From chicagotribune
As the late arrival in the race, Perry has already proved his bona fides as a world-class fundraiser. Members of his finance team says "it is going like wildfire" and their California schedule backs up the claim.
Note: any resemblance between the events depicted below and reality is purely coincidental... or perhaps just wishful thinking on the part of the diarist...
Turns out, all that fundraising left our Secessionist-in-Chief pretty exhausted. After a couple of drinks with some overzealous donors who cornered him in the lobby of his 5-star hotel, he returned to his room, admired himself one last time in the bathroom mirror, smirking over that “wildfire” remark, then got into bed to watch some TV before falling asleep.
Read on below the billowing wildfire smoke...
He awoke around midnight, realizing that the TV was still on. Some sort of religious epic movie, the Ten Commandments or something. A guy in a moth-eaten robe who looked like Charlton Heston was on a mountain with some kind of burning shrub. A voice boomed, and the pounding headache reminded Rick that those last few shots of single malt Scotch were probably a bad idea.
Fumbling for the TV remote, he could have sworn that the Heston guy called his name. “Rick. Rick Perry”.
Yeah, right. Where the f*ck is that remote? Cursing, he realized it had slipped off the satin comforter onto the carpet. His back hurt way too much to even consider climbing out of bed to retrieve it. Damn!
“Rick. Rick Perry”, the deep voice continued. “Be still and hear me”.
The Heston guy was looking right at him! The fire was still burning, but now it wasn’t just the one shrub. It looked like a suburban subdivision. A bunch of houses were burning, and a pick-up truck (a nice F-150 King Ranch Edition!) burst into flame and exploded. OK. This is clearly not The Ten Commandments. But what the hell WAS it?
“I bring you a message, Rick. A message from God.” The Heston Guy was pointing at him, scowling.
OK, I’m getting’ that damn remote if it’s the last thing I do, Rick thought, struggling to get out of bed.
“BE STILL!” boomed the voice. “You have caused great offense. You are called to account. Did you or did you not claim that you were ‘called by God’ to seek the presidency?”
“Well, I…”
“YES or NO?”
Rick could have sworn that the floor shook beneath his bed.
“It’s a simple question, Rick. I’ve got no time for your flip-flopping. Did you or did you not…”
“Yeah, alright. I did. What of it?” muttered Rick, looking around the dimly lit room. This had to be one of his idiot Aggie friends pulling some kind of stupid joke on him.
“WHAT OF IT?” The Heston guy bellowed.
Jeez, this guy was loud. Rick’s head was pounding.
“WHAT OF IT? You’re running around telling people that God selected YOU? Meanwhile, that unfortunate Mrs. Bachmann is telling people that God picked HER. Do you have any idea how this makes him LOOK?”
Rick sat up suddenly, wincing in pain. “How does it, what? How does it make him look? What the hell kind of…”
“SILENCE!” roared the Heston guy.
This time, the entire room shook. The TV picture went all squiggly. Fire burst forth from under the bed, crackling and filling the room with smoke. This set off the sprinkler, but it was spewing gasoline instead of water.
Terrified, Rick scrambled out of bed, fumbling on the nightstand for his handgun, stumbling towards the door. Where the hell are my security guys? Someone’s trying to f*ckin’ kill me. What the hell?!
Opening the door, Rick gasped as he saw the corridor engulfed in flames. Looking for the exit, he screamed in panic as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the Heston guy! He was wearing that same stupid robe, but with a pair of New Balance running shoes. Weird.
Stranger still, a herd of terrified Longhorns rumbled through the fiery hallway, bellowing as the flames singed their coats. He barely avoided being gored. The corridor walls fell away, revealing fire in every direction. Ancient pine trees exploded into sparks. People were running, carrying screaming little kids. Cars were burning. Dogs were running and yelping, their fur trailing sparks. The wind howled, whipping the flames, and cars, trucks, buildings, fences, and telephone poles burst into fire and smoke blotted out the sun.
Jeez-us H. Christ. Get me the f*ck outta here. Rick studied the scene in disbelief, forgetting for a moment that the Heston guy still had his hand clamped onto his shoulder.
“Rick”.
Holy crap! Rick could feel the Heston guy’s breath on his ear.
“Look around you, Rick. Your land is burning. Your people are suffering. You have turned your back on them. You have left them to burn while you remained here, worshiping at the altar of your donors. You have taken the Lord’s good reputation in vain. You have mocked the suffering of your people with lame jokes about your fundraising catching on “like wildfire”. You must answer for your sins.”
Instinctively, Rick reached for his wallet, wondering what it would take to pay off this jerk. Message from God, my ass.
Too late, he realized that his wallet (and his pants) were back in the burning hotel room, and he was clad only in a floral silk bathrobe. Damn!
He turned to run, but everywhere he turned, burning trees were falling around him. He tried to scream through the billowing smoke.
“Rick. Sir… Mr. Perry.” The Heston guy’s voice continued in his ear. Someone was shaking him. Another voice in the background whispered “Ya think we should call 9-1-1?”
“Um… no, he’s okay. I think. He musta had another bad dream. I’ll take it from here. Sorry to get you guys outta bed for nothin.’”
“No problem. That’s why we’re here. Call us if things change.”
Footsteps. Whispers. A door opened, closed. Someone was helping Rick back to bed. Crap! They had all seen him in that floral robe. Well, he’d make sure nobody made any smartass remarks about that.
“Come on, sir. Let’s get you back to bed. You need your rest. We’ve got ourselves a big day tomorrow shakin’ down those big spenders.”