Last week, while operating under the psycho-political auspices of my campaign manager, one M. K. “Ultra” Billheimer, notorious Lagerfeldian and refugee of the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency’s secret program, Operation Nippleclip, my campaign team (good ‘no’ women, all of them, despite persistent advances) have decided upon (at no little expense to them, if you hear them tell it) a party identity they believe so universal, so all-encompassing, that it will likely take my campaign from here, to the presidency, then into the future of the American Political Machine. Its name, the Party Party.
   About this I was at first skeptical, as is usual, and I immediately leveled two objections (both hanging rather crookedly over the mantle). The first was at the improbablity of the existence of a future of any kind, especially mine (“imagine the disappointment”…“could’ve had the world as his oyster”...“so much promise”...“his poor parents”...“all that money wasted,” &c, &c.), and the second, at the American Political Machine, whose future the two-party system devoured years ago.^*
   Woefully, both objections tended to deflate the hopes of the staff a little more than I had expected, and I, facing another dispiriting and underproductive workday, made the fool mistake of trying to explain my position (rather than bring the whip down).
   “Though I encourage such things here in the office,” I said, “I do not wish to be the herald of truancy, public drunkenness, or nudity around which an exhausted, jaded populace gathers to avert making meaningful changes to their own lives – that is unless they happen to be buying the drinks and the nudity is thoughtfully presented, say, in the style of Marcel Duchamp. Besides,” I reasoned, “the party image should tend toward an awayness; a radiant, imaginary warmth to which the masses can intuitively attach themselves with checks, bank drafts, money orders, bonds (junk or otherwise), credit cards, pensions, endorsed social security checks, life insurance benefits, jewelry, bullion, gold teeth, postage stamps, and loose change.”
   From the small gathering standing before me there rose a collective groan (“imagine the disappointment”...“could’ve had the world as his oyster”...“so much promise”...“his poor parents”... “all that money wasted,” &c, &c.). Sensing danger, Herr Billheimer, dressed in a tailored but traditional Bavarian hunting costume, stepped between this light dissention and myself and, pointing his Luger skyward, successfully fired three bullets into the ceiling (assumedly saving the final five to use on himself in the event of capture).
   “Vee must not unta-ezzztimate ze powa uv qvasi-rreligious mysticism unt pahaps grraal mythology to captivate ze subconscious uff ze poor unt lowe middle classes. Alzo, parrade ooniforms. Pahaps a dark lahvender obergruppenfuhrer foh Herr Aztor, mit ze fur ahckcents on ze cap, ze collah, ze belt, und ze cuffs. Und foh ze ladies, somzing in ze style of ze Black Vidows from ze exploitation mahstervoork, ‘Ilza, She Volf uv ze SS.’”
   It is the policy of this campaign to run its internal operations in the most democratic manner befitting the nation in which we live. As such, when important policy decisions need to be made, I usually make them unilaterally, without consulting any of the employees or volunteers. But, this fit of hortatory wonderment so further upset the staff that, to quell the riot peaceful protest brewing before me, I was forced to consider their measure for a vote. Here the floor was opened for debate.
   Taking the podium (which we keep on hand for just such an occasion), I filibustered for a full 36 seconds over various pork-barrel indecencies amended to the proposal, including competitive wages, expense compensation, mandatory breaks, health insurance, ergonomic work spaces, maternity leave, paid vacations, and indulgentia menses, forgiving time-of-the-month related distresses on party hours. It being that ‘time,’ and that ‘time’ being synchronized among the women, I was seized upon by the mob and unceremoniously thrown down in the short, aforementioned period. Had it not been for a genetic ability to hold fast (my parents were trapeze artists, their love was highly strung) the podium would have quickly eluded my grasp and I been thrown down without it in less than 20 of those 36 seconds.
   On extricating myself from the rubble, I called a point of parliamentary procedure and demanded that the group proceed along well-established rules of order. But here the motion hit an impasse. One for which I can only blame myself. Had I decided not to spend on whiskey the larger portion of campaign monies set aside specifically for the purchase of Robert’s Rules of Order, I would have had that familiar book on hand.^† Instead, having imbibed the greater part of the apportioned funds, and at that time seeing little difference in anything, I bought at a steep discount a pale imitation of Robert’s entitled Bob’s Rules of Order (written, ironically, by my father).
   As quickly as I could, I opened the book and began reading aloud. “Rule of order number one: when, in the morning, after you have woken up and washed your face, before eating breakfast, you must dress and make your bed. Certain provisions can be made to allow for variations in the morning routine, for example, waking up, making your bed, getting dressed, washing your face, then eating breakfast, or waking up, getting dressed, eating your breakfast, washing your face, then making your bed, or waking up, eating your breakfast, getting dressed, making your bed, then washing your face. But never shall it be permitted either to make your bed, get dressed, wash your face, or eat your breakfast before waking up.”
   I’ll ask for my money back the next time I see him.
   Needless to say, as is now required by the newly adopted charter of the Party Party, competitive wages, expense compensation, mandatory breaks, health insurance, ergonomic work spaces, maternity leave and paid vacations (which my entire staff decided to take immediately) are conceded. I have yet to find any legal (or medical) reference to the term indulgentia menses.

^*The American Political Machine (a subsidiary of the National Security Administration, Inc.) asks that I here state, unequivocally, that it is satisfied with the status quo and would be happy enough to last in or near its present form until the oil runs out.
^†To my enemies (and they are legion(aires)(both of them) who think they have caught me in violation of federally mandated laws regarding acceptable expenditures, i.e., the comingling the personal with the official, I contest that, with respect to the “irrespective test”, my drinking, a mere pasttime before the campaign in which I seldom (often) partook (pursued with zest), would (nevertheless) not have so increased “irrespective” of this campaign.