Politics in America 40: Who Put the Boogie in Boogie Woogie?  

Just as the President was doing a wee wee in the Presidential wee wee room and going aaaahhhhh, there was a shattering of glass in the Oval Office.

The Vice President wasn’t up to talking to an Ambassador. He had had a rough day, figuring out how to get out of some ceremonial things. This job as Vice President had turned out to be more work than Maynard Gee was up for. If they asked him to run with the President for a second term, he was not gonna. He would put his left foot down, then raise his right foot up and shake it all about and turn himself around and do the hokey pokey if necessary.

The Ambassador from Some-Godforsaken-Place-He-Couldn’t-Pronounce was bored. This meeting with the President wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. This P F Sneaze was a dud as far as he was concerned. Why had he taken this Ambassadorship when it was offered?

Because it was his patriotic duty, that’s why. Nobody else would do it. No wonder America was snoozing along. They had a pig farmer for a President. At least, the people of his country had chosen a chicken farmer. He was proud to have a President called The Big Clucker.

While the President stood at the urinal and let it all hang out, his bunion was putting a real hurt on his foot. His shoe was killing him. He was going to have to do something about that bunion.

In the meantime out in the dark and stormy night, things happened as they often do despite every precaution we take to ward off the Pickled Finger of Fate. Big Al was wrestling Stever the Clever, and Stever the Cleaver was wrestling Big Al. Then The Cleaver did a couple of early sixties dance moves. He twisted and he watusied and he broke loose. He was up on Bessie Mae Hogg so fast that even he was surprised.

Big Al barely saw The Cleaver through the dark night. It was so dark that Big Al could have cut the darkness with a knife.

In fact, that is exactly what he did. He took out his Jim Bowie knife and sliced the indigo in two. The rip in the curtain of the night allowed Big Al to spy the pig assassinator. He reached The Cleaver in two seconds flat.

Big Al was on The Cleaver like a dog on a bone. Lickety-split. He tackled The Cleaver and brought him down. The Cleaver crashed onto the rain-soaked grass nose-downward. He pulled the trigger on the gun.

Now of all the gin joints in the world, that bullet just had to walk into the President’s joint. The bullet sped out of the barrel of that gun. It crashed through the French doors, then whistled right by the Vice President’s ear, missing the Ambassador by a nose. It headed straight to the President’s john.

The bullet crashed through the keyhole and dashed toward the President just as he zipped up and turned.

Next Week Danger, Will Robinson. Danger, danger. 

Politics in America 39: What in the Name of Betty Sue Pudding Is Going On? 

The President of the United States was in the Oval Office. He was doing Oval Office things. Like meeting the Ambassador from Some-Godforsaken-Place-He-Couldn’t-Pronounce. It was a dark and stormy night outside but he was all snug and cozy in the White House.

The Ambassador introduced himself. Of course, The Great Man, P F Sneaze, couldn’t understand the language. As far as he was concerned, it was gibberish. It was French.

He shook the dude’s hand and they tête-à-têted for a while. Tête-à-tête is French for shaking hands and making the most out of an uncomfortable situation. Like acting like you’re listening to an ambassador about something or other in French.

The President had to go for a pee. He knew it would be improper protocol to take a bathroom break right then. But it was getting to the point where he had to go bad. Really bad.

Now we all know that, when the President needs to go and take a leak and he doesn’t get to because he’s protocoling all over the place, all heck can break loose. He may accidentally push the red button and take out a country that was minding its own business. That was just about what was about to take place.

About this time, Maynard Gee, the Vice President who had not worked a day in his life, walked in on the President and the Ambassador. He took one look at the situation and he thought it might be a good idea if he got the heck out of Dodge.

One thing was for sure. When Maynard Gee smelled a lick of work, he was real good at getting hisself out of Dodge. He had graduated summa cum laude at the Institute of Getting-the-Heck-Out-Of-Dodge.

The President could hardly control himself. He had to pee that bad. He beckoned the V P over to say a big hey to the Ambassador. What can a Vice President do when a President beckons him over to do this or that? He definitely goes over to do this or that. It’s his job to do this or that, even if it means that he has to take out the garbage. After all, nobody but nobody says nay to the Leader of the Free World. Especially if that Leader is The Great Man.

The Vice President was cornered. So he did what any self-respecting Vice President would do. He walked over. The President indicated that he needed to be excused and he would be right back. When meeting an Ambassador, what does a Vice President talk about. The price of eggs in China, of course.

It was a good thing that the Vice President understood gibberish. I mean French.

The President said, “I’ll be right back.” Then he hurried out of the room. Well, it wasn’t exactly a room. It was the Oval Office. But he did hurry out of it.

