"Wake up, David. We have a new mission." My pupils rolled underneath my closed eye lids. The novelty of going on extraordinary missions with Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain was wearing off. "David, it is based on the Chilean model."
My eyes popped open and my head jumped off the pillow. "Wait. You haven't even told me the mission yet and the solution is already based on the Chilean model?" I thought aloud.
"No. The mission is based on the Chilean model. You are not-so-secretly in love with the student leader Camila Vallejo, right?"
"Well, she is Chilean and she is as attractive as a model, true?"
"Our mission is to join you and Camila in a romantic relationship. So, our mission is based on the Chilean model."
Herman Cain continued, "And I know you were dreaming about her." My face displayed confusion. Cain spoke, "Because your weewee is sticking out of your underwear and it is very very hard." My face turned the color of a poor man's bank statement under a President Cain. I quickly covered my genitalia.
"Listen niggahead, to bring you and Camila together, we must find her phone number so you can call her." Apprehension rained down on me. "But Mr. Cain, even if we get her number, we don't know if she speaks English and I don't speak Spanish. Plus, I'm not very smooth on the phone. She's an internationally known heartthrob; I write snarky stories that nobody reads about dreams I've had."
"Nonsense! The key to a woman's heart is to believe that you deserve it. You will win her. We simply need to find her digits."
I got dressed and I rode shotgun as Herman Cain drove us to the airport. We flew to Santiago. On the flight, Herman Cain continuously called over the flight attendant. She was pretty if I may say so. Her sun blond hair rested against her snow colored skin. Her rump stuck out like a black man at a GOP debate. Cain would whisper in her ear and she would whisper back in his. I cringed at the hypocrisy of it. Herman Cain preached morality, but was flirting with this flight attendant.
Midway through the flight, I leaned over to hear the whispers. Herman Cain was not flirting with the flight attendant after all. He was complaining about the other passengers, asking the flight attendant if they were Muslims and then declaring that he felt uncomfortable with the other passengers on the plane. The flight attendant tried to ease a concerned Herman Cain by stating that most Chileans were Christian, not Muslim. I suppose she should have been arguing that flying with a plane full of Muslims shouldn't cause concern either, but the flight attendant was doing her best in dealing with Herman Cain's irrationality.
We checked into a hotel in Santiago and opened the phonebook looking for Camila Vallejo. We couldn't find her number listed. As day turned to night, I dug up the courage to ask Herman Cain something that had been weighing on me this entire mission.
"Mr. Cain? Why are you going through all of this trouble to help me? I mean, this excursion has taken you away from the presidential campaign just as things are heating up. You're losing precious time." Herman Cain smiled as wide as a hungry man who has just smelled a pizza. "Because you my niggahead. I always stand up for my niggaheads. We niggaheads need to stick together."
I gave a shrug of acceptance, but then added, "But Mr. Cain, I'm not black."
"Why does it always have to be about race with you liberals? You are my niggahead. It is not about black or white." Silence slammed into the room as we readied ourselves for sleep so we could attempt to find the lovely Camila Vallejo the next day.
The following day, we rose early. We took a different tack. We took our search to the people. We put it in simple language. In clear, slow, and loud English, Herman Cain approached every potential source by saying, "Hello, I am Herman Cain. I am looking for Camila Vallejo's phone number so that she can fall in love with this gentleman here."
After a day of fruitless searching, we found someone to divulge her number. Of course, her phone number was 999-999-9999. I asked myself, what were the odds, 'About 1 in 9,999,999,999 I suppose,' I answered silently.
It was too late to call her, so we waited until the next morning. I called and her assistant picked up. "Sorry, she's in a meeting with the president of Uzbekistan for some reason." I whispered the information to Herman Cain and he told me to ask where the office was located. We got the information and set off.
We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
Join us again for the stunning conclusion.