Dan Savage is the lowlife who joined the Bauer campaign in 2000 under false pretenses. He had the flu, and planned to infect as many Republicans as he could while he worked there. From his column on the subject:
"Gary is having a press conference today at the World War II memorial by the state capitol," Andy tells me when I arrive the next day for my second shift at Bauer 2000 headquarters. "We'd like to have a crowd of supporters there." Andy hands me a list of phone numbers and shows me to a phone; he also tells me to stop by the conference. "Grab my arm," he says, "and I'll make sure you get to meet Gary."Imagine if an elderly volunteer had contracted the flu and died as a result of Savage's depraved indifference.
An hour and a half later, most everyone has left the offices for a pizza party. I am alone, like Cinderella after her sisters trotted off to the ball. My nose is running like a faucet, so I'm not too upset at missing the pizza. Besides, I've got work to do.
I go around the room licking doorknobs. They are filthy, no doubt, but there isn't time to find a rag to spit on. If for some reason I don't manage to get a pen from my mouth to Gary's hands at the conference, I want to seed his office with germs, get as many of his people sick as I can, and hopefully one of them will infect the candidate. I lick office doorknobs, bathroom doorknobs. When that's done, I start on the staplers, phones, and computer keyboards. Then I stand in the kitchen and lick the rims of all the clean coffee cups drying in the rack. I grab my coat and head out.
I show up at the war memorial press conference, but the turnout is skimpy. There are about two dozen people here, mostly campaign staffers and their families. My phone efforts have failed, but Andy claps me on the back anyway, hands me a Bauer sign, and tells me to stand behind the podium with the rest of the crowd. It's freezing cold and windy. Waiting for Gary, I take my pen out of my pocket and put it in my mouth. This is it, my one shot at the candidate. I chew the pen, cracking the plastic shaft. Gary arrives, toddles up to the podium, and makes some brief remarks about Red China. As he steps away, I step toward him.
"This is my son," I say, handing him a photograph. "Can I have your autograph?" Bauer gives me an odd look; I need to give him a little more. "I talked his mother out of aborting him. You're my hero, Mr. Bauer."
He looks at me with his little bug eyes, and breaks into a wide smile. "Good for you," Gary says. "That's wonderful."
He takes the picture, and I pull the pen out of my mouth and hand it to him. Score! My bodily fluids -- flu bugs and all -- are all over his hand! When he tries to sign, no ink comes out. Gary looks up at the cameras and says, "Looks like everything is frozen." He grabs a poster and scribbles on it to get the ink flowing, then signs the picture. He hands me my pen, and starts to walk toward his van. He stops to answer a reporter's question, and I see him run a finger under his nose. Perfect.
I didn't need to lick all those doorknobs after all.