Mission Impossible (thanks Cactus)

Today's post is destined for disaster. My task, as outlined by San Diego Momma, and as set by Cactus Petunia, is to write a post "about Elvis, and a pink dressing gown, referencing Election Day 2012 and Madison Square Garden in NYC".

So in short, a recipe for disaster. Whatever follows (as I write, I don't yet know what will follow) will almost certainly be complete tosh, lack any ounce of sagacity, and If I get any points it will be simply for insanity.

*****

It is Election Day 2012 (doesn't time fly!) already. Special Agent James Ostrich sped through New York on his mini-scooter, a man of the nicest scruples, but a man born with an inbuilt disposition towards the mismanagement of time.

It may not be his fault. I can offer a number of plausible explanations. Maybe he grew up in a house with no clocks. Maybe his house is resident to a mischievous poltergeist who perpetually sets the clocks back. Maybe he belongs to a strange cult that teaches that watches are "of the Devil". Most likely of all he simply is incapable of managing time. Twenty years on the job, twenty years of being late for work, why do such people torture themselves like that?

Anyway, he was late again.

Unfortunate enough to have the surname of Ostrich, he was even more unfortunate to have the general deportment of an ostrich. An ostrich in a mini-scooter race.

His latest assignment was to monitor an expected rendezvous in Madison Square Garden. Not that there was a rendezvous expected. It was merely a ploy by his superiors to get him out of the way during the election. The last thing Obama needs on the day of his re-election is to be knocked over by an ostrich on a mini-scooter. Actually, the last thing Obama needs is chronic diarrhea, but there was nothing Ostrich's superiors could do to prevent that.

Across town in an apartment overlooking Madison Square Garden, Elvis was preparing his escape. He had planning his escape for the last year, a tortuous year to say the least. A daily subjection to Hound Dog had almost driven him insane. Almost. Gathering together his last remaining threads of clarity, he forced open the door of his cage and hopped out. Though a small hamster, a strict exercise regime and healthy diet had given him an unnatural strength.

Snatching his owner's pink dressing gown, he ran and leaped out the window, the dressing gown functioning as a bright, towely parachute. Elvis had learnt that one from Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible 3. As he sailed out the window Elvis' owner ran into the room.

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! Elvis has left the building."

Ostrich, Elvis, the mini-scooter and the pink dressing gown tangled together in an unholy mess. Ostrich picked up the limp hamster and examined the name tag (yep, this little critter had a collar).

"My gosh," he said, "the King is dead."