Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: richard nixon (Page 3 of 5)

Andy Was

July 22, 2018 / / 6 Comments

“Oh, fuck off.”

You’re back on the Bud Light. I like that.

“Seriously, fuck off.”

Were there not bottles of water for sale? Or someone who could piss in your mouth for a dollar?

“Forget about the Bud Light.”

I can’t! It’s fascinating to me! You’re in the closest thing 2018 has to the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert in Colorado and you’re drinking a Bud Light. There’s gotta be a more acceptable beverage available. Jesus, man, it’s not even ironically bad.

“I need you to stop talking to me.”

But you’re the only one of John’s friends I like. And Chapelle.

“Him and John called me real late one night to pitch a show. Real Housewives of Wherever The Fuck In The Middle Of Ohio Chapelle Lives. Dave and John were gonna be Housewives.”

You mean househusbands.

“Nope. Full-on Bosom Buddies routine.”

That sounds terrible.

“Dreadful. They really wanted to do it.”

What did you do?

“Called their bluff. Told ’em we’d rush the show into production and sent over the shooting schedules. As I anticipated, neither wanted to spend 14 hours a day making a fake reality show.”

Very smart.

“Yes, I am. Now go away.”

“Would you like some mango to go with your Bud Light?”

“Oy. Fuck off with the…oh, hi.”

“I am Michael Gordon. I perform with the Phish. We’re from Vermont. Please enjoy these succulent and nutritious fruits and berries.”

“Ugh, you’re a lifesaver. My blood sugar dropped out of my asshole ten minutes ago.”

“They are from my garden, which I cultivate and fertilize.”

“Fertilize?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use your own feces to fertilize this fruit, Mike?”

“Yes.”

VIOLENT EXPUNGATION OF MANGO SLICE NOISE

“You should maybe tell people that first.”

“I consume many plant-based calories, as you can see from my torso. Much like a gorilla, I am evolved to slowly digest leaves and grasses in my elongated gut.”

“Interesting.”

“May I photograph you, Andrew?”

“Sure, shoot away.”

“Can you remove your shorts?”

“I can’t, no.”

“What if I dress you in a frilly bathing suit and have a small dog tug at it like in the old Coppertone ads?”

“You don’t have a dog.”

“I have access to dogs. Dogs can be procured.”

“Pass.”

“Would you like to see my trick?”

“Maybe?”

“I manipulate my belly into the shape of a giant mouth. Then I speak through my bellymouth in the voice of a character I call The Admiral. He will say anything!”

“I don’t want to see that.”

“Many people enjoy it. I am going to find them.”

FRUIT-BEARING BASSIST DEPARTING NOISE

“What the fuck was that?”

It was Mike Gordon.

“No, I know who it was.”

Where are you?

“Another Rando got me.”

His shirt is very clever.

“I’m thinking about buying it.”

And so is yours.

“It’s Bobby’s shorts! But stylized. Anyway, what the fuck was up with Gordon?”

Nothing. He’s just like that.

“He made me eat poopfruit.”

He didn’t make you. More like tricked you into it.

“There’s no difference.”

Of course there is. A guy swindling you out of a thousand bucks is different than getting mugged at knifepoint.

“I ate Mike Gordon’s doodyberries and you’re arguing semantics. This is why I hate you and this whole little summer stock thing you’ve got going.”

Hire me.

“No! You’re talentless and weird.”

I’m sorry.

“You’re sorry for what? What did you…oh, shit.”

“Look at the beard on the tall one, sir. I know you’re a poker player.”

“I am, Gleason. A damned good one. And, uh, you are correct. The beard is what’s called a tell.”

“There is almost certainly an explosive device in Little Tim Leary’s fanny pack!”

“My God, Gleason! Assassins!”

TALL HIPPIE WITH A BEARD BEING SNIPED NOISE

“Jesus!”

Andy, you should run.

“I hate you!”

I’m sorry, Andy Cohen. Someone has to be Daffy Duck in this routine, and it’s just your turn.

“Fuck you.”

Mayer Ex Machina

July 16, 2018 / / 3 Comments

Oh, Andy Cohen from teevee’s Bravo.

“Went shopping.”

I see. You bought a life-size garden gnome.

“Him? No, this is–”

In a Chinese restaurant in Boulder, there’s a naked waiter.

