By Dan Tobin

Homecoming weekend of my sophomore year, John Kerry and I made flashcards for art history class, then I left to do whip-hits with George Bush and throw water balloons out his dorm room window. But the happy times didn’t last. Kerry went to serve his country in Vietnam and Bush scratched my Iron Butterfly record and refused to pay for it. We argued for weeks until, high on mescaline, Bush tried to fill my ears with quick-dry cement.

Recasting myself as Ivy Leaguer to his drunken frat boy, I challenged him to a game of chess in my “Daily Yalie” column. Before we could play, he apologized and suggested we join ROTC together. And we all know how that turned out -- I headed to Southeast Asia and he to the southeastern U.S., sort of.

A few decades and bankrupt oil companies later, Bush captured the White House and I sent a note saying it would be an honor to beat a sitting President at chess. For three years, he was too busy combating terrorism and vacationing to respond. Then a few weeks ago, a black Towncar stopped outside my brownstone and two Secret Service agents suggested I get in. I gulped hard, then kissed my three children and my second trophy wife, fourth wife overall, goodbye. She openly wept.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “I’ve been beating the PC for months, even on the second hardest level.”

“But he doesn’t play fair,” she said between sobs. “Just... I can’t live with you if you grow a beard.”

I promised it would never come to that, but we both knew I was lying. We hugged, and I got in the car. Six hours later I was in the Oval Office sipping a so-called “Screaming Liberal” – crude oil and Coke. Stiff, but it made me want to invade something.

“Glad you could make it, I need you to be President for a while,” quipped George Bush as he entered. He looked just like he did on TV – tall, stout, and wearing a flight suit. “I’ve got to meet with some ambassadors from a couple Stans. But we’ll play tonight, yeah?”

There was a knock on the door and Condoleeza Rice entered. They went through an elaborate series of handshakes and high fives that culminated in her squeezing the President’s left nipple until a single tear ran down his cheek. “Condo will show you around,” he said, shaking it off. “Dinner, eight. Hope you like baby seal.” Then he winked and dashed out.

Five minutes later, Condoleeza Rice had her arm so far up my ass I could taste nail polish. As we continued onto the President’s desk, I accidentally ejaculated all over the latest draft of the Clean Air Act, but Condoleeza assured me the Administration was using it in lieu of napkins. She straightened her hair, gave me her IM address, and excused herself to go ignore some intelligence briefings.

So far things were going about as I’d expected.

I spent a while boxing with Rumsfeld, who kept hitting me below the belt and calling me a pussy. Then I decked him and suddenly he didn’t want to box anymore. Cheney climbed in the ring, but the Secret Service wouldn’t let me get near him, so we hit the showers. Later in the steam room, Cheney grilled me.

“Do you really think the President has time for this nonsense?” he hissed. “Let him win.” I explained that I’d never let my son win and he’d just set the single-season rushing record in the Park Slope Pee-Wee League. Cheney was disgusted. “How about you play me instead? I’m smarter, I’m a better tactician, I make the actual decisions for the country. Wouldn’t I be a better trophy?”

“That’s all true,” I said, looking him dead in the sneer. “But I only hate you theoretically. This thing with Bush is personal.” Cheney tried to get red with anger, but his doughy torso was so pasty that it only got kind of pink. “Are you going to tell me to go fuck myself?” I asked.

He swallowed hard. “I just remembered I have to go cut some veterans’ benefits,” he replied and waddled out. I knew it was dangerous to enrage a Halliburton man, but I liked living dangerously. It made me feel dangerous.

Eight o’clock rolled around and Bush brought me into the Oval Office for pizza. He handed me a beer, then popped open another and took a swig. I stared wide-eyed. “Uh... I didn’t think you were supposed to drink.”

He laughed. “I should make you ambassador to something. No, this is near-beer. It lets me feel like I’m drinking without having alcohol. It’s cool.”

We split a large pie and reminisced about some of the girls we’d date-raped in school, then the President pressed a button and a Secret Service agent wheeled in a cart of about 70 board games. My heart sank. Bush grinned so hard he almost burst. “You didn’t think we were going to play a game that involved strategery, did you?” He laughed and laughed and I vowed to legalize gay marriage if it was the last thing I did.

It was a back and forth affair—I connected four and built a hotel on Marvin Gardens, he sank my battleship and remembered where the two flower pots were. Four hours in, we’d played 19 increasingly unfun games and I led 10-9. I’d dominated the Scrabbles and Trivial Pursuits, he’d shellacked me at the Yahtzees and Candylands.

I dismantled the Sorry! board (he refused to play) and set up Hungry Hungry Hippos as Tom Ridge entered. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President, but you’re needed right away.”

“Aww, come on,” Bush pleaded, banging his hippo controller. “We just started.”

“But sir... the country is under attack.”

Bush snatched a marble. “But I’m winning.”

Ridge sighed and collapsed on the couch for a quick nap. Seven minutes later, he woke with a start. “Sir, you should at least find out what’s going on.”

Bush threw the game across the room. “Fine!” he yelled. “This job sucks!” Then he turned to me. “Next game decides everything. Your choice, winner takes all.” Five minutes later, I had John Ashcroft squealing like a pig. When we both had finished up and were dressed again, he punched me in the gut, called me a fag, and skipped out, giggling.