So there’s the Vice President tête-à-têting with the Ambassador from Some-Godforsaken-Place-He-Couldn’t-Pronounce and they were discussing the price of eggs in China when, you guessed it–

Next Week: Should Have Gotten Himself Out of Dodge

Politics in America 38: Al Fresco alfrescoes the Place  

Al Fresco, the Presidential King Maker, was frantic. He was old friends with the CIA Director. The Director had told Al all that had happened in the Oval Office in Chapter 37. Stever the Cleaver was a Canadian. If he tried to attempt to assassinate Bessie Mae Hogg, he might get caught. The President would definitely be going after the Canadians.

And Al Fresco knew his history. During the War of 1812, the United States had invaded Canada and got whopped. It was about to happen again. For Al knew the Canadians were not about to be beat. Those guys really knew how to play hockey. The United States definitely did not want to take on guys like that.

However there was a problem. Stever the Cleaver was not contactible. When he was about to do a job, there was no contacting him for anything. His smartphone was off. His cell phone was off. His smart watch was off. His smoke signal detector was off. Nobody was about to contact the Cleaver.

To say that it was a dark and stormy night when Big Al Fresco headed across the back lawn of the White House is a bit like saying Canadians love hockey. Of course, they love hockey, and of course, it was a dark and stormy night. What other weather would you expect when Big Al was trying to track Stever the Cleaver down? And do it sneaky-like? If it had been a warm and sunny day, the Secret Service would have stopped him. In fact, it was so dark and stormy the weather made the words “dark and stormy” a cliché. And I’ve seen some clichés in my time. This really was a cliché.

Big Al slipped through the Gate and sneaked across the White House lawn toward Bessie Mae Hogg’s Pig Pen. To say that he was as wet as all-get-out was not stretching it none too much. He was as wet as all-get-out. And getting wetter all the time. It was so dark and stormy there was not a star in the sky and it looked like the moon had lost his way.

Big Al slipped and fell in a ditch the White House Lawn Guys were digging. For what reason, they were digging a ditch in just that place was anybody’s guess. They were government employees and we all know how far they will stretch themselves not to work.

“But digging a ditch is work,” you say. Of course, it’s work. That’s how far government workers will go to get out of work.

Big Al picked himself up out of that ditch. If he had been drenched before, he was drenched now with a cake of mud all over him. He was beginning to look like some monster that you might encounter on Halloween. He was regretting every political thing he had ever done. He was thinking it was time to look for a new line of work.

Not too far ahead of him, he saw his goal. Stever the Cleaver. The Cleaver was looking just as bad as Big Al, only worse. He had been out in the dark and stormy night a half hour longer than Big Al, so he was looking a half hour worse.

Big Al saw that The Cleaver had pulled his big gun with the big silencer out of its big holster. He was headed straight for the P F Sneaze’s Blue Ribbon pig. Big Al ran and he ran fast and tackled The Cleaver. The Cleaver, of course, was surprised. And when you surprise up on an assassin with a gun with a silencer out and ready to shoot his target, you have done a mighty lot of surprising. That’s how surprised The Cleaver was.

Big Al and Stever wrestled for the gun. If you are looking for an example of how much they wrestled, think Jacob and the Angel. It was one whopper of a wrestling match. First Big Al had the upper hand, then The Cleaver, then Big Al, then The Cleaver.

It got to the point where everything came to a draw. That was when it happened. The gun with the silencer went off.

Next Week The Beat Goes On  

Politics in America 37: JMDs, The Chapter You’ve Been Waiting For

The pizza was the last straw. P. F. Sneaze was not in a good mood. His tongue was numb from the pizza. It had been scalding hot.

The Great Man called in the directors of the C.I.A., the FBI, the Secret Service.
“Someone has been trying to assassinate me,” he told them in no uncertain terms.

“But, sir, it was only a pizza,” the Director of the Secret Service said. He had gone where no man had gone before. He had disagreed with the President.

Did anyone argue with George W. Bush when he wanted to go to war with Iraq? Did anyone argue with Bill Clinton about that intern? Did anyone argue with George H. W. Bush when he chose Dan Quail for a running mate? Did anyone argue with Ronald Reagan when he sold weapons to the Iranians so he would have money for the contras? Did anyone argue with Jimmy Carter when he did that malaise speech? Did anyone argue with Dick Nixon about those tapes? No. They wouldn’t dare. You just don’t argue with a President.

Then the President dropped the big one. And I mean it was yuge. “In the history of sovereign states, there has never been a dastardlier deed performed by one Sovereign State against another Sovereign State.”

The Directors wanted to ask what the heck the President was tawking about. But they knew they had better hold their tongues. It was bad etiquette to interrupt a President, especially in the Oval Office.

“It’s JMDs,” the President continued.

“JMDs?” the Directors all said at once.

“Jokes of Mass Destruction.”

There was incredulity on the faces of the Directors. In case you don’t know what “incredulity” means, I’m going to tell you. It means they didn’t believe what the President had just said.

“Have you ever heard a funny American?” the President asked. “Of course not. Oh, sure. We occasionally get someone who gives us a little chuckle. But we just are not funny. And there’s only one country to blame.”