“Oh, yeah, his outfit. His name is–”

Does he or does he not speak exclusively in riddles?

“You don’t care.”

I don’t. I know he’s John’s friend, and that’s all I need to know. You really kitted yourself out, buddy.

“Flying the colors, brother! Dead show! Colorado! What could be wrong?”

Everything’s on fire, Andy.

“I meant here. Right where I am. Where the incredibly rich man is standing in the sunshine. It’s pretty sweet here.”

Andrew Joseph Cohen, as a gay Jew you have a moral responsibility to be panicked.

“Incredibly rich gay Jew.”

Nah. Gay and Jew beat rich. When they start coming for us? The millionaires will be mass graved with the paupers.

“Not if I’m not here.”

What now?

“Can you keep a secret?”

Oh, absolutely.

“New Zealand.”

No!

“Yup. Been putting the exit strategy in place since the morning after Election Day. Went down there, spent a ton of fucking money on lawyers, bought some land, opened a business. They make you pump a shitload of cash into their economy before they’ll even sit down with you. And then when the government officials do sit down with you, they do that haka thing at you first.”

Dude, I love the haka.

“So did I, but the novelty wears off real quick. I got haka’d three or four times a day. At that point, it’s just foreigners yelling at you.”

Sure. What kind of business did you open?

“Taco place.”

What do you know about tacos?

“I like eating them and not one single one of those hobbits knows how to make one. So I opened up my own place. Flew in some guys from Los Angeles and had ’em train up the cooks.”

You’re sparing no expense.

“I plan on spending the end of the world in comfort, and with tacos. That’s not cheap.”

I guess not.

“You two freakie-deakies clear out of the way! Jackie Gleason’s coming through! And the President’s with me.”

“There, uh, is the irreverent humor you have become so famous for, Jackie. One would expect the President to be mentioned first, but you turned it around. Thus, uh, creating humor. As I said, humor.”

“Sir, I’m gonna run ’em over.”

“I’ll pardon you if you do, Gleason.”

LEGENDARY ASSHOLES IN A GOLF CART ATTEMPTING TO RUN OVER HIPPIES NOISE 

“Ahhhh!”

“To the moon, druggies!”

“Yes, good, Gleason. The cart will take more damage. Keep going.”

THRUMP

PLONFH

BOOMITYBUMPBUMPBUMP

…

GOLF CART BEING PUT INTO REVERSE NOISE

…

BOOMITYBUMPBUMPBUMP

“Ha! You got the little fucker coming and going, Gleason! Have you ever considered an ambassadorship?”

“I’ll go anywhere in the world as long as I can stay in Miami Beach.”

“Ha! My God, Gleason. I feel alive.”

“HEY! HEY, ASSHOLE! THE GUY IN CHARGE!”

Yes, Andy Cohen?

“What the fuck, man?”

Is it about your can of Bud Light?

“It’s not about–”

Because you’re on Shakedown Street in Colorado, Andy Cohen. I have to believe there were better beers available. And I am totally not one of those beer guys.

“It’s not about the beer, it’s about–”

KAFLAMP

Like, it would be hard not to accidentally buy a better beer than a Bud Light while on Shakedown Street in Colorado. How about a Coors Banquet!? Go old school!

“Can you just–”

It’s almost like the Bud Light is a statement. Are you making a statement, Andy Cohen?

“HEY!”

Yes?

“Why are Nixon and Jackie Gleason mowing down Deadheads in a golf cart!?”

Are they still doing that?

BUHBANGADANG

“Yes.”

FLUMPFLUMPSMERSCH

“Yes, they are.”

That’s awful.

“Why is it happening and can you stop it?”

The first question would take hours to answer, so do you want me to answer the second question first?

“Yes.”

No.

“Why not?”

I can’t overrule the President. And I wouldn’t want to: look how giddy he is.

“Hot damn, Gleason! This is better than executing that Jew couple. My blood is hot!”

“After this, sir, you and me are gonna get some broads.”

“No, no. Just souls. I am a mouth, Gleason. Feed me souls.”

DONCHRANMUMUMUM

“Ah, yes. I grow stronger.”

“HEY!”

Yes, Andy Cohen?

“I hate you and I never want to be part of your little skitches again.”

I get that a lot.

“Fix this.”

No.

“Then I’ll call a real man who will.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Look out, look out, the Andyman. Hey, buddy.”