On the ground, I received a text message on my cell-phone. It was John Kerry. We hadn’t spoken since mid-college, so receiving a one-word communication seemed odd. But then I realized – he knew where I was and he was suggesting a game I could win. It was a good idea, but I had come to play chess and I was going to play chess. The battle between Bush and Kerry was not for me to decide. That was up to the residents of seven states in the country. I put my phone away and looked for chess pieces.

The President returned with a vial of white powder, a mirror, a razor blade, and an explanation. “Lighten up, this is joke-coke. It lets me feel like I’m snorting without doing drugs.” He rolled up a tiny copy of the Constitution and used it to do a line. Then he tossed me another vial – it was pure. “Since my dad busted Noriega, we’ve been getting more blow than we know what to do with.You think we could cut taxes on the wealthy and afford to do up Iraq? This stuff keeps America in the black. Or is it in the red? Whichever’s the good one.”

I felt ill. I already agreed with Kerry’s stance on taxes, abortion, terrorism, the environment, outsourcing jobs abroad, dependence on foreign oil, and more. I found Kerry a philosophical, complex thinker and Bush a dim, dishonest, religious zealot. But Manuel Noriega was my godfather, and his cartel’s money kept me afloat while I wrote my first novel. Weakening America’s place in the world and destroying the middle class was one thing. Extorting Uncle Manny was something else entirely.

High on coke and still tasting vaguely of Rice, I was emboldened to take Kerry’s text-messaged advice.

“Risk,” I said. “I want to play Risk.”

A moment of silence. “Motherfucker,” Bush finally replied, his upper lip still powdery. “I don’t even know how to play that.” Deep down, I already knew. I think all of America did.

I dealt a dummy hand to try to teach him, but Bush just wasn’t getting it. First, he refused to play unless he controlled the U.S. I acquiesced, but then every time it was his turn he kept attacking Iraq. I tried to explain that it didn’t make any sense – in the game, Greenland was the bigger threat. But he waved me off. “I stick with my decisions. That’s what people like about me.”

We tried again, this time with Colin Powell advising. Powell was much more concerned with a real-life attack in Yemen, but Bush was focused on beating me. And yet even with the Secretary of State helping, even with him seeing my cards, I was still winning.

“I’m issuing an Executive Order for you to let me win,” Bush announced.

“You can’t do that.”

“Can so.”

“Cannot.”

“It’s my game!”

“I don’t care!”

“Well, I’m President and you’re not!”

“Yeah, President of being a jerk. Besides, you only won because the Supreme Court helped you steal the election.”

Colin Powell spit apple juice all over the board, ruining most of Scandinavia. I’d gone too far and we all knew it. Bush stood up.

“The Supreme Court?!” he repeated, flabbergasted. “I’ll have you know I stole that election myself!” Veins were bulging on his neck. He was commanding, imposing, and a little scary, and for a moment I could almost understand how he’d captured the imaginations of not quite a majority of voters. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

I knew I was on thin ice, but I couldn’t let it go. “So you’re forfeiting?”

“What did you just say to me?”

Colin Powell had heard enough. “Okay, fellas, let’s call it a draw, shall we? You both did great, you both won a lot of games, you’re both great competitors. Why don’t we all just shake hands and have some ice cream?”

The President slapped Colin Powell in the face with the back of his hand. “You and your pansy-ass diplomacy. You make me sick.” Bush sat down, took a breath, and calmly turned to me. “There’s only one way to solve this. We’re going to do it the George W. Bush way”

And then I realized this was his plan before he even set up the playdate: he wanted to play War. There was no strategy to it, and it could go on forever if someone didn’t just give up. Powell stormed out and George grinned ear to ear as we went through a few hands. Then we both threw a seven. “Oh, this is the best part!” he yelped. We flipped some more cards. “One, two, three, WAR!”

I hated him. I was smarter, I was craftier, and I was a better player. But after everything was said and done, Bush was going to win because he insisted on playing War.

Then a most unlikely cavalry arrived.

“George, what the hell are you doing?” The President immediately stood up, dropping his cards on the floor. It was George H.W. Bush and he was mad. “The country needs you!”

“But...”

“No buts about it, young man. Playing games? George! Have you even finished your budget?”

“Well, I was gonna...”

“You were gonna? You’re on thin ice, mister,” continued the 41st president. “Do you want to be a one-termer like me? Do you?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t! If you don’t get your ass in gear you’re not even going to be me, you’re going to be Ford! A joke! Is that what you want? Is it? Do you want to be a joke?”

“I was just...”

“You already are a joke! Get it together, okay? Look, you’re a good kid. You just can’t get distracted. I know you can do it. Okay? Now, I’m going to play tennis with some Saudi princes, and when I get back, I want you to be running the country. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Okay then.” And the elder Bush took off.

The President looked at me, embarrassed. “Parents just don’t understand, right?” He laughed uncomfortably. “Maybe we should call it a draw.” That was fine. Like Rocky Balboa, I just wanted to go the distance. As I walked back to the unmarked car that was taking me home, I knew my text message to Kerry was going to be an optimistic one. Bush could be beaten. And today, he had been.

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