George Washington Slept There, And So Did A Few Others

When GW, and I am not talking Bush here, when GW moved into the White House, do you know the first thing he asked the Secret Service? “Where’s the cherry trees? I think I need another set of teeth.”

When John Adams moved into the White House, he tried to find the cherry trees.

When Tommy Jefferson moved into the White House, the first thing he did was check out the female staff…I mean, books.

When Jimmy Madison moved into the White House, his wife, Dolley, went to decoratin’. She was nowhere pleased with Abby Adams’ choice in furniture. “That Franklin stove has to go.”

When Jim Monroe moved into the White House, he asked that booze be named after him. That is why we have a fifth. (He was the fifth President, you know.)

When John Quincy Adams moved into the White House, he requested that folks quit calling him Quince. ‘Course nobody listened. Nobody ever listened to him.

When Andy Jackson moved into the White House, the first thing he went for was the booze…and the dueling pistols.

When Martin Van Buren moved into the White House, he put in a cabinet in the kitchen.

When Tippecanoe moved into the White House, he died.

When John Tyler moved into the White House, he moved Texas in too.

When Jimmy Polk moved into the White House, the first thing he looked at was the maps. He wanted a country to invade, and Canada was out of the question.

When Zack Taylor moved into the White House, he died too. Need I say more?

When Milliard Fillmore  moved into the White House, he didn’t stay. He was moved out after one term.

When Franklin Pierce moved into the White House, people kept forgetting his name. When he passed them in the hall, his staffers would say, “Oh, there goes old what’s his name.”

When James Buchanan moved into the White House, he still couldn’t find a wife. Or an intern, for that matter.

When Abe moved into the White House, he asked about the Lincoln bedroom. He had heard so much about it. Then he discovered that the bed was too short.

When Andy Johnson moved into the White House, he became the first Johnson to move into the White House.

When General Grant moved into the White House, he made sure the typewriters had an S. After all , it was his middle initial. He didn’t want the country to confuse him with Ulysses W. Grant.

When Rutherford B. Hayes moved into the White House, he left saying, “You won’t have Rutherford B. Hayes to kick around anymore.”

When James A. Garfield moved into the White House, well, he didn’t stay.

When Ben Harrison moved into the White House, he sang, “Here a billion. There a billion. Everywhere a billion.”

When Grover Cleveland moved into the White House, he said, “I’m back. Did you miss me?”

When William McKinley moved into the White House, he said, “Send in Teddy. He’ll take San Juan Hill.”

When Teddy Roosevelt moved into the White House, he brought that big stick he’d been talking about.

When Willie Taft moved into the White House, he threw his weight around.

When Woodrow Wilson moved into the White House, he retired the big stick and started talking. He kept making his point. In fact, he made it fourteen times.

When Warren G. Harding moved into the White House, he dated his secretary. And her secretary too. He is also famous for saying, “Who put the pineapple juice in my pineapple juice?”

When Calvin Coolidge moved into the White House, he quit talking.

When Herbert Hoover moved into the White House, he got depressed.

When FDR moved into the White House, he decided to stay.

When Harry Truman moved into the White House, he charged everybody a buck to see him. After all, the buck stopped with him.

When I-Like-Ike moved into the White House, he told Dick Nixon, “There’s only room here for one President and I am it.”

When JFK moved into the White House, so did Jackie.

When LBJ moved into the White House, so did his hound dawg.

When Dick Nixon moved into the White House, he asked the Secret Service, “Where can I buy some tape? Preferably eighteen minutes long.”

When Gerald Ford moved into the White House, he tripped.

When Jimmy Carter moved into the White House, toothpaste sales went sky high.

When Ronnie Reagan moved into the White House, he congratulated himself on getting back into show business.

When George H. W. Bush moved into the White House, the broccoli moved out.

When Bill Clinton moved into the White House, he started the internship program. “Give a girl a good start in life,” he said.

When George W. Bush moved into the White House, he put in a direct phone line to God.