“You really don’t have to say that every time I call.”

“It’s our thing.”

“We’ll discuss it later. Can you come out to the parking lot, please?”

“I’d be mobbed. Ooh, wait: I could put on a disguise. I went into the lot in a bear costume once for my teevee show, which a lot of people are saying deserves a critical reassessment. Could I cross-dress? Wait. If I cross-dress, will I get yelled at like Scarlett Johansson?”

“John.”

“I suppose the entire range of ethnic costumes is out, too.”

“John.”

“I could do Chewbacca. I actually have a Chewbacca costume with me. Visvim did them as part of their Fall 2016 line. It’s such an important piece. And, you know, it’s a Chewbacca costume. But it’s also a ‘Chewbacca costume.’ Y’know? Like, it’s a comment on itself. It’s a piece that asks questions, y’know? ‘What is fashion? How is fashion? When is fashion?’ That sort of thing.”

“John.”

“Anyway: I have a Chewbacca costume.”

“JOHN, NIXON AND JACKIE GLEASON ARE RUNNING OVER DEADHEADS IN THE PARKING LOT!”

“Are you in danger!?”

“So much!”

“ANDY COOOOOOOHEN!”

“The motor’s getting gummed up, Mr, President. It’s all the guts.”

“We’ll commandeer an automobile. The killing isn’t over yet.”

GUITARIST SUPERHERO LANDING NOISE

“Gleason, it’s Bobby Darin. Murder him.”

“C’mere, punk.”

GUITARIST PERFORMING SUPER-KARATE ON A DISGRACED PRESIDENT AND A LEGENDARY FUNNYMAN NOISE

“Sorry, boys, but we just cant have this in the Dead & Company parking lot. You’ll have to go.”

GUITARIST BLASTING A DISGRACED PRESIDENT AND A LEGENDARY FUNNYMAN INTO AN ADJACENT REALITY WITH, LET’S SAY, EYE-BEAMS NOISE

“You’re all welcome. I’m available for interviews. Oh, hey, Andy. You wanna do our special handshake?”

“NO! What the fuck was that?”

“It was a disgraced pres–”

“I know that! Why did it happen?”

“Why does anything happen? I’ve given up on that question in here, man.”

…

“So, uh, do you have superpowers now?”

“Apparently.”

“You can fly?”

“I did.”

“Can you do it again?”

GUITARIST TRYING AND FAILING TO FLY NOISE

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to be able to. Arbitrarily granting and removing superpowers is what passes for comedy around here.”

“It’s not funny. It’s just lazy.”

“Could be that, too. Lot of ways to look at reality.”

“You’ve gone native in here, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been in the storylines a lot, and I’ve just grown to accept that I’m going to have adventures and death is temporary.”

“What about all the Deadheads Gleason and Nixon ran over?”

“Oh, no, they’re dead. Their families will mourn.”

“I don’t like being part of this world.”

“Your shirt looks nice.”

“Thank you.”

White House Holiday Traditions Throughout The Years

December 3, 2017 / / 1 Comment

George and Martha Washington had an adorable and, of course, patriotic White House tradition. Every year, they’d sit around on their uncomfortable furniture slowly dying of old-timey diseases and George would say,

“Have they built the White House yet?”

And Martha would say,

“God, I hate you.”

Then, she’d pry the wooden teeth out of his mouth and throw them across the room. Later on, they would fuck like wolverines. It was one of those kinda relationships.

John Adams was the first president to live in the White House; he and his wife Abigail celebrated the building’s inaugural Christmas in a most festive way, captured by a letter that attendee Secretary of the Navy Benjamin Stoddert wrote to his mistress Bulbina, an excerpt of which I reproduce here:

…17 missing, tho 4 bodies were later recovered (putting aside the fact that of the 4, 2 were “lost” on the way to the morgue, as the local ghouls are back at their devilish business) and 1 man did regain his health in part, but not his legs.

The Domicile of the Executive had been breached by the vox populi; the Doors of Democracy, having been opened, refused all entreaties towards closure. The hallways, so newly built, bulged and strained with men paradoxically insensate yet singing! The Sirens of corn liquor provided gratis and similarly priced beers of Gilgameshian strength yodeled with a throat more muscular than the Potomac had e’er heard. Stragglers and shysters and Senators and supplicants and simpletons. A rumor spread that a passel of Connecticut Sissy Boys were in the residence trying on the First Lady’s bustles. Prospero had conjured a tempest for our infant White House, and it appeared she may be dashed ‘pon the rocks.

