Shorts Weather By: Kim B. Rating: M (Hot!)

Dateline: San Antonio, Texas, site of the Republican National Convention. It's a blistering day in late summer, one of those muggy affairs where the humidity's off the charts and it feels 20 degrees hotter than what it says on the thermometer. In short, it's shorts weather. Short shorts weather.

Given the hellish conditions, O'Reilly shouldn't be surprised to see Stephen emerge from the bathroom wearing desperately cropped cutoffs. But these shorts' particular cutoff is, quite frankly, shocking - we're talking well above the thigh. It's suddenly the slightest bit warmer in the room, the lack of air conditioning only somewhat offset by Stephen's icy-cool demeanor as he sports what might as well be a set of denim bikini briefs.

"Looks like the only thing failing to spin in this zone are the rotors on our air conditioner, eh O'Reilly?" deadpans Stephen, focusing his trademark stare squarely on O'Reilly's quivering eyes. But O'Reilly can't meet his gaze - to him, the shorts are like a car accident, in all the right ways.

"Who would've thought, Stephen Colbert and Bill O'Reilly, cooped up in a tiny one-bedroom press dorm for the duration of the RNC," continues Stephen, nonchalantly resting one foot on the bed in a seemingly innocent but, from the perspective of his shorts, deliciously provocative way. O'Reilly tries to tear his eyes away from Stephen's ensemble, but finds that his muscles will not obey his brain's desperate command.

As the sweat beads on his forehead, Bill swears to himself that there was plenty of hotel space in '04. Not to mention the fact that he hasn't seen any other press personalities in the dorm, and they've already been here for a few hours. Is it really possible that they're alone? It's his greatest, most secret fantasy - and yet he can't help but feel disgusted with himself for being so completely at Stephen's mercy.

With a puckish grin, Colbert stands and in one fluid motion whips off what we now see are breakaway short shorts, revealing an even smaller and tighter pair of khaki short shorts underneath. The expression on O'Reilly's face is priceless, and Stephen stops to savor what is surely his finest moment in journalism.

O'Reilly, frantic to get some kind of substantive conversation going, manages to stammer out a pathetic "Let's talk about the nominees." With the grace of a trained dancer, Stephen leaps up onto their room's twin-mattress Murphy bed. Finally succumbing to temptation, O'Reilly submissively adds, "Personally, I think this convention belongs to the brash young stud from South Carolina."

Colbert is in his element; he knows exactly how to play this, because he's played the scenario out a thousand times in his mind. Gesturing languidly toward O'Reilly, he purrs, "South Carolina recognizes the gentleman from Levittown, New York... provided Levittown can defeat South Carolina in a no-holds-barred Greco-Roman wrestling match." In the time it takes O'Reilly to blink, Stephen's chest is suddenly covered in glistening oil.

"Colbert," says O'Reilly, eyeing Stephen's shorts as he gets into a ready stance, "you have got to introduce me to your tailor."

End of Book One