When Barack Obama moved into the White House, he discovered that George Bush had taken out the phone line to God and moved it to Texas. Rick Perry needed it.

When Mitt Romney moved into the White House, oh, that’s right, he didn’t move into the White House. After all, he was part of that 99% of people who ran for President and lost.

Happy President’s Day everybody.

City Politics

There had been a rumor that The Mayor would not run for a fourth term. Like most rumor mills, there was some truth to the rumor, but mostly the gossip was fiction. The Mayor had debated with himself whether he should go for a higher office such as Governor, Senator, even President. If he could run “the City Glorious”, why not the whole darn country?

Finally he decided for a fourth run. His reasoning was that he was having way too much fun as mayor. Why give up show business? Why run for President when every Tom, Dick and Harriet would be after your rear? That didn’t sound like fun.

The morning after The Mayor’s penis appeared on the eleven o’clock news, he announced his reelection campaign. When asked about the “genital appearance,” he told reporters, “I did it for the good of the city. Tourists will realize what a fun place we are.”

He had always been a tightrope walker, but this time he didn’t have a net. Now he was caught in a compromising position. His staff thought that the voters were not going to be happy about the whole thing.

“How could you show that thing on TV,” Mrs. Bartok, a teacher at a local elementary school, asked the newsroom, madder at the television station for showing it than at The Mayor for making the “appearance.”

When asked, the President of the Chamber of Commerce commented, “The Mayor’s only doing what comes naturally. Besides it’s good for business and it’s good for the image of the city.”

The night before the news broke, The Mayor had been in tough negotiations with the garbage people. During a particularly difficult part of the session, The Mayor needed to take a leak. He called a recess, urged all heads to cool off, while he went to the head. Then he made a dash down the hall to the men’s room because he had to go real bad. Twinkie Twinkler, a local tv reporter, followed, on the hunt for a story

For seven long years, Twinkie served in the journalistic wilderness. She put in her time as the perky weather girl. But she had ambition. She wanted to be an anchor. She spent months cajoling, begging the news editor to let her do some reporting, any reporting.

Finally he broke down and said, “Yes, as long as you continue to do the weather forecasts.” What could it hurt? the editor thought. I get both a perky weather girl and a news reporter. Just to be on the safe side, he assigned her to the city hall beat. Lots of boredom and no glory. He underestimated Twinkie.

When Twinkie told all her friends, they commented on The Mayor’s larger than life personality. He ran city hall like it was his own private fiefdom.

“That shrimp,” Twinkie said, unafraid. “He’s short and skinny and bald.”

“Yes,” her friend Norah said, “but he’s such a womanizer, except with his wife. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. So you watch yourself, kid.”

Now here she stood outside the men’s room. She needed a story to help her with her career. That’s when it came to her. Like a bolt of lightning. “I’ll get my story.” She walked through the men’s room door and saw The Mayor before one of the urinals.

“Mayor, can you give me a comment about the negotiations?”

When The Mayor turned around, Twinkie’s eyes became large moons. What Twinkie saw was unbelievable. So unbelievable she grabbed her smart phone from her purse, aimed its camera and clicked a pic. Just to be on the safe side, she took several clicks.

The Mayor was always a man who acted well under pressure. He hadn’t gotten where he was by backing down when confronted with what he would later refer to as “an interesting situation.”

“Well, my dear,” The Mayor said, standing there with his flag run up full mast. “I’m always glad to share a little of my charismatic personality with the local media.”

The pictures appeared on the eleven o’clock news. The phones started to ring off the wall around the town. His honor had done it again. Everybody was telling everybody else what they’d seen. “Can you believe it?” they asked.

The next day one of the city commissioners approached the city manager, “Do you think we could sell them? The pictures, I mean.”

“Maybe,” the city manager said, “we could use the money to pay off the budget deficit. At least it would keep the public’s mind off all the money we’ve stolen. I mean, wasted.”

