Sorry, folks, but it's not torture to have a little water poured on you. You want torture? Try a two-hour piano recital from Condoleezza Rice.
They said, "Dick, for the sake of the country, we need you in a safe, secret location, out of the public eye." I knew they were right, but, still, I longed to be away from those salt deposits and back above ground.
"Let me be their target," I said. "Put me out front. Let me be your poster boy. Let me be your bait. I'm not afraid of being a target."
But McCain's people wouldn't buy it.
Paulson looked dazed, confused, like a deer in headlights. "It's all turning to shit," he whispered. "Everything is collapsing! We're going down!"
I slapped him hard across the face, leaving a red blotch on his cheek. "Get a grip," I barked. "I'll call Rove. He'll fix this."
Mark my words: There will be another terrorist attack. Thousands will die. Millions will suffer. When it happens, America will see at last that we were right. History will vindicate us, and we'll receive the respect we rightfully deserve. Not that I would ever want that, of course.