Dan Rather is being slathered in makeup. Ice cubes tinkle
and smoke rises from his ashtray and he is thinking about the rehearsal
to come. He is thinking about ratings. He is thinking about the fact that
he has a bomb in his trunk and might someday choose to blow up this building
and when the day comes it will be glorious, like the new war to come.
He is thinking all these things and about how rainbows, fucking rainbows,
are always so elusive. And the next election and how many days until he
retires. He is thinking about lasers and graphics and fonts. He is imagining
piloting a B-2 bomber over Manhattan, the black triangle's grace as it
banks. He has lived his sexual encounter with Clinton and he is waiting
for the royalties wearing speedo briefs in a folding lawn chair poolside.
He is saying it is unknown how many casualties there are.
He is an automaton, he was at Chicago '68 with Kronkite, he is a hairpiece
and a teleprompter, he is the rogue nation's history, he is a network
jester, he is Ted Turner's old socks, he is an encryption and rhetoric
specialist, he is everybody at once. He is thinking about fucking. You
are white, male, you have had your title engraved in your tag, you have
been delivered with the finest pedigree. You are better than Dan. You
are six winds after hours that can't steer you home. You are the flavor
of coffee and a timeclock. You are a witless magician working overtime.
You are more beers than you can count. You are the news, the commercials,
the sitcoms, the talkshows, and the static. You are your television left
on all day so you will greet you when you come home from work. You are
thirty seconds at a time. You are above it, but you leave it on. Dan Rather
is pointing now to a map of the Middle East. Cut to graphics. Theme. Logo.
Fade. Dan Rather is wearing a tutu now and he leaps into the arms of Boris
Yeltsin. Dan Rather is standing before a blue screen as computers add
the explosions and the sounds of pinpoint accuracy. All the dead children
are brought back to life, computer-enhanced and well-nourished. Dan Rather
gestures expansively, like a gentleman, amidst the ruins of Baghdad. Cut
to commerical. A pair of laser-guided Nikes is going down a chimney. There
is a mosque and a Big Mac. Cut to theme. And graphic. The casualties are
being represented now by a string of computer-generated daisies around
Dan Rather's neck. And now the president. Can we get a child staring up
adoringly. Doesn't matter which color. Oh, for heaven's sake not a
girl, can we cut please? What are the voters gonna think, huh? Can
we keep this clean? Cut to a map of the New World Order and theme. Dan...
Dan, baby. You look worried, what's up? The cameras? Yeah, we were rolling
babe, it was beautiful. Broadcasting? Sure, Dan, that went up. What's
the problem? War? What war? Hey, babe, we're just following the script.
Relax, man. Hey, can we get Dan a drink? Cocktail? Hey!