. “I need appointments,” he said.

Ignateous was in the act of accusing a lightbulb of being a Papist spy. He paused, turned around, and said: “The parasols galavant like jackhammers!”

“Powel’s gone, Ashcroft’s leaving, the UN Ambassadordiship is open,” said Bush, who was clearly agitated. “I need bodies.”

“Stiffen the bowels! The bowels are destiny!” Beef Stew bounded over to Bush, executed a deft somersault and then stood on his hands, so that his feet, clad in large clown shoes with mouthes painted on the toes, were level with Bush’s face. He waggled them, and the mouthes seemed to move. “Have you seen my volcano?”

“I need suggestions now,” said Bush, unphased.

Lefty put Beethhoven down, and let out a long, incoherent scream. “AAAAAAA!!!!!!”

Beef Stew joined in: “AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

Lefty: “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllbbbbbertooooooooooooo!!!!”

Beef Stew: “I am pure magma! Roil beneath my igneous wrath!”

But Bush was nodding. “Alberto Gonzales. I like it. What do you think, Attorney General?”

Lefty nodded. “Yes, his torture credentials will come in handy.”

“Good. How about State?”

“Well, you’ll need someone with no experience at all.”

“And,” said Beef Stew, tearing off his clothes and smearing pecan pies on his chest, “she needs to have failed utterly in whatever she’d doing now.”

Bush thought. “Condi?”

“Yes. Good.”

“Great. How about UN Ambassador?”

Beef Stew grimaced. “Haven’t we blown that up yet?”

Bush: “Not yet, no. We need them for elections and stuff.”

Left said: “Well, how about Madeline Albright? She has experience, she’s well-liked, and it would be a sort of a peace offering to the Democrats, perhaps helping to break the state of gridlock that’s gripped the Congress ever since you took office.”

Bush stared. “What?”

Lefty nodded, then picked up a lead pipe and whacked the nearest Democrat Pinada, a likeness of Ted Kennedy. It ruptured, and a cascade of bleeding hearts spilled out.

“I guess that make sense,” said Bush, after a moment. “I mean …”

“Gotcha!” screamed Lefty, and dove into the pool of hearts, splashing around like a man writhing in lava. “Pick Bolton! He hates the UN, and everybody hates him. Plus he wants to blow the place up. Also he has a beard!”

“Fuck you, rest of the world!” said Beef Stew. “And stop standing on my earmuffs!”

“Good. Ok, one more. World Bank.”

Beef Stew found a large spool of yellow Caution tape, unrolled it, assumed an oratorical stance, and began to read. “Wanted: World Bank President. Qualifications: Must have engineered a disastrous and unnecessary war that led to thousands of deaths, and then followed up with an occupation strategy that plunged the region into a state of total anarchy. Must enjoy making decisions in an echo chamber surrounded by lackeys and yes men. Must deny responsibility for any and all wrongdoing. Zero financial experience preferred.”

“Rummy?” said Bush. “But I need him to insult the Europeans and annoy the press.”

“You’ve got McClellan for that.”

“True. But still.”

Paul Wolfowitz walked into the room, and said: “Has anyone seen my Gauntlets of Infinite Denial? I’ve got a hearing in an hour.”

“Wolfy,” said Bush, smiling. “Just the World Bank President I wanted to see.”