Diary of a White House Fly

Diary of a White House Fly

I’m not sure how I ended up in the White House. One minute I was snoozing inside a cabbage leaf, and the next I was dodging a 10-inch French knife. Up, up, up I went, zooming around the kitchen, high above the gleaming stainless counters, high above humans in white chef’s hats.
“Bojama likes nuts,” said one.
“Rochelle like to smash ‘em,” said another.
Me, I love gossip and garbage in equal amounts. My worst fear is getting capped right before I hear something tasty and scandalous, like a new Watergate or even a Waterloo.
As one chef garnished a fruit and cheese platter, I angled down and landed gingerly on top of her hat.
“Hurry up, Mary,” said a gruff male voice. “President Bojama wanted that platter ten minutes ago.”
Wait, was that fruit headed to the Oval Office? Hot damn, I thought, hunkering down.
I felt lightheaded as Mary lifted the platter and walked out of the kitchen. I heard more voices; doors opened and closed; the air felt colder and drier.
At long last, we reached our destination. “Thanks, Mary,” said a deep, tobacco stained voice. “Just put it on the table. Great. Looks good.”
I sensed, rather than felt, that Mary was on the move, so I rose from her hat and landed on a kiwi. While I licked the sticky stuff, the Oval Office people argued about something called Ebola and the different kinds of Ebola body fluids—all my faves. Where could I find this Ebola?
As I listened to the conversation, I realized that Ebola was everywhere and nowhere. Interestingly enough, bunches of it was being hoarded somewhere “inhumane.” Right up my alley.
My legs were feeling numb, so I buzzed around the ceiling, picking up other bits of conversation.
“That’s pissy,” said a woman.
“No, it’s bull crap.”
More deliciousness.
“Is it airborne yet?” a bug-eyed man asked (he resembled my uncle Buzz).
“What the people don’t know won’t hurt them,” said the woman.
A short, portly guy said, “Mr. President, have you read the comments on this popular conspiracy forum?”
President Bojama shrugged. “I like to keep a healthy distance between myself and the Internet.” He rolled a paper into a club and swatted at me. Ow, ow, ow. I rose up, so dizzy I couldn’t fly straight.
Someone called a Czar took the paper club from Bojama. I darted to the top of the draperies and listened as the Czar explain about a new product called Ebola-Be-Gone. It came in a spray can, and the contents were a cross between an air freshener and a disinfectant. He sprayed it.
Ick. Pew. Smelled terrible, like clean sheets and pine needles.
“Where’s Rice?” called Bojama.
Rice! My third favorite food. I couldn’t believe I had found such a food-oriented place.
“They think we’re lying,” said a man with square chin and itty bitty eyes. “They’ve completely misunderstood the FEMA camps.”
The woman grinned. “But that’s good,” she said.
“You know what our detractors say," Mr. No-Neck told everyone. "There’s no plot. No plan. Just incompetence."
“I'm glad they're wrong,” said the Czar, lifting the paper club. “Everything is right on schedule. By next week, we’ll declare--”
Thwack. Thwack.
Ow, that hurt. Before I breathed my last, I had time for one last thought: The Czar was short and goofy looking, but damn, his aim was good, his reach endless.

Oozing with awesomeness!

a reply to: drwill

Loved the humor!