The Mayor, who had always been popular, soon found his poll numbers going from 75% to 90%. The public loved him even more than they had before. It gave the city’s nickname “The City Gorgeous” a real meaning. A local amusement park even developed a Weiner Ride in honor of His Honor. The owner of the local minor league baseball team changed the name of his team from the Hot Dogs to the Hot Weiners.

All this was to say that it looked like The Mayor was going to be a shoo-in. Until he shot his wife.

Actually she shot at him first and missed. In the City Gorgeous it was to become known as the Shootout at the OK Corral, the OK Corral being the local watering hole for all the big fishes in the little pond.

When Mrs. Mayor thought about what she had seen on the news, she became angrier and angrier. Her anger started getting angry. She arrived at the OK around six the next night and she was totting. In her purse, she had a magnum the size of the thing The Mayor carried in his pants. Over in the corner, The Mayor squeezed one of his female constituents’ buttocks. He figured why not. Anything to keep the voters happy.

Mrs. Mayor pulled the gun from her purse and aimed. Then she said, “I haven’t seen that thang in a month of Sundays. Now here you are, showing it on TV. Who do you think you are?”

“I’m The Mayor.”

Mrs. Mayor fired, not once, not twice, but three times. Unfortunately she couldn’t hit the side of a barn. She was near-sighted. She missed The Mayor and hit his constituent in the bottom. It was not a pretty sight. It is never a pretty sight to see a bottom bleed all over the place.

The Mayor, being the opportunist he was, saw the opportunity he had been waiting for. A way to rid himself of a wife, who was no longer the entertainment she had once been, and get away with it. For a very long time, he had the hankerings for his secretary, Willow Pussywillow.

The Mayor pulled out the .45 he carried in the concealed weapon department and shot her corpus dilecti. Mrs. Mayor fell over dead. And not just dead. She was as dead as a corpse in a coffin six foot under.

Now the citizens of the City Gorgeous were a very tolerant people. Sure, The Mayor had no legal recourse but to stand his ground. It was a sure thing that he would get off scot free. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the standoff would hurt the tourist trade. When the story broke on the national news, people cancelled their tickets to paradise by the bushel load.

There was only one thing to do. Fire The Mayor, arrest him and throw him in jail for exposing his weapon in public. And that was exactly what happened. As they say in the news biz, it was Bye Bye, Miss American Pie for The Mayor.

Illegal Immigration, Just Fix It

Recently the President of the United States addressed a Joint Session of Congress. The White House Press Release stated that the eagerly awaited speech would cover the ongoing crisis with Illegal Immigration. Members of both parties, and Independents too, breathed a sigh of relief. Something would be done.

“Mr. Speaker,” the President began, “Mr. Vice President, Democrats, Republicans, Republicans, Democrats. And lest I forget, Independents. These are troubling times. As that illustrious revolutionary, Thomas Paine, wrote, ‘These are the times that try men’s souls.’” The President held up the Thomas Paine pamphlet to emphasize his point.

Yep, that is what he said. And the President should know. Both parties had been trying his soul since his first term started. On Day One, a Republican challenged him to a duel. The President laughed off the challenge by saying, “I’m no Andrew Jackson.” Of course, his staff kept reminding him that even Andrew Jackson was no Andrew Jackson.

If the Republicans were a barrel of laughs, it was even worse with the Indepenents. They kept passing bills and sending them up to him for his signature. Each bill sang, “Here a piggy, there a piggy, everywhere an oink, oink.” The President’s response on each and everyone of the porkies was, “Ain’t gonna happen.”  Then there were the Democrats. They could not agree on anything. Except how to party hardy.

“Yes, indeedie,” he continued, “these are the times that try men’s souls. And I must say that those words sum up our immigration situation.”

One could hear the drop of a pin. Each and every member of Congress, each and every member of the Supreme Court, each and every member of the President’s Cabinet except for the one who would be the Head Cheese if something happened to all the other cheeses in the hall, they breathed a sigh of relief. They weren’t sure what the President was about to say. At least, he was about to say something. After six years of this and that, tits and tats, whereforths and whatevers, the President was about to do what the American people demanded. He was about to “just fix it.”