The Directors had to agree. The President did have a point. They wracked their brains trying to come up with someone. They went down the list and no one but no one was that funny who had been born in the U S of A lately. Even Seinfeld didn’t pass the test. They had watched Seinfeld for years but none of them had ever laughed. His show was about nothing, and nothing was ever funny. The last funny American was Will Rogers, and that was because he was from Oklahoma.

“It’s Canada. They’ve been dropping Jokes of Mass Destruction on us for years.”

The Directors’ incredulity was now going into overtime. They just couldn’t believe what they were hearing.

“Jim Carey, Dan Ackroyd, Mike Myers, Martin Short, Seth Rogen, Leslie Nielsen, Norm MacDonald, Catherine O’Hara, Dave Thomas, Caroline Rhea, Tommy Chong, Maggie Cassella. These are either making Americans laugh from their comedy. Or they are writing stuff for others that was the funny stuff. And that Lorne Michaels. He’s the worst. Saturday Night Live my belt buckle. It isn’t live. It’s pre-recorded.”

The Directors’ faces were giant saucers of unbelievability at what they were hearing. But it was true they realized. All true.

“The pizza was the last straw. It was the Canadian bacon on the pizza that burned my mouth to high heaven.”

“Canadian bacon?” CIA asked.

“Canadian bacon,” the Great Man said, “is not bacon. It’s ham. It’s ham. I ought to know. I am a pig farmer after all. We only want real bacon in these United States of America. If it ain’t bacon, it ain’t bacon. So from now on, the USDA will have to certify that bacon is actually bacon before it can be called bacon.

“On top of that, Canadian geese are using America for a rest stop. Have you ever tried to clean that Canadian geese poop off your car. It just can’t be done.”

“The rule of thumb, Mr. President,” CIA said with the wisdom of the years he had served, “is never go to war with a country we can’t beat. We can’t beat Canada.”

“Aw, c’mon. We’ll kick their butts from here to Nome, Alaska.”

“Sir, please don’t say butt in the Oval Office. The Oval Office doesn’t like it.”

“Canadians,” the President screamed, “are shooting off jmds at us like crazy. And all you can say is ‘Don’t say butt in the Oval Office.'”

The Directors had never thought of it this way.

“Gentlemen, the day they delivered that pizza with ham from Canada on it is a day that will live in infamy. Tomorrow I will address a Joint Session of Congress and ask that we declare war on Canada. I, and the American people, are fed up with those Canadians making fun of us. And getting us to pay them for it.”

“But, Mr. President,” the FBI Director said to everyone else’s chagrin, “the Canadians now own Mississippi and they have that snow pipeline.”

“Well, we’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?”

“Instead of going to war immediately,” FBI said, “why don’t we get the world on our side. We can send in the United Nations Joke Inspectors.”

Next Week Why Did Big Al Do a Darn Thang Like That?

Politics in America 36: First a word from our sponsor…Well, not really 

Stever the Cleaver was an assassin. That’s what he did. That’s what he was. But lately he had a lot of free time. It’s never a good idea for an assassin to have a lot of free time. He might just go off half cocked. Or even worse, full cocked.

First he tried out a new revolver. Shot himself in the foot. Then he went and did his knife-throwing thing. He almost stabbed himself in the other foot. He did hit his big toe and that hurt. ‘Bout the time Stever was about to give up hope, he got a call. From Al Fresco of all people.

Al Fresco had an idea. He said into the phone, “Stever, I got a job for you.”

“A job? Anything for a job,” Stever said to himself, then spoke into the phone, “How much does it pay?”

“It’s minimum wage,” Al let the Cleaver know.

“What do you mean? Minimum wage? Have you read my resume’?”

“Of course, I know your resume’. But this is a government contract.”

Stever thought about it for a few minutes, then said, “If it’s a government contract, then okay.” The Cleaver had been wanting to get in at the government trough for years. Here was his chance.

Then Al Fresco let the cat out of the bag. It was the President’s numbers. They were down big time all because of them darn boots. Something had to be done. It was the third year in The Great Man’s first term. “I want you to try to take out Bessie Mae Hogg.”

“What?” You could have heard Stever’s “what” all the way to France. Of course, it did help that Stever was in his hideout in Paris.

“Calm down,” Al said. “You’re just going to fake it. We’ll blame it on the Mayor from Snort Holler. He’s been making noises lately.”

“In that case, I’m in.” Stever chuckled at the mischief he was about to create. “I’ll do this one for free.”

“You good hearted s.o.b.,” Al said.

“When’s the job?” Stever wanted to know.

“Friday,” Al Fresco said.

“Friday the thirteenth?”

“That’s right.”

Just his luck. Friday the thirteenth. It wasn’t that Stever was superstitious. It was that he was superstitious. Things had not been going well for him lately. Now this. If Stever had not been so darned bored, he wouldn’t have agreed to the proposition.

Next Week The Chapter You’ve Been Waiting For