If A Unicorn Were On The National Security Council

McSweeney's cracks me up. So clever it is. And although I purposely intend to not go too much into politics on this blog, this piece is allowed because it's damn funny. So, without further ado, discourse, or description...

If A Unicorn Were On The National Security Council, by Ken Saji:


The unicorn starts out by laying out its plan to counter the North Korean nuclear threat. It says, "Create a giant rainbow over the entire country that lasts 100 years and then flood the DMZ with thousands of puppies—er, kittens. Because nothing's cuter than a kitten scratching and meowing to get in somewhere. Then, after we break through, the Marines go in and take over any nuclear facilities, turning them into 'Happy Centers,' filled with flowers, cupcakes, popcorn (low sodium), toys, smiles, trust, and kinship."

The vice president is swayed, but asks for tactical specifics. The unicorn presents a briefing memo written in watercolored rebuses. It's 630 pages long. The unicorn states that it's no small feat writing out "operational malfeasance" in pictures, and the president says, "Well, ain't that the truth."

The unicorn moves on and explains that increasing the Special Forces covert operations in the tribal areas along the Pakistani border would be productive. Currently in that region, says the unicorn, "there are way many factions, anti-U.S. sentiment, cobwebs, and frowns."

The director of national intelligence questions the unicorn's assessment, specifically the number of operatives needed. He says the undersecretary of defense stands by the current numbers.

The unicorn immediately questions any troop assessment coming from the Department of Defense. "How about," it says, "that leprechaun? Whenever we talked about Iraq, the leprechaun magically appeared and said our ground forces were sufficient."

"Leprechaun?" asks the secretary of defense.

"The one who celebrated Rosh Hashanah," says the unicorn.

"Wolfowitz," mouths the national-security adviser.

The unicorn nods its noble head.

The secretary of state is concerned about conducting clandestine missions without congressional approval.

The unicorn holds up in its mouth a document of legal indemnification, crafted by the White House counsel. It's written in crayon and contains language like "all busted up and such," but the unicorn maintains that it's ironclad.

Talk turns to Somalia and the growing threat of Al Qaeda in the capital city. "Have you thought," asks the unicorn, "of sending a legion of robots?" "Just one legion?" asks the secretary of the treasury. The unicorn lets the chief of staff take that one—it's not exactly sure how many make up a legion, as it's probably metric.

The unicorn remains silent for most of the conversation on Iran. In a break in the conversation, it interjects, "In developing contingencies against Iran, council members had suggested I contact a specific person at the International Atomic Energy Agency. My advisers soon told me that there is no person at the IAEA named Nukey McBombalot. This after multiple attempts to reach his secret office in Kapowville, as well as hundreds of dollars out of my own pocket spent on calligraphy on his invitation and place card for my tea party. Does anyone have any other contact information on him?" The unicorn thinks he hears the director of national intelligence stifle a laugh.

The vice president talks about supplying arms to Kurdish rebels. "How about," says the unicorn, "we swap out guns and use love guns." The unicorn starts to draw a rifle with an oversized barrel under the words "Love Gun!" and stops. "Let's shelve this for now," says the unicorn. Everyone quickly agrees.

The president emits a loud groan and points. There's a large pile of manure on the Situation Room couch. The council members look at the unicorn. "That's not me—and unicorns don't lie," says the unicorn. The president looks at the vice president. The vice president averts his eyes. They move on.

Talk turns to Iraq, and the unicorn wishes he had his teddy bear. The teddy bear who served on the Council on Foreign Relations. The one the unicorn took to Syria, and the unicorn saw the look on the Syrians' faces, like "Oh, man, don't let this teddy bear look me straight in the eye." And the meeting was going great until the teddy bear said that Damascus reminded him of his ass. So now Hezbollah is stronger than ever and the teddy bear is teaching social studies somewhere in New Paltz.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff sternly opposes the unicorn's idea to airlift sunshine across the tribal areas of Afghanistan. He says something under his breath. "I heard that," says the unicorn. "Calling me just a horse with a horn is like calling Justin Timberlake just a singer or the secretary of state just a mannequin for Dress Barn suits."

To clear the air, the unicorn calls for a bathroom break. After a few minutes, it comes back and says how cool it is that the Sit Room bathroom has textured toilet paper. "Why is that?" asks the unicorn. "Because we're the government," says the secretary of defense. "Boy," says the unicorn, "I wish I used toilet paper." And everyone stares at the unicorn, and suddenly it wishes it hadn't said that. And then the unicorn wishes it were something else, like a monkey. One of those monkeys who use toilet paper. One of those wise, wise monkeys.