Pssst, dear reader. I find myself in an awkward place today. I have been asked to mediate between Speaker of the House of Representatives Nancy Pelosi, and the Chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, Congressman Jerry Nadler. They had a dustup at the Dem Caucus yesterday.

They just arrived in my office and they are really pissed off. Oh boy!

“Hello, Madame Speaker, Mr. Chairman. How goes it with you?” asked your Big Red Car, sporting a fresh coat of wax, a bath, and drunk on 10W40.

“Cut the crap, you moron,” said the Speaker. “I agreed to speak with you. So speak.”

“Well, Madame Speaker,” said your BRC, “Chairman Nadler called me early this morning and said that you’d said some unflattering things about him at a Dem caucus meeting. I think it would be fair to say that Jerry has some feelings issues.”

“Jerry,” the Speaker said, turning to Jerry and giving him that frustrated-high-school-wrestling-coach-talking-to-the-fat-kid-in-gym-class-look, “if you have a problem with me, you come to me. Get some sack. You want to bare your soul in front of this bag of rusty bolts? He’s a fucking car, Jerry. No offense meant, Big Red, but you know the score. Just so we know where we are, Big Red, mess with me and I’ll ice pick your tires and bust your headlights. Try me at your own peril. Now where were we?”

“Nancy, you spoke harshly to me . . . ” It sounded like a whine to the Big Red Car and Nancy made that Suffering Bitch face of hers.

“Jerry, what exactly did I say to you that has your panties in a knot? Tell me.”

“See, Nancy. See, Big Red. There she goes again. I don’t wear panties. You’re shaming me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. Chairman. What did I say?”

“You said that I had a Moby-Dick-like-obsession with President Trump.”

The room was silent for a long time during which Nancy chewed her cud. She came over and gave Jerry a hug. It was a faux hug, but, still, it was progress.

“Look, Jerry. Are you vexed at me because I compared you to a sperm whale? Is it a size sensitivity thing?”

“You’re making it worse, Nancy,” Jerry said. “Yeah, I’m fat, but why does it have to be a Moby DICK and why does Moby have to be a SPERM whale?”

“Look, Jerry, I didn’t write the fucking story. Herman Melville wrote it, in 1841, I think. Is that right, Big Red Car?”

“No, Madame Speaker. It was in fact Herman Melville, but it was actually written in 1851.”

“Oh, bite me. Look, Jerry, here’s the thing. You keep pretending like you have a House Resolution to conduct an impeachment inquiry. You don’t. You may have fooled those kool-aide-drinking morons on the Judicial Committee, but if I brought that to the House floor, I’d be laughed out of town. Do you understand that?”

“Nancy, you didn’t have to call me Moby Dick. I have body shaming issues.”

Nancy sat down. Jerry sat down. The Big Red Car waited, patiently. Well, actually fearfully.

“OK, look,” Nancy said in her low, cobra-blood-drinking, snake-charmer voice, “maybe if we get the Big Red Car to tell us the characters of the Melville novel, maybe that would calm things down. OK, Fatso? — oops, I meant Jerry. Big Red Car, you’re up. You have one job here, don’t fuck this up.”

“Fine, thank you, Madame Speaker. Well, Herman Melville, did in fact write The Whale in 1851. It has come down through the ages to be known as Moby Dick, the name of a white sperm whale in the story. It is a little odd, isn’t it? Moby Dick. A sperm whale. I agree with you, Mr. Chairman.”

“Move the story along, Big Red douphus,” Nancy said. “We’re on the clock here. I have kittens to drown today.”

“Fine. So, a Captain Ahab — whaling boat skipper — becomes obsessed with the whale because the whale bit the Captain’s leg off above the knee. Happened on the whaling ship Pequod and the story was told by a common sailor named Ishmael. Simple story of obsession and revenge.”

“OK, there you have it, Jerry,” Nancy said, with that third-grade-geometry-teacher-talking-to-the-dumb-kid-look on her face. “If I were accurate I would have said ‘your Captain Ahab fixation on President Donald J Trump.’ For that I am sorry. Imagine I am sorry like when President Obama apologized to the world for whatever we did to them. OK? I. Am. Sorry. Jerry.  We done here?”

“See, Nancy, that’s a lot better,” Jerry said, taken in completely by Nancy’s faux apology. “Can I still impeach him? Please?”

“No, Captain Ahab, you can’t. If you continue with this fixation, this mindless obsession, we will be made to look like the stupidest idiots in Washington — which we currently are. Thanks, Jerry. Let’s not try to put the fire out with gasoline. What say you, Moby?”

“See, Big Red Car,” Jerry said. “She did it again. She called me the whale name.”

Nancy was, meanwhile, laughing like a lunatic while simultaneously chewing her cud, that move she makes that looks like Joe Biden trying to keep his false teeth in his mouth.

“OK, Big Red Car, send me a bill. It won’t get paid, but you’ll feel better. Jerry, come over here and get the door for me. Have you lost weight, Jerry?”

“I have, Nancy,” Jerry said, beaming. “Nice of you to notice.”

“Oh, Jerry, you moron, I was pulling your chain. Let’s go. Big Red, great to see you. Have you lost weight?”

Nancy got on her broom, left Jerry to find his own way home, and laughed like an insane person as she flew out of sight.