My friend and I are eating our eggs at the diner. He got his with cheese and bacon -- an admitted over-indulgence considering that Michelin he's sporting. This morning, he's talking about his girlfriend, the one he's been going out with for five years. They've lived together for the last three years in the same small garage apartment. They've traded in used cars a million times, but they still rent the same tiny place. Huh. Anyway, they got engaged at Christmas, and now he's wondering why he's picking her apart bit by bit every single day. Like, for instance, she's too tired at the end of her lawerly day at the non-profit conservation group to have thrilling sex with him. He, on the other hand, is not tired because he quit his job in January to find out what he really wants to do with his life. Sort of a walk in the desert, or something, he suggests, even though he's only gotten as far as the living room. The wedding isn't until next February, so there's still time to run away if that's what you want, I tell him. "Oh no, I'm staying with her," he announces. He sounds a little afraid.

Which is how I figure out that it's not her he's picking apart, but himself. For staying with her, I'm guessing. For staying with anyone, when what he really should have been doing is traveling the world as the famous writer he was meant to be. So, when did Harper's call? I inquire. Fuck you, he growls.

So, he's mawing over that one and changes the subject to politics and the presidential election in 2000. I stop him and declare immediately that I'm voting for Elizabeth Dole. That's right, I continue, ignoring his wide-open mouth, eggs perfectly visible on his molars. Elizabeth Dole: the Republican, the despised figurehead of the American Red Cross, the crutch of a wife who's even more vapid and elusive on the issues than her predecessor in ideology, Ronnie Reagan. My friend's starting in with a yellow dog protest, fork stabbing at the air. Yeah, yeah, whatever, I cut him off. So what if we're Democrats. Big deal. I'm converting for this one race, and then I'll head back to keep the rest of you saps company, I assure him. I'm not giving up on social spending. I'm into it. Here's an extra dollar for the waiter since I'm feeling generous.

So who cares that I'm a fifth generation Texas Democrat, I continue, and swat at the dark cloud of concern on his face. I'll apologize to Ann Richards personally after the vote. But somehow I don't think I'll have to because I figure she'll be as pragmatic about this as I plan to be. I'm going to contribute to the cause; I'm going to be on the crew that tears down the Berlin Wall between where we stand now and women's rightful place which is everywhere. By the way, the deal's off if Bush gets the nomination and she's his running mate. Second place ain't no place. Geraldine's already been there, and I'm not interested in a VP housewife anyway.

My friend is apoplectic about this reversal of mine: Ignoring policy and values in favor of gender -- in favor of anything. Elizabeth's appointments to the U.S. Supreme Court might mean the reversal of Roe v. Wade, he yells, like a college coed after a madly self-indulgent weekend in a west campus SRO. I don't care. But Dole'll probably cut more funding for the poor little children and their already pathetic public education, he whines. Alright and okay. I agree. She'll definitely cut taxes for the wrong people, yank the deficit back up, which will raise interest and inflation rates, cause a major correction in the stock market, spark a forest fire on small business start-ups resulting in lack of competition, higher prices, more monopolies and eventually downsizing, unemployment, higher murder rates and domestic violence.

Fine. I'll deal with the guilt, because we have to start somewhere. And to tell you the truth, someone like Hillary is just not electable this first time around. America needs a stern Republican mother as a first woman president. It's our Puritan roots that will call the shots. If we're going to try something new, then it's gotta be "good" for us, sort of like broccoli and psyllium husks in the dinner bowl. Then we can have the Ben & Jerry's floating in Boone's Strawberry Farmalicious.

The irony is how much Clinton helped make the very Republican Elizabeth Dole a possibility to succeed the Democrats in the White House. Americans weren't looking for an embarrassing impeachment, but many do want to do something about this bad, bad penis that strayed. So, let's punish the Presidential Position by hoisting up to the post the whip-snapping wife of a man who, conveniently, talks about erectile dysfunction on TV. She'll teach those eager interns that ladder-climbing in the Oval office is going to take more than a peek up a Gap dress. It's going to take a smart-looking J. Peterman safari outfit reminiscent of the glory days when handing out Hershey bars to the ghosts of Ethiopian children really meant something.

I really, really love Liddy's rise to the year 2000 challenge, I wax longingly to my now silent friend. I love the idea of the new millenium belonging to women in the political firing squad. With a matriarchy, nothing will be the same. Like war, for instance. If you leave it to men, hundreds of thousands of "other" people die every year from U.S. smart bombs dropped under a new standard that there be no U.S. military casualties whatsoever. Under female leadership, that kind of anonymous, painless killing just won't do. Our New World Order won't be a thousand points of lights, but a single bulb swinging in a dark basement. Those who are guilty will the rousted out of bed by a lock-jawed mercenary death squad called the Liberty Bellboys sporting neatly ironed stylish uniforms and hats. All the bad people will be dragged before the public and tortured slowly one by delicious one. Now that's what I call a good war, great revenge, and a wonderful little lessons for the kiddos. If it takes a village to raise a child, Liddy will show us it takes a village to lynch one.

I think I've lost my friend. He paid the check and left. Guess he's taking me as a loss. Yeah, well, get a job, buddy. Hey, where's my dollar? I gotta call a cab.