I Know What Michael Howard Wants

Mr. Howard, you do not want to visit the White House anyway. Nobody wants to go there. Even the pastry chef finds the place intolerable. You want to experience the deadly allure of Minneapolis. You want to visit the spot where the poet Berryman hopped off the bridge to his death. You want to visit “North,” purchase a small sack of illegal, and ask the locals to point out scenes of needless death. You want to visit the Uptown Diner, where you will ask, “Why does my club sandwich smell like maple syrup, and why is there a pecan in my fries?” You want to visit the airport, where you will be whisked away to that great fascinator, the Corn Palace. At that point, you will notice that I have your wallet, your mobile phone, your passport and your security posse. You will experience the one situation that every American fears above all others: you will be stranded in the Dakotas without identification, and you will be wearing a hot, dark suit. And who will believe that you are leader of the Tory party? Nobody. Tory who? Tori Spelling? That’s spelled with an “I.” America is scary, the President doesn't want you, and nobody at the Corn Palace knows who you are. That’s a heartbreaker, isn’t it? Nobody at the Corn Palace knows who you are.