Ah, look at the time. I must go be in charge of the navy. I’ll see you next Wednesday, so stop bathing on Saturday.

Love,
Benjy

Here’s a little-known fact: Christmas trees were invented by Martin Van Buren. Not the species of tree. God invented those. I mean cutting it down and decorating it. You probably learned it was an old German custom, but you were lied to. They lied to you about 9/11, and they lied to you about Christmas trees. It was all Martin Van Buren.  Woke up one morning and told the White House staff, “Bring a tree inside,” and when they asked why, he gave them the People’s Elbow. MVB got his tree.

“Decorate it,” he said, and now everyone was too afraid to question him and they got to work. When MVB saw what they had done, he asked, “What’s with the star?” The chief usher said, “It’s for Jesus.” And Martin Van Buren was like, “Fuck, yeah. Jesus. Love that guy.”

And that’s why we have Christmas trees.

During the Christmas season, Abraham Lincoln would sit at his desk by candelight writing letters to the families of dead soldiers. He would pause now and then to stare meaningfully or say something memorable. Then: back to the dead soldiers. Abe was kind of a drag.

To celebrate the Yule, Teddy Roosevelt launched a fifth column campaign in Colombia to “liberate” Panama from them, read two 700-page books, drafted 85 letters to various members of Congress and his administration, negotiated a settlement in a coal strike, killed two elephants and a cheetah, bailed his daughter Edith out of a Toronto jail, launched a dance craze, survived an assassination attempt, and gave a dozen speeches in a dozen towns. On December 2nd, though, he got to work.

TR’s cousin Franklin was the first to give the now-traditional Christmas Address; they’re mostly staid affairs, unremarkable, except for in 1972 when a drunken Richard Nixon found the radio equipment and managed to get it working before anyone could stop him.

Christmas. Christ, what does anyone know about Christmas? Not like Nixon knows. The Jews don’t know about it. They reject Christ, just like they rejected my dying brother. The Jew doctors killed him andhey get the hell off me I’m the president of the United–

[TAPE ENDS]

Lyndon Johnson introduced a fun tradition: he would walk up to staffers and say, “Hey, wanna see a real Christmas tree?” and he’d have his dick out. For a few years, the concept lay fallow, but when Bill Clinton brought it back.

On “Nixonian”

May 9, 2017 / / 5 Comments

Nixon served his country in the Navy, and later in the Naval Reserves.
Trump dodged the draft.

Nixon was elected to the House of Representatives and the Senate, both times from his home state of California.
Trump has never held office, and his home state despises him.

Nixon was an accomplished and cunning lawyer.
Trump thinks he can “open up the libel laws.”

Nixon was the Vice-President of the United States; one time in Caracas, he was assaulted by a mob and his car stoned.
Trump didn’t go to the Press Correspondent’s Dinner because he can’t take jokes.

Nixon opened up China.
Trump picked a fight with Canada.

Nixon founded the EPA and OSHA, and signed the Clean Air Act.
Trump appointed a man who had sued the EPA 15 times to head it.

Nixon supported the Equal Rights Amendment and appointed more women to important positions than the “liberal” LBJ had.
Trump has two female cabinet secretaries: one of whom bought her job, and the other of whom is married to Mitch McConnell.

Nixon defeated George McGovern in the biggest electoral landslide in the nation’s history (at the time).
Trump lost the popular vote.

Nixon negotiated the Strategic Arms Limitations Treaty (SALT 1) and the Anti-Ballistic Missile treaty (ABM) with the Russians.
Trump let the Russians buy him underage hookers.

Nixon had a dog, Checkers, and he loved that little dog and he kept it.
Trump is incapable of love and has never had a pet.

Find a better adjective.

Earth Facts For Earth Day

April 25, 2017 / / 3 Comments
  • 2/3rds water.
  • 1/4 land.
  • The rest is the Shadowlands; never go there, Simba.
  • Earth is the only planet in the solar system where you can get babyback ribs.
  • The circumference of earth is almost 25,000 miles; a guy named Eratosthenes figured that out in 250 BC with a stick, a well, and some camels. (Honest.)
  • In some places, it is so cold that you will die.
  • In other places, it is so hot that you will die.
  • Our atmosphere is made up of 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, and 1% fake news.
  • If the entire timeline of earth’s history were compressed into one day, then humans wouldn’t fuck up the climate until the last half-second.
  • Compared the Sun, our planet is tiny; if Earth were the size of a basketball, then the sun would be far larger.
  • Even with today’s technology, you could not install wall-to-wall carpeting on the earth.
  • The first Earth Day was celebrated in 1970.

