Marriage is harder than winning a freaking Nobel Peace Prize

Yesterday the world learned that America’s cutest Democratic couple (suck it, Barack & Michele!) has split after 40 years of marriage:  Al and Tipper Gore.  Without further ado, we take you take you live to the Gore’s mansion in Tennessee:

INT.  GORE HOME – AFTERNOON

Tipper packs as Al paces.

AL.  (with a heavy, Darrell Hammond-like drawl) Tipper, please, our marriage is not a hoax!  Neither is–

TIPPER.  Yes, yes, Al, global warming!  We’ve all heard.  God I wish you would stop showing me that damn Power Point presentation for bed each night.

AL.  What can I do, Tipper?  I love you!  I love you!  It’s been 40 years!  You don’t think I didn’t have chances with interns–

TIPPER.  No–

AL.  Well, fine, no, I didn’t.  But when I won the Oscar Jodie Foster let me give her a chaste peck on the cheek.  Tipper!  You’re my woman!  And I’m the Goreman!

TIPPER.  I thought we agreed you’d never to yourself as ‘the Goreman’…  maybe if you had paid a little more attention downtown, Al…  I mean, it’s like your precious rainforest–  it needs a little care, a little saving.  Instead it’s turned into a melting glacier.

AL.  Well, give me a shot!

Al lunges for Tipper’s pants, Tipper steps back.

AL.  Tip, our marriage is the most important thing to me.  More than dying polar bears, oil-covered pelican birds, distraught koalas…  well, not the distraught koalas–  they’re so cute!  But I’ll do whatever you need me to.  I’ll put our marriage in a lockbox.

TIPPER.  Oh, God, not the lockbox again!

AL.  What if I finally take stupid John Edwards up on that weekly poker game?  He’s always wanting to give me tips on pleasuring the ladies…

TIPPER. Al, I love you.  We’ve had 40 great years, and one awesome kiss that almost won you the Presidency.  But I’ve been having a secret affair, and I’m leaving you.  I need a man not afraid to make a decision.  A man who’s okay with being unpopular.  A man who sticks to his gut.

AL.  What are you saying?

TIPPER.  I’m leaving you for Dubya.

Tipper walks out, suitcase in hand.  The door slams shut. Al slumps in a chair and wails.

AL.  Damn you, Florida!  Damn you!

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