Minutes from the All-Apartment Meeting of My Quarantine Mt. Rushmore

Stephen (hereinafter, the “Recording Secretary”): Thank you for gathering here today in the living room of my 600-square-foot apartment, Bruce Springsteen, Barack Obama, Michael Jordan, and Abraham Lincoln. It’s a pleasure having you all here for our first all-apartment meeting. Now I’m sure you have a lot of quest — 

Michael Jordan: Yeah, first of all, what are we all doing here? 

Recording Secretary: That’s a good question. Things certainly are pretty crazy these days. As best I can tell, somebody asked me, “Who is on your Mt. Rushmore of people you’d want to be quarantined with,” and I listed off you four, and then this sort of happened. 

Abraham Lincoln: What’s Mt. Rushmore?

Recording Secretary: Well, so, there’s this range of hills in what was formerly the Dakota Territories that is considered sacred land by the Sioux Tribe and —

Barack Obama: Let me get this straight. You got to choose the four people to be cooped up with during a pandemic, but you didn’t choose your girlfriend? 

Recording Secretary: Yes, thank you Mr. President, that’s a very astute observation, and one that I can assure you has already been raised several times.

Bruce Springsteen: I actually have something I’d like to address now that we’re all gathered together. 

Recording Secretary: Sure, you’re the boss.

[Everybody groans but Lincoln, who is preoccupied studying an electrical socket.]

Springsteen: Well, I’d like to say that I’ve been sensing a lot of… competitive tension in the apartment recently. [Looks at Jordan] I mean, just the other day I missed a small spot while doing dishes, and Jordan stared daggers at me and then lashed into a tirade about how my early 70s work sounded like “nothing but a shitty-ass cheap-motherfucking-knockoff of if Bob Dylan and Van Morrison’s did the audio equivalent of two girls one cup.” 

Obama: Jesus. But I know what you mean. Just the other day I heard Jordan call Stephen “a slower, whiter, less-Twitter-woke version of broken-back-ass Steve Kerr” just because Stephen roasted the brussel sprouts a bit too much. 

Recording Secretary: I don’t want to talk about — 

Springsteen: Yeah! And then I took $25k off Jordan after we bet on the Lincoln–Obama debate over universal health care, and he wouldn’t let it go until we doubled or nothing on our pick-up basketball game. 

Recording Secretary: Yes, yes, about that. I really don’t think those teams were fair. Maybe next time it shouldn’t be me, Obama, and Bruce versus Jordan and Lincoln.

Lincoln: If I may, I have a question. Why did Jordan keep calling me “Will Perdue–looking ass” during the game? 

Obama: My fellow teammates, I am deeply troubled by the fact that we lost five straight games by a collective score of 105–7. We will do better. We. Must. Be. Better.

Jordan: You all are some weak motherfuckers. Especially stovepipe over here—I bet I could’ve dropped 50 on Stonewall Jackson before this chin-strapped jagoff could take a typhoid-laced dump.

Springsteen: Abe was on your team!

Jordan: Yeah, but I’m also getting pretty tired of hearing him remind me that he was friends with Frederick Douglass. 

Lincoln: Hey man, Republicans buy shoes too.

Springsteen: You’re, like, not a Republican any more! 

Recording Secretary: Mike, I’d also like to raise an anonymous comment I received complaining that you are “absolutely draining our internet with your online poker habit” — 

Jordan: I don’t know anything about that.

Recording Secretary: Well, I don’t want to have to make you retire early from our 2K tournament if —

Jordan: said I don’t know anything about that. 

Lincoln: Excuse me, but a thought occurred to me. Why does Mr. Springsteen over here always count off “Hu-n, Hu-oo, Hu-ree, Hu-r” every time he’s about to start a task? 

Springsteen: Clearly you’ve never seen the American dream light up ahead of you like the headlights of a ‘59 Chevy down the Jersey turnpike

Obama: I think maybe we could all spend a little less time pestering each other, like some people around here who keep coming to me about things like “why the fuck is goddamn Grant on a bill that’s worth ten times more than mine” or “what modern magical marvel is behind these menthol cigarettes”? 

Lincoln: I’m sorry, I’m not right in my head. Anyways, who wants to play Catan? 

Jordan: Down. And I’ll bet fifty grand that Lincoln can’t raise the biggest army again.

[Barack throws Stevie Wonder on the Sonos, and we play Catan. It’s awesome. Later, Barack and the Recording Secretary go out to walk Bo and get carryout from Valois while Bruce and Lincoln roll a spliff and talk about resenting their fathers. Jordan has disappeared to play 36 holes of night golf before sunrise. High fives all around. Everybody in attendance agrees that the Recording Secretary’s Mt. Rushmore decision was the best thing to ever happen to us.]

Meeting adjourned and the minutes submitted for final approval.

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