``I'm coming out of retirement to work for Obama as a speech writer,'' Uncle Chet announced as we sat down to Easter dinner.
``I've got an Obama hat,'' said Buddy, our 7-year-old newshound.
``Obama's doing pretty well on his own,'' said Alice. ``He's the best speaker we've had since Bobby Kennedy.''
``Even better,'' I said.
``He is,'' said Uncle Chet. ``But I could be his redneck speech writer, help him reach the under-educated.''
``What would you write?'' asked Hon as she served steaming roast chicken.
``Oh, I think I'd go after Hillary this week,'' he said. ``Something like `Liar, liar; pantsuit's on fire!'''
``Now that, is absolutely awful,'' Alice shook her head, long silver hair waving back and forth.
``Can you hear him saying that?'' I said. ``He'd lose 10 percent in the polls in the first hour.''
``I think I could do better than that,'' said the little miscreant, our ninth-grader.
``Go ahead, try,'' Uncle Chet challenged her and she started thinking.
``Afraid all we have is red wine today,'' I said, driving the corkscrew into a bottle of merlot.
``I like red with everything,'' said Alice.
``Me, too,'' said the little miscreant.
``Me, too,'' said her little brother.
``You guys get grape juice,'' Hon passed them the Welch's and started the serving bowls in motion around the table.
``Looks delicious,'' said Alice.
``Chicken, potatoes, cauliflower, celery, homemade rolls; this is a feast,'' Uncle Chet pronounced. ``And we ought to give thanks before we dive in.''
``Go ahead,'' I said and put down a serving spoon.
``Thank you, Lord, for this food and friendship, and please kick the devils out of Washington by the end of the year,'' said Uncle Chet.
``Amen,'' said Alice.
``It might actually happen this time,'' I said, ``unless people fall for the line that the surge is working.''