Gilda Radner-Dog: A Political Life

No one expects to get married on their 93rd birthday, but here we are.

The first time I saw Bill, he was in his dress whites, waving a newspaper on V-E Day. That was before the bomb, before our fight, before a silence that lasted 70 years.

Bill wrote me letters, at least for the first few months. He tried to make the front lines sound more bearable than they probably were and asked for pictures of our dog, Gilda.

That Bill, what a beautiful idiot. Everyone knows that Gilda doesn’t photograph well and just looks like a dark shape with ears. Pictures like that just make a war seem worse.

Gilda’s awkward portrait had been shared far and wide. She was basically a meme at this point. And yet, somehow, she was still leading in the polls. Now and again she would think to call Bill, her ex-campaign manager/amateur photographer, but inevitably couldn’t find the words.

Feeling a little lonely, she opened her laptop and turned back to that energy policy speech she had been meaning to finish.

Her life had been a bit of a whirlwind ever since Pete Buttigieg asked her to be head speechwriter. Her Pod Save America interview led to more interviews, and now she could scarcely find time to put together a simple energy policy stump speech.

Pressed for time, she multitasked, hitting “print” on the final draft of her speech while inhaling a messy slice of pizza. “Whoops,” she said, as pizza sauce dripped onto the page and obscured the first few sentences. She gave the notes to Pete anyways as he walked onstage.

Pete walked to the lectern and set down his notes. He’d just finished working the crowd when he noticed a greasy smear of tomato sauce obscuring the top of his speech. Pete panicked and said the first thing that came to mind, “Iowa, you deserve better. I must use the restroom.”

Pete fled to the men's room. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he realized he was in the most magnificent restroom in all of Iowa.

An indoor waterfall cascaded onto a flat gilded rock, sending a spray of warm rosewater into the shower—which was large enough for two horses. A tuxedoed attendant handed Pete a flute of Cava, pointing to a secluded grotto lit by candelabra. "If nature should call," he clarified…

"...DON'T ANSWER THE PHONE." Then he stole Pete's wine and ran away.

Pete looked down with despair. He had nothing left except the scent of failure. Next he did the only sensible thing he could think of. He made a mental list of all the people who had wronged him.

Once he was done, he mentally crumpled the list. Mayor Pete pulled out his phone. It was too late for him, but maybe it wasn’t too late for his speechwriter. He texted her two words: “Forgive him.”

Her phone buzzed. She looked at the message on its screen. "Ugh, ok, fine," she texted back. "ARGHUGHHH," responded Mayor Pete. She knew that this meant "thank you, friend."

By this time the mayor was long gone, cruising in a helicopter off the coast of Japan, his trusty cat, Pepperoni, by his side. As promised, Gilda had come through, saving Pete from the cruel, often barbaric, world of civic politics. Pete was scarred but ready to begin life anew.