By Philadelphia Bingham

"Close the door!"

Murphy Brown slammed the door and hurried to her regular table where her FYI co-workers were waiting.

"So, what did they say?" Corky Sherwood asked.

Murphy scowled. "Jeez, Corky. Aren’t you ever not perky?"

"I’m sorry, Murphy, but it’s just my nature. Mama always said you catch—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah whatever." Brown tossed herself into a chair. "I can’t believe those people. They said that they wouldn’t retract the putz comment. The weasel has it on tape. Has Miles seen it?"

"Miles has seen it."

Guiltily, the foursome swiveled in their seats to see their executive producer seated at the bar. He slid off the barstool and ambled over to the table. "Murphy, do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Now Miles, sit down," senior anchor Jim Dial said, trying as always, to smooth ruffled feathers. "It’s not good for your ulcer to get upset."

"Easy for you to say Jim, no one called you a putz in print."

"He’s got a point, Jim."

"Shut up Frank," hissed Murphy, "Miles, I’m sorry. When the reporter called I was having a bad day. Do you know what another Bush administration means? No more juicy sex scandals. No more exclusive quotes from the White House."

"Not that anyone is paying any attention to the White House," Frank said. "People are more interested than ever in the Clinton’s. Poor W has even resorted to picking a fight with Daddy B’s old enemy, Saddam."

"Yes, Frank and I think it’s a darn shame." Jim squared his shoulders. "It used to be that Americans could count on one thing; their vote making a difference. Now we have a man in the White House who wasn’t elected. Hell in a hand basket I tell you, the world is going to hell in a hand basket."

"Now, now, Mr. Dial." Pat Buchanan said as he joined the discussion from his table nearby. "You must have faith in the Lord."

He grinned and winked at Murphy. "Hell, I know those folks didn’t vote for me. They meant to vote for Mr. Gore. But golly, it gave me a good laugh."

He tipped his head back and guffawed. "That’s off the record, especially the cursing. Hell, some of my constituents would send me there if they thought I might cuss on occasion."

"You know," said Frank, "I never thought the Bushes had the smarts to buy an election. Not like old Joe Kennedy, now there’s a family that knows how to use its clout and money."

Corky pouted. "I don’t know what everyone is so upset about. Mrs. Bush is such a classy lady. She’s a librarian, you know, and she dresses so nicely. That’s important you know; I just don’t think a first lady should wear slacks so much."

"I agree with Jim," said Murphy ignoring the former Miss America’s comments. "Miles, do you think we could do a whole hour on the election fiasco?"

"Of course," mused Corky a step behind the rest of the conversation, "Hillary had a good reason to wear slacks all the time.

I just love W. You know he kind of reminds me of the that guy from M*A*S*H. You know Murphy, the one who had the teddy bear."

"Jeez, Corky," groaned Murphy. "You think that W is like Radar O’Reilly?" She shook her head. "So Miles what do you think? A special FYI on the election fiasco?"

"A half hour sitcom maybe," grumbled Miles, "that’s what this election was, a bad sitcom. W does DC. There is something wrong with a system where the man with the most votes loses."

"No Miles," Phil growled from the bar, "It’s the American people who lost."

The quartet at the table nodded solemnly. As usual Phil was right and as usual they let him have the last word. Silently they grabbed their things and walked out into the warm Washington sunlight.