“My friends,” he said to the people, “we have tried everything to stop this flow of illegal aliens into our country. We have built a giant wall as high as the Tower of Babel and still they come. We have a large army of border patrol and National Guard. Still they cannot be stopped. We have had the support and extra firepower of the NRA. Still they come and join the twelve million already here illegally.. We even put them on the FBI’s most wanted list. Still the Canadian geese flock across our borders.

“After careful consideration, the White House has decided that there is but one last thing we can do. Stephen King has the answer. We must build a dome over America, the Stephen King Memorial Dome. Then, at last, we will be free from the invasion of all these pesky Canadian geese.”

A Little Bit of History, Or Maybe Not

It was Y2K, the year 2000, and Florida couldn’t seem to make up its mind. Would it be Al or would it be George W? In case you don’t remember Al Gore, he’s the one who done invented the internet and global warming. Who would go on to be sheriff or who would end up on Boot Hill? It was a raucous rootin’ tootin’ shoot-out at the OK Coral. Despite we Floridians’ best efforts, Florida couldn’t seem to make up its mind. Until finally…

What does Kennedy and Bush have in common? Kennedy made his brother Attorney General, Bush made his brother President.

In those long ago days of the two-oughts, Paul McCartney even wrote a song about Osama Bin Laden called “Band on the Run”. And speaking of a band on the run, do you know why all those bunkers in Iraq had sh on their doors. That sh did not stand for Sadam Hussein. It stood for “Shhhh. I’m hiding.”

Now in a former life, I was a rapper. My moniker was N. Cognito and I performed a duet with none other than A. Nonymous. Some of our big hits were “Last Bridge Out of New Jersey (Chris Christie’s Lament)”, “Between Iraq and a Hard Place”, “The Ozone Layer of Love”, and “Mission Accomplished”. My most famous title, however, was “Bushwhacked Blues” about the Bush/Gore duel:

My name is Chad and I have a dimple

I tried to vote but it wasn’t that simple

I gave it a punch and tried that twice

The hole wasn’t there so I asked for advice

“Your vote won’t count less you vote with haste”

Was all they said at the voting place

Got me a lawyer, took it to court

If my vote was to count time was short

So I asked a judge in a big black robe

To tell me that I could have some hope

We had us a trial to protest and all

It looked real bad so hard to call

The judge was cool the trial was fast

He said: “Count his vote the one he cast”

But Katherine Harris* would not certify

Any vote with a hole for the Jewish guy

So off we went to Tallahassee

To get our votes for the presidency

Counted the way they’re ‘sposed to count

For Gore was down but he wasn’t out

Till the highest court in all the land

Ruled that W was a big, big man

And Governor Jeb** down in Florida state

Gave his big bro George some help with fate

It was Christmas time so he gave him a gift

Miami-Dade*** and a nice, big fifth

The whole damned state to Bush it went

Soon he would be the new president

He’s Governor of Texas who struts his stuff

Wears a big hat and he’s tough enough

He’s going up to Washington, D. C.

To be the President of you and me

He’ll charm his way from here to there

Saddam**** and Congress had better beware

He’ll sick Dick Cheney on all those folks

If that don’t work, he’ll dash their hopes

So two-thousand-four I’ll take my mallet

To the voting place to punch that ballot

Hit that hammer and chisel me a hole

That’ll have to count cause it’ll be bold

Though Al and Joe***** they’ll be gone

And George W. will have to stand alone

We’ll stand tall and a whole lot more

We’d have been better with President Gore.

*Katherine Harris. Florida’s Secretary of State.

**Governor Jeb. Jeb Bush, Governor of Florida and George W. Bush’s younger brother.

* **Miami-Dade: south Florida county.