“I did that. The press refuses to tell the truth about my accomplishments.”

Dammit.

“Nixon has always cared about the environment.”

You had a Democratic Congress and you signed environmental bills so they would pass your crime bills and fund your wars.

“And yet the environment was still  helped. Your naiveté is astonishing, son.”

What the hell are you doing?

“Communing with nature.”

In wingtips?

“One must look presentable. Keep trim, hair combed, that sort of thing. The people won’t vote for a stumblebum.”

You’d be surprised what the people would vote for.

“No, no. The American people are a clean-cut people. Inherently, Americans despise sloppiness. This is why the hippies are so despised. A decent American sees a hippie and knows it’s got a filthy asshole. Crusted over, maybe. And this, uh, fact is what you emphasize on the campaign trail. You must make the voter disgusted with your opponent. So, you link him to these dirty children. Works very well.”

You gonna take a dip?

“Nixon doesn’t swim.”

No.

Who Has Louise Mensch Accused Of Being A Russian Operative Today?

April 21, 2017 / / 2 Comments
  • Carter Page.
  • Paul Manafort.
  • Bernie Sanders.
  • Colonel Sanders.
  • Route 610 around Houston.
  • Matt Taibbi.
  • Caspar the Friendly Ghost.
  • Caspar Weinberger the Slightly-Less Friendly Ghost.
  • Grilled cheese sandwiches.
  • RuPaul.
  • The concept of public transportation.
  • Prime numbers.
  • Harriet Tubman.
  • Richard Nixon.

“Excuse me?”

Who is that?

“You know damn well who it is.”

You look upset, Mr. President.

“What is that shit you just said? Who doubts Nixon’s patriotism?”

Woman named Louise Mensch.

“Mensch?”

Yeah.

“Mensch. Mensch, huh?’

Okay, I know what you’re thinking and stop it.

“It’s just that I know a psychiatrist with that name.”

I don’t know whether she’s Jewish. Leave it alone. She’s British.

“Christ, just as bad. The British are actually cheap. The Jews have this reputation for stinginess, but I find it’s not deserved. many of the other stereotypes about them are true, but not that they’re cheap. The Brits? Never saw a dinner check they couldn’t avoid.”

Sure.

“I’ll tell you this, son. This woman, this girl, whatever her name is: she’s a symptom. For a person to make such accusations publicly and yet not be locked in the booby hatch? That’s society’s problem.”

Everyone’s getting a little tense.

“My God. Nixon, a Communist? Nixon jails Communists, bombs them, shoots them. Ran two over the last time I was in Miami.”

You ran over Communists?

“Not me, personally. Bebe Rebozo. This is, uh, one of the things that I admire about the man. He may actually despise Communism more than I do.”

That’s a lot.

“You should reach out to this woman. Warn her off this course.”

She’d only accuse me of working for the Russians.

“Paranoia is a drug. At times, it can aid performance. Give one a boost. Too much, though, and you’re out in the deep water.”

Well said, Mr. President.

“God bless America.”

That, too.

Ray of Pigs

April 2, 2017 / / 3 Comments

WE’RE SORRY, SIR!

“Stop, er, yelling at me. I can hear you. What are you sorry for?”

Literally everything.

“You all have, er, botched things up, haven’t you?”

We have, yes.

“Jap destroyer ran over my boat. I swam through the ocean four miles towing an injured man with my teeth. I, er, did that for my country. Could have gone to Wall Street. Gotten rich. I entered pubic service. I did that for my country. Do you know how much gonorrhea I’ve gotten for my country?”

So much.

“Jack’s a pussy man, son.”

Ew.

“I am, er, the President of Pussy.”

You’re not.

“I am.”

Okay, you kind of are.

“What have you done with the America I left you, son? Have you finished what I started?”

What did you start?

“Moon.”

We went there.

“Excellent. Is it now, er, some sort of colony?”

