My father is a newsman, and during the election season he heads down to D.C. to do reporting. When Rumsfeld resigned, I knew that he would be thrilled. Donald Rumsfeld is one of my father’s least favorite Americans. When I heard the news, I gave him a call.

“Whozat?” He said.

“It’s Chris, Dad.” I said.

“Yessir. Yes sir that is exactly…that is exactly who you are.”

“All you alright?” I asked.

“Who’s this?” He asked in return.

“Chris, Dad. Your son.”

“And a damn good one,” he said. “A damn good son who does his father proud, let me tell you. I love you, boy.”

“Dad, are you drunk?” I asked.

“I love you. For you are my boy. My only son. Whom I love.”


“Love. Love. Love. And let me tell you.”


“Let me tell you. LET ME TELL YOU! Something. That is interesting.”

“Dad, listen to me.”

“About love. That is very interesting about it.”

“Dad, I wanted to ask you about-”

“Love is like um…love is like what I feel. For you. My one and only son. It’s like a rainbow in that way.”

“I wanted to ask you about Rumsfeld.”

“RUUUUUUUUUUUUUMSFEEEEEEEEELD!” He bellowed. He dropped the phone and picked it up and began screaming into it. “RUMSFELD IS DEAD! He is the EARTH beneath my SHOES and I spit on that earth! He is a lowly worm that has been CRUSHED BENEATH MY SHOES!”

“Yeah,” I said between his screams. “Yeah it’s pretty exciting.”

“Hold on. Hold on,” my dad said. “Hold on I want you to talk to a correspondent from NBC. We’re all here. It’s a madhouse. We are so….we are so gone right now. Wait talk to Larry. LARRY! LARRY! Come here and talk to my boy.” A man picked up the phone.

“RUUUUUMSFEEEEEEELD!” He screamed. “The beast has toppled! The fucking beast is toppled and DEAD! RUUUUUUUUMSFEEEEEELD! DEAD! AS A BITCH!”

I hung up. Such is the world of journalism.

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