The Vice President; Washington - fictitious letter from VP Al Gore; humor

National Review, Feb 26, 1996

The Vice President

Dear Rusty,

You'll never believe it! Tipper just gave me the best gift ever -- and it isn't even my birthday!

I was sitting in my study, reading that new book, Primary Colors. It's a new novel by an anonymous author loosely -- and I mean loosely -- based on our '92 campaign. The whole town is trying to figure out who wrote the darn thing. Personally, I don't really care. It's not a funny book. It's a mean book. If Bob Dole wasn't so busy campaigning and if I wasn't sure that he wasn't on our Clinton-Gore '92 Bus Tour, then I'd be convinced that he wrote it.

Anyway, while I was reading, Tipper wheeled in a giant crate. She giggled excitedly while I opened it -- it was a HealthRider. Sort of a cross between a see-saw and a bicycle.

"Tipper!" I shouted happily. "This is the best present ever!"

"I knew you wanted one," she said.

"Wanted one?" I said. "Tip, I needed one. Watching those clips from the State of the Union -- "

"I know, I know."

" -- and listening to Al Jr. say, 'Who's that fat guy sitting next to Newt Gingrich?' But aren't these things expensive?"

"Don't worry about it, Al," Tipper said mysteriously. "I've just had a little windfall. Pretend like I invested in cattle futures, if it eases your mind."

"But why, Tipper? Why the surprise?"

"Well," Tipper said, "it looks like it's going to be a long, hard campaign -- "

"You think I need to shape up for a race against Bob Dole?"

"Okay, okay. You look fat, Al. And I don't want to have to let out the waist of your inauguration trousers."

"Okay, then," I said. I appreciated Tipper's honesty. And before I knew it, I was bobbing up and down on the bicycle seat just like they do on the commercial. It was a cozy Sunday afternoon, and one of the few quiet ones we've had for a while. The girls were at the library studying for exams, Bill was in New Hampshire at a pancake breakfast, Hillary was at the office of Wilmer, Cutler, & Pickering, and Al Jr. was quietly surfing the 'Net until his mother saw the places he was surfing to and put a stop to it.

After about twenty minutes of bouncing up and down, I was pretty tuckered out. So I collapsed on the couch with Primary Colors. Tipper curled up next to me and read the Sunday New York Times.

"Primary Colors just hit the bestseller list," she said.

I shrugged. I don't really like it when I'm reading and Tipper keeps trying to start a conversation. It's one of the reasons I haven't been able to get through the Telecom bill.

"Tipper, do you mind?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's just that I have to finish this stupid book this afternoon. I don't want to be left out at tomorrow's Cabinet meeting." I went back to reading.

Tipper rustled a few pages of the paper. "Al?"

I looked up, exasperated. "What?"

"What did you mean when you said it was a 'stupid' book? The critics don't seem to think it's 'stupid.' The Post called it 'winning and lively.' The New York papers raved. It got nice write-ups in The New Yorker and Time and Newsweek. And it's selling like hot cakes. And if it gets sold to the movies we're talking some heavy coin. They have to let the original author write the first draft. So when you say something is 'stupid' you should think first, because a lot of people might think that writing a book about the environment is stupid and writing a best-selling novel about the '92 presidential campaign is smart. Especially the author of Primary Colors and her agent, Mort Janklow, who thinks she's a 'rare comic find."'

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. It's the weather. It's got me cranky."

She smiled her wide Tipper smile, and I smiled back because I know how the weather can ruin a person's mood. It's this damn global warming, Rusty. It's made the winters cold and the summers hot and the autumns chilly and the springs wet. Where will it end?

I went back to my reading. Tipper suddenly looked up.

"Kim Basinger and Alec Baldwin!" she cried.

"What?" I asked.

"They'll play us in the movie of Primary Colors!"

"Tipper, we're not even in the book."

"Yeah, well, we'll be in the movie."

And she raced off, leaving me in peace to finish the book. I'm sorry, Rusty. It's just not funny. And I know funny.