****Saddam: Saddam Hussein, dictator of Iraq.

*****Al and Joe. Democratic Presidential candidate Al Gore and Democratic Vice Presidential candidate Senator Joe Lieberman from Connecticut.

Now that is some mighty fine history, don’t you think?

The Twerk Seen ‘Round the World

Remember the twerk seen ’round the world? You know the one I’m talking about. Mylie Cyrus at the VMAs twerking as if her life depended on her twerks. Recently I heard some news. I can’t say where I got it. It wasn’t from Wikileaks and it wasn’t Edward Snowden. But what I have learned is extraordinary.

After Mr. Snowden did his thing and defected, after Julian Asange decided paradise was the Ecuadorian Embassy, the NSA and the CIA put their heads together. They came up with a totally brand new program. It’s called Twerking for Peace and it goes like this.

The folks at the NSA have been studying twerkers around the world for years. They noticed some interesting things about the twerk. There’s your regular everyday kind of twerk. And there’s the supercharged twerk. Thinking maybe they can use the supercharged variety as an offensive weapon, it just might replace the drone everybody’s all upset about.

So the Air Force, with CIA and NSA help, have been developing a guided supercharged twerk over the past couple of years. They finally perfected it. All they needed was an opportunity. And a perfect pair of hips. They looked at Madonna’s. They looked at J Lo’s. (Her hips had lost their bootyliciousness.) They looked at Britney’s. They even had Selena Gomez in for an audition. But none of the hips on those women were up to the standard that would meet the test for a guided supercharged twerk. No, they needed perfect hips. That’s where Mylie Cyrus came in. Of all the hips the agencies studied, Mylie’s was the perfectest.

Now, in case you were wondering why Mylie was a no show on a number of appearances last summer, she was in training. She had to get her bootylicious booty to “shake, wooble and bounce” with precision. It may look easy to twerk that twerk she twerked, but it isn’t. It took a lot of blood, sweat and tears to grind that thang out with the perfectest twerk the way she did that August night.

So what was up with the tongue? That was the receiver for the signal from a faraway terrorist camp in Northern Pakistan. The sender was a special agent who had infiltrated the terrorist cell and left a radio sender in the camp while he got away. Mylie received the radio wave signal with her tongue, the vibration ran through the back of her mouth, down to her bootylicious booty and twerk, twerk, twerk.

There was only one problem. One of the twerks just missed Robin Thicke by inches. You talk about scared. Poor Robin, he just about wet his pants. It was so bad that he threatened to sue the U. S. Government for a billion dollars. Fortunately the gov has settled for an undisclosed sum of money of thirty million bucks.

But there is good news from all that twerking. Mylie killed 100 terrorists that night. Since then, she has set a new record for terrorists killed by twerking. Knowing what fans of MTV al Qaeda members are, they knew they had an extraordinary opportunity with the MTV Europe Awards. On the night of November 11, she twerked in Holland on the awards show. The CIA reports that she took out two hundred and fifty terrorists.

Two hundred and fifty terrorists. Can you imagine what that means? The U. S. will have al Qaeda completely wiped out in a matter of weeks. And who knows. The Taliban may be next. Then it’s just a matter of time before the Iranians give up all their nukes.

The program has been so successful that the Government has asked Selena Gomez to join. She will be out of the public eye for several months. First she has to have plastic surgery done to bootylicious her booty. Then it’s off to twerking school.

Oh, one more thing. Since the government works closely with big business, companies have found a commercial outlet for the program. Aim those twerks at an audience watching television and they won’t be able to resist your product. Pretty soon you will have thirty million new customers for P. P. Soda. So if you begin to see twerking in broadcast advertisements, remember it’s a marketing ploy to get you to love those new jeans when you don’t need a new pair. The only reason the commercials haven’t appeared yet is that the ad agencies haven’t come up with just the right slogans. But don’t worry. Pretty soon you’ll be seeing twerks all over the place with slogans like “this twerk’s for you” and “one good twerk deserves another.”