No, we stopped going because everyone got bored with it.

“What? What about Mars? How long have we been going to Mars?”

We sent robots to mars. And we have a space station.

“Wonderful. How many people live there? Has the first generation of Space Americans been born?’

It’s not like that. The International Space Station is basically a half-dozen tin cans lashed together.

“What you’re describing sounds like the definition of ‘the least you could do.'”

Kinda.

“Cuba?”

Castro died!

“Great news, great. When?”

Four months ago.

…

“You’re shitting me.”

That guy was the Michael Jordan of not dying.

“How is Gina Lollabrigida?”

Either dead or very old.

“Me and Bobby made a bridge out of Gina.”

Wonderful joke, Mr. President.

“Good times. Bobby would often join Peter Lawton, Frank, myself for a little hanky-panky. Then, after the hanky-panky, we would start fucking.”

That’s a lovely story.

“Peter Lawton never paid for a whore in his life. Not a meal, not a whore. I learned that very early in life: always, er, pay your whores.”

Good advice.

“Now tell me what’s going on in the White House, son. This is an untenable situation you have here. There is, er, chaos. There is, er, confusion. There is, er, nepotism.”

Well, maybe you’re not the best one to accuse people of nepotism.

“I appointed Bobby as Attorney General because he was the most qualified member of my family.”

Another wonderful joke, sir.

“I am, er, very charming.”

You are.

“My brother Bobby was a United States Senator. He was approved by the Senate. Once in office, he took on the Mafia, and the Teamsters, and he fought for civil rights.”

Jared owns hotels and Ivanka sells shoes.

“Right, right. And the fellow is just unpleasant looking. Like a dog’s balls that someone took a cheese grater to.

True.

“Look at me. Look at how handsome I am.”

You’re very handsome.

“Admire my vigor.”

I like the way you say that in your accent.

“Admire my vigor!”

Yes, sir. Nice vigor.

“Who was the last one? The negro fellow?”

Not a negro.

“Son, I’ve seen negroes before. I know what they look like.”

Black. Negros are black now.

“Good for them. Anyway, the tall one. Dignified. That’s what a president should look like.”

I agree.

“What was his name?”

Barack Obama.

“Googa magooga.”

Please stop being from 1961. His name was Barack Obama. Perfectly normal name.

“Middle name?”

Didn’t have one.

“I bet that Obama’s a pussy man, too.”

He is not. You’re worse than Nixon in many ways.

“What’s he doing now? I should call him. Presidents’ orgy time.”

He will not do that.

“I have orgied with many negroes.”

I would honestly rather talk to Nixon.

“Well, Nixon is busy right now, young man. Come back after Mr. Charles is gone.”

Mr. Charles?

“You talking to the pretty boy?”

Yes, sir.

“Well, go make your gaga eyes at him. Nixon will, uh, be here with Mr. Charles, whom I am informed is referred to as Brother Ray.”

“You know it, baby.”

“Go back to Harvard Boy.”

Aw.

Nixtalgia

February 25, 2017 / / 2 Comments

“Fuck is wrong with you people?”

Me?

“Yes. You there. Why am I being dragged into your nightmare? I was the last national nightmare. You heard Ford, that simpleton.”

Mr. President, you have to admit that there are some parallels.

“Nonsense. That greasy little man has nothing on Nixon. We’re nothing alike in any way. Jesus Christ, it took me six years to fuck up half as much as that amateur. Do you know what I could have accomplished with the tools this wetbrained son of a bitch has? Senate, House. Jesus.”

And still…

“Just a shitshow. I could have won the Wars on Drugs and Vietnam with the potential support. Instead of visiting China, I could have blown it up.”

You would have blown up China?

“No, no. I was, uh, demonstrating the almost boundless power I could have in the same position as the baboon.”

He, too, has problems with the press.

“Lying Jew bastards. Post, Times, You know Ben Bradlee was a secret queer?”

He was not.

“Oh, yes. And the wife, with her fancy parties that the First Lady and I were never invited to. She liked to dyke it up. Twisted behavior. Naturally, they hated Nixon. They all hated Nixon. Not the people, you see. The people never loved Nixon, but they did not hate him. The press are vicious.”

They were doing their job, sir.

