Death from Above

A dark shadow looms over the horizon, chilling the spines of those in its path with skeletal fingers of fear. Black-robed dictators scamper in terror. Ruth Bader Ginsburg--deep in thought-- leaps off the throne at the alarm, hiking up her skirt, dropping the roll of tissue, its every delicate sheet imprinted in a complete copy of the Constitution. House and Senate members burst forth from the Capitol Building like rats from a sinking ship. A passing intern, wearing a "Monica-in-training" t-shirt, becomes a hapless victim of the mewling herd, trampled underfoot. Hillary Clinton screeches and punches, pushes, and claws her way to the head of the rabble, planting a fist in a pulpy face, a stiletto heel in an eyeball, a knee to the groin. Her hair is trailing, lipstick smeared, mascara running. Gone is her omnipresent composure as she shoves Barney Frank down the steps. He falls, always a bit precarious in high heels, and the result is one that would make a professional bowler proud. John Kerry stubs his pinky toe in the melee. For now, tears stream down his face; but later, he'll stand in front of many clicking, flashing cameras with utmost decorum, and relate the circumstances of his injury to an ooooohing and ahhhhhing press. Thus the creation of the Peacetime Purple Heart. As the elite flock to places of refuge (underground bunkers, mountain fortresses, and local pubs), the media sit in collective hushed anticipation, waiting for the spark that will ignite the commentariat. And worse than a Japanese Zero winging toward an aircraft carrier, it comes! Ever so slowly, it traces its contrail across a leaden sky! Closer! Ever closer! Is it some renegade missle, some mile-wide advance scout-ship for an extraterrestrial invasion, bent on raining hellfire and death from the air?

Nope. It's an off-course Cessna, a two-seater plane crewed by a pilot and student, who got lost on their way to an air show. They come no closer than three miles to the White House.

May God have mercy on us all.