Rahmbo! Oh, Rahmbo... You and I Should Dance A Mambo...

In a world devoid of über-masculine, balls-to-the-walls buckets of pure testosterone outside of novels written for Dakotan haüsfraus and womanizing creatures from any clichéd action flick, there is one notable, heart-stoppingly captivating exception... 

[cue dramatic movie trailer music] 

HE lives his life at the center of power, privy to the darkest - most dangerous - State Secrets, intimate with all the forces that shape our perilous world...

Years ago, HE lost an appendage in a tragic, tragic accident... 

HE fights for what he believes in and lets nothing get in HIS way...

HIS temper is furious. Rumors of HIS crushing wrath have traveled far over land and sea...

And yet, for all his Alpha-'Bro'-ness, HE is devoted to one lucky woman, the mother of HIS three children...

HE is a man, a myth, a living and breathing (faithful) legend...
And, no, it's not this guy. Though, we'll readily admit, the man's history does sound like a romance novel plot...maybe we could write it..."Chief of His Staff" (oh, heavens to Betsey Ross, we're turning bright, beet red at the mere thought).

Obviously we're talking about Rahm Israel Emanuel: White House Chief of Staff extraordinaire, subject of Communist musings, lust, and abject hatred from the thoroughly unenlightened.

No one ever wore a suit so well...not even Clooney. 

So...naturally one postulates that he might TEAR IT DOWN with gusto and alacrity, right?

Damn Right. 

Cailey: Rahm would snarl the second he saw the flag. A visceral, all-encompassing response. People would feel him lose control of logical thought and cower in fear. 

Liz: Oh, God yes. Yes! YES! 

Cailey: There would be a crowd present. 
Liz: A host of curious onlookers. 
Cailey: And more than a few media outlets. He would dodge the boom mics and tape recorders, duh. He's good at that sort of thing. A media-evading ninja/classically-trained manballerina. 
Liz: His nostrils would flare. His eyes would narrow. Then he would pull back his shoulders and stride toward the flag with intense haste...
Cailey: Not a doubt in his mind as to his mission... 
Liz: But then he pauses. 
Cailey: Why? 
Liz: His anger has gotten the best of him. His wrath makes him shake. And he launches into a tirade. 
Cailey: He swears up such a storm that sailors all over the world blush in unison. It's an art form for him - he is the Lord-fucking-Byron of swearing. Then he resorts to profanities in a host of other languages because English just doesn't have enough. He blazes through English, French, Spanish, Hebrew, German, Arabic, and Finnish. Putain salope (bitch whore), mierda (shit), zayin b'ayin (dick in your eye), mutterficker (motherfucker), zobbi be ommok (my dick in your mother), and vittu (cunt). 
Liz: And after this show-stopping performance of poetic profanities has finally ceased, he is cleansed, at peace. He ends by giving the flag the finger. His stubby, short finger of course.
Cailey: And he spits on it. 
Liz: Then with one swift tug... 
Cailey: He tears it down.
Liz: And then he wraps it around a dead fish and sends it to Jesse James. No one fucks with America's sweetheart on Rahm's watch. No one. 
Cailey: Then he is filled with joy that things have gone his way. The joy bubbles up inside him and he smiles impishly, allowing himself the luxury of a graceful croise devant and arabesque. 
Liz: Then he pulls out his blackberry. It's back to work. Back to the business of American government. 
Cailey: Then he and Tim Geithner retreat to a dark, basement office lit by a single bulb to work on pulling US and A out of its financial crisis. But it's soo hot down there. Steamy. Like a sauna, almost... They loosen their ties an inch, then another. Then the ties are off...the shirts are unbuttoned in a torrid frenzy...
Liz: CAILEY! Rein it in! These are Great Americans you're talking about!
Cailey: I'll be in my bunk.