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 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 31: Betty Sue Pudding Goes to War

B S was now the First Lady, and she made up her mind to do the First Lady gig real big. She would do Jackie and Nancy and Martha and Dolley proud. She took one look at her new digs, the interior of the White House, and said, “This will never do. This joint needs a new do.”

All those fancy, dancy post-modern paintings, all that classic china, all that furniture that looked like it was designed by a machine, all that…well, you get my drift. It had to go. There was no way that a Pudding from Snort Holler was going to live in a place that looked like a museum. What the White House needed was some down-homyness. And it needed it quick. Just seeing the place like this was enough to make a Podunk County girl want to puke. And puke big time.

Nope, this would never do. If she was going to live in a place for four years, she wanted it comfortable. The White House definitely needed some redecoratin’ to get Betty Sue away from all the previous First Lady bad tastes.

First off she would get some spittoons so the folks could spittoon when they needed to spittoon. There’d have to be some rockin’ chairs for the front porch. And a velvet Elvis or two for the walls. At the front of the White House, there would be a nice welcome mat that said, “Y’all c’mon in, y’hear.” And that ugly Lincoln bed definitely had to go. A nice straw bed for there and for the Residence bedroom too.

For the Residence, a big wood stove would be nice. Some new wallpaper too. Something with bright colors like purple and green together. She and P F just loved them colors. And the piece de resistance would be the bean bag chairs.

Since The Great Man was just downstairs, Betty Sue Pudding decided that there was no time like the present to start her new do.

She went to The Great Man. “Hon,” she said, right there in the Oval Office.

In the past, P F Sneaze would have ignored Betty Sue Pudding, his darling wife. Now that she was the First Lady, he thought maybe that might not be a good idea, him being the President of all the people and she being one of the peeps.

“I want to redecorate the White House,” she said.

Well, P F Sneaze was not averse to redecoratin’. The place did need some Weazel Sneaze. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hundred dollars and said, “Here, Puddin’, take this and redecorate to your heart’s content.”

Betty Sue did love it when her husband called her “Puddin'”. But she had to let him in on a little secret. When it comes to White House redecorating, a hundred dollars is not going to be enough money to do the do up right. If it only were, all those First Ladies of the past would have stayed out of trouble.

“This won’t do, Hon,” she said with the sweetest voice you ever wanted to hear. “They tell me that it’s going to take a lot more than this.”

Being a good husband, and realizing that Betty Sue was not going to go away until she got what she wanted, P F Sneaze pulled out some more money and handed it to her. “This ought to do,” he said.

“Hon,” Betty Sue batted her eyes flirtatiously. “This is not going to do either. This is the White House. We have to do it right.”

“Well, how much?” There was a bit of frustration in his voice.

“Now, Hon,” she said, not going to let her husband speak to her in that manner. After all, she was Betty Sue Pudding from Snort Holler. No man was allowed to speak to her that way. Not even a husband. She didn’t raise her voice. But P F Sneaze knew from her voice that she meant business. “Don’t speak to me in that manner,”it said, and it said it loud and clear.

There was nothing for him to do but say, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“That’s better,” then she went back to her sweetness. “I’m just going to need fifty million dollars to redecorate this place up right, Hon.”

“Is that Yankee money or Confederate bills?” P F had a stash of Confederate bills hid under the boards of his living room back home. His daddy kept hoping they would be legal tender one of these days. It was still not a foregone conclusion that the South had lost the War. The South could rise again. You just never knew.

“That’s Yankee money,” she said, batting her eyes again.

The Great Man called in his Chief of Staff and let him know how much Betty Sue needed for redecorating. “Just take it out of petty cash,” The President said.

“Mr. President, we don’t have that kind of money in petty cash. On top of that, we have no money in the bank and Congress is not going to give us any.”

As you can see, the President was on the horns of a dilemma.

“What happened to all the petty cash?”

“Inauguration expenses.”

Betty Sue Pudding, the First Lady, gave her husband, The Great Man, that look. You know the one. The one that says you’d better fix this problem or you are going to be in deep do-do. One thing was for sure. The President could think of a lot of better ways to spend his time than spend it in deep do-do. And that was industrial strength deep do-do too.

Next Week The Horns of a Dilemma

Politics in America 29: Transition-itis

Transitions are hard for Presidents to take when they are on their way out. It doesn’t matter which party is on their way outsky and which party is coming in. It’s the same for all Presidents. For four years, they’ve been the Really Big Shew. Now there’s this new guy ready to kick him out of his house and home.

During the transition, the Lame Duck truly is lame. Nobody gives a darn what he says. In fact, the press room at the White House is just about empty. Everybody is pretty well ready to show Lame Duck the door.

Anybody worth anything has left the West Wing and gone to work for the New Guy. The new Mr. President. That’s where all the excitement is.

P F Sneeze had won because The Other Guy–that’s what historians call the losing candidate, The Other Guy lost. Nobody ever remembered The Other Guy’s name either. He was just a pimple on the face of history. Just an annoyance.

P F Sneaze had a Mount Rushmore kind of face chiseled into the memory of the American people like Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt and the Gipper. With his Andrew Jackson looks, he looked like the Great White Father. He looked like a President. That’s why his campaign had urged him to keep his mouth shut and look presidential.

The New President had early on let it be known what he wished to be called. No Jimmy or Abe or Teddy or JFK for him. He was The Great Man. At first, he did it as a joke. After a while, he got used to it and kind of liked it. He had finally come around to Betty Sue and Al Fresco’s opinion that he was going to be the next President. Why stand in the way of fate? he concluded.

He went to see The Big Guy a few days after he won the election. “You look like a President” was all The Big Guy said. It broke his giant-sized heart to see he would be vacating the premises to a Do Naughty. He hadn’t much cared for Little Twerp but at least he was a Do Evie and that was what counted.

Slowly at first, then speedier as time went on toward the January inauguration, the West Wing staff of the Big Guy de-desked their offices to make room for the new team of the Great Man. There were many things the old staff would miss. Things like the champagne-and-caviar vending machine, the special cheese doodles made in the shape of the Big Guy’s face, the exercise room, the bowling alley and the Willy Wonka Chocolates with their melt in your mouth rum. Yummy.

They would miss the White House stationery they used to write their resumes on to impress potential new employers. Even if they swept the floor of the lobby, they were entitled to use that stationery. They would miss calling up the pizza guy and having their pizza order jump ahead of everybody else’s. And those special trips to the Strip ‘n’ Steak Joint. It was there they held their all night planning sessions deciding which concert to go to next.

There were so many things to miss. And they would miss them all. But it was time to move on.

Nest Week A New Administration