What is the dictator doing right now?

By CARL HIAASEN

ADay in the Life of a Retired Dictator:

7:30 a.m. For breakfast it's my usual bowl of Mueslix with plantains. Then I call Raúl to get the latest numbers on the sugar cane crop, which haven't improved by one lousy hectare since yesterday.

8:15 a.m. Another fancy gift basket arrives from Hugo Chávez -- more mixed nuts and taffy, which I can't possibly eat because of my stomach issues. Why does Hugo not remember?

9:00 a.m.-9:20 a.m. I write several peppy new anti-American slogans and read them to Raúl over the phone. The one I like best is ``Down With Imperialist Butt heads!''

Wouldn't that look fantastic on a banner plane flying back and forth along Varadero Beach?

Raúl says he'll think about it and get back to me. He seems somewhat preoccupied these days, but I understand. Running a revolution is hard work.

9:45 a.m.-11:45 a.m. Boy, am I hooked on Sudoku! Such a simple game, yet so challenging. Those Japanese are amazingly clever -- how did they ever lose the war to those shiftless Yanqui worms?

11:50 a.m. Another ice-cold bedpan! Immediately I phone Raúl to demand that the offending nurse be locked up as a political prisoner. Twenty-five years in Guanajay sounds about right.

Raúl's secretary says he's at lunch with several big-shots on the Central Committee, but she promises he will call me after his regular afternoon massage.

It's good that my little brother is treating his body well. Carrying the beacon of socialism in the Western Hemisphere can be very grueling and stressful. Look what the job did to me!

Noon. You've gotta be kidding. Steamed cassava for lunch, again?

I'm so sick of fiber I could scream. The nurse threatens to spoon-feed me like an infant. I offer her my villa in Cienfuegos in exchange for a toasted media noche and a beer, yet she refuses!

There was a time when such a handsome bribe could make miracles happen. Where is the revolutionary spirit?

1:15 p.m.-1:40 p.m. I dash off another hard-hitting column for Granma and e-mail it to the editor. He says he's not sure that the citizens of Cuba want to read 1,500 words about the value of milk quotas, because milk quotas are somewhat unpopular.

''Then change it to meat quotas in the column,'' I tell him.

``If you insist.''

''And here's another idea for the newspaper,'' I say, ``a daily Sudoku puzzle! Our communist youth will go wild for it.''

``Yes, Mr. President.''

Everybody still calls me that. I don't mind at all, though it's starting to bother Raúl.

2 p.m. From the window of my hospital room I have a grand view of a towering billboard bearing my own image.

''Viva Fidel!'' the billboard proclaims, which isn't very original but I have no intention of complaining, secure as I am in retirement and my new role as elder statesman.

Who cares if the paint on the billboard is peeling and faded, or if a raucous flock of gulls roosts upon it from dawn to dusk, decorating my iconic beard with their unsightly droppings?

Still, I might mention this to Raúl. His massage must be taking longer than usual, for he hasn't responded to my earlier calls.

3:15 p.m. What exciting news! According to the latest sales figures from the tourist shop at the Havana airport, Fidel T-shirts are now outselling Ché T-shirts for the first time since my brave revolutionary comrade perished in the jungles of Bolivia.

I will, of course, donate my cut to the revolution.

3:30 p.m.-7:30 p.m. The hospital staff is gathered to hear my daily four-hour speech. Today's subjects are American aggression in the Mideast, American interference in the Third World and American exploitation of Asian labor.

Mysteriously, I fall asleep halfway through my brilliant oration, which I never used to do when speaking at the Plaza de la Revolución. I'm fairly certain that one of the nurses slipped an Ambien into my mango smoothie, and I intend to tell Raúl of my suspicions, if the little twerp ever calls me back.

10:45 p.m. Finally the phone rings, and guess who? Mr. Likely Successor himself.

''Did you forget about me, Raúl?'' I inquire sharply.

``Of course not, Fidel.''

I tell him about the day's busy events. He promises to remind Chávez of my dietary restrictions, change the plugs in the banner plane, banish metal bedpans from state hospitals, repaint the billboard outside my window, remove all sea-gulls from the island, increase production of Fidel T-shirts at the silk-screen factory and investigate my nurses for possible connections to the CIA.

''Good night, mi hermano,'' I say. ``Long live the revolution!''

Looking out the window, I can see the lights of Havana sparkling (except for isolated power outages) from Miramar to El Malecón. My old warrior heart feels warm and full.

Or possibly it's just acid reflux.