- Put on a little light jazz, pop a few Diet Cokes in the ice bucket, remove all my clothing except a “Teach Me How to Bucky” T-shirt, and wait for him to enter the room. I’ve left an extra card key at the front desk of my Motel 6 outside Milwaukee.
- When he knocks on the door, respond, “the door is locked,” and that he’ll need to “bust” it down just like he “busted that teacher’s union.” Then squeal with excitement. When you hear a faint slam against the door, remember you didn’t remove the chain. Go let him in. Apologize profusely.
- Ask him how he wants to get in the mood—order pizza and ESPN kind of guy? Or just get straight to the body slamming? “Let me call the Koch Brothers,” he says, who council him. Ignore asinine questions you overhear like, “Well, THAT’S the hole it goes into?!” and “What’s the contingency plan if I, ya know, go too early?” by going into bathroom, drinking all the liquor you have.
- When you come back out, Walker’s pants are around his feet, his shaft is, ahem, present, and his coat and tie are still on. He announces, “I’m the job creator. And I want to stimulate your economy.” You assume by “stimulate” he means roughly lay on top of you, squirm around a little bit, then pass out. And by “economy,” he means sex organs.
- “Can I be the naughty environmental activist?” You ask, coyly, pulling your shirt down.
- He’ll miss the poetics. “What? No! Hell no. I’m not sleeping with any commie.”
- Worried, you change tactics. “Yah you’re right. How about I’m Wisconsin’s economy—and I’ve been very, very bad.”
- He shrugs his shoulders. “Ok. I can play by those rules. Shall we commence?”
- And so you start by giving him the blowjob of a lifetime, while he sits on the bed and watches the Brewers game. You’re doing all the work. But by this stupid role-playing, he’s getting all the credit. And he reminds himself of that, “That’s right—I’m giving it to you—empowering you—getting rid of bureaucracy,” etc.
- Then he mutters something about a “double-dip recession” coming on. You instantly realize he means anal.
- It’s about 15 seconds, he hoots and hollers, pulls out to lightly drizzle on the bedsheets, and then forces you to pray with him. While you pull the sheets up around you, he leans over and whispers, “That sex was paid for by Friends of Scott Walker.”
- “What?” You ask. “Your Super-Pac fucked me?”
- But he’s fast asleep already. Curled up in the fetal position. When you wake in the morning, he’s gone. But his handlers have left you complimentary Wisconsin cheese curds, local craft beer, and a note saying, “Last night was mad real. Thanks for standing with Scott Walker….you dirty Badger, you.”
– Ross Geller
illustration by Becky Lang