“Horseshit. They had it in for me. Since California. When that pretty-boy’s father bought him the presidency, did the press look into it? No, they were too busy laughing at Nixon. Sometimes the press would call the house and affect silly accents. On, uh, other occasions they rang the doorbell and then ran away. Naturally, this was disconcerting to both Mrs. Nixon and the help.”

I think you’re paranoid.

“Paranoia is the correct posture when people are out to get you. The press is the enemy.”

Well, there you go. That’s the exact same thing Trump said.

“I’m saying it to you, dummy, not the entire world. The press is always the enemy, but you don’t announce it into a goddamned microphone. Jesus Christ, how did you people become so comfortable with incompetence? President of the United States needs to be a man who can run a war, or run several wars, some of which are kept secret from Congress and the public. All I can see this fool doing is starting one.”

Or a woman.

“What?”

The President could also be a woman capable of running a war.

“No. That’s absurd. Men are Presidents, women are First Ladies. It’s right there in the name.”

Sure.

“You leave me out of this. Don’t compare me to him. Maddening. All of Nixon’s accomplishments, all the service and years and campaign miles. It’s slander. Or libel, depending on how the comparison is delivered. I won’t accept it, and the next one that says it is getting a sock in the jaw.”

It’s the Russian thing, right?

“I put Alger Hiss in jail with less evidence. That crooked son of a bitch is a Commie sympathizer. Why did they say that only I could go to China?”

Because of how unsympathetic you were to Commies.

“No sympathy whatsoever. Chinese Communists, Russian Communists, Cuban Communists.”

What’s differentiates the three, sir?

“Well, your Cuban Commie is generally far more tan than the other two varieties.”

Sure.

“And closer. The Cubans are the closest Communists.”

Sadly, that is a factual statement both when you are, and when I am.

“The Chinese are, of course, completely nuts.”

A little.

“But the Russians? Patton was right. Should’ve done the job while we still had the Army there. Before they got the damn bomb. Only thing the Russians respect is strength. If you give Russia an inch, it will take Poland. A Russian does not have partners; he has enemies, victims, and stooges.”

Very strong, Mr. President.

“What happened? The man’s a damn Republican, and he’s hiding in back alleys jerking off Communists.”

The Russians actually aren’t Communist anymore.

“Once a Commie, always a Commie.”

True.

“My God. Collaborating with them? No. Unacceptable. Say what you will about Nixon, but I have committed no treason.”

You totally did. You got the South Vietnamese government to scuttle the peace talks right before the ’68 election.

“Nixon was never charged with treason.”

More accurate.

It’s A Zoo In Here

February 9, 2017 / / 0 Comments

“AH HAVE NOT FINISHED INNERDUCIN’ THE MEMPHIS MAFIA!”

“It’s been a week, Elvis.”

“THE STORYLINE DONE REVIVIFIED ISSELF.”

“Fine, fine. At some point I need to get some work done. Laos isn’t going to bomb itself.”

“AH’M GONNA MISS YOU WHEN AH GO.”

“Yes, I suppose that I, uh, have enjoyed our time together.  Lovely to make a friend, especially such a special one.”

“AH AM VERY SPECIAL.”

“Weren’t we going to use the power of the Time Cape to save the future?”

“HOW C’N WE SAVE THE FUTURE IF WE CAN’T EVEN SAVE OURSELVES, NIX?”

“That was poignant, Elvis.”

“YEAH, AH’M POIGNANT AS SHIT, MAN. YOU MET MAH MONKEY YET?”

“I have met Charlie Hodge a number of times, yes.”

“NAW, MAN, MAH REAL MONKEY. MISTER JIGGS? C’MON OUT HERE, BOY. STOP LOVIN’ UP THAT BUST O’ CHURCHILL.”

“It was due for a cleaning.”

“C’MON, JIGGS. COME MEET YER PRESIDENT.”

“Mister Jiggs looks like some of the young people who protest outside.”

“DONTCHOO GET ME STARTED ON THEM DINGDANG HIPPIES, NIX! WEARIN’ BLUE JEANS LIKE SATAN WORSHIPPERS!”

“That is Agnew’s belief. That, uh, all the young people are in thrall to the evil one.”

“AH SENSE HIS TRICKERY IN TH’ SIDEBURNS OF TH’ YOUTH!”

“They yell and scream outside the White House. I watch them sometimes, Elvis, and I see a darkness in them. Their eyes, King. Blacker than Roberto Clemente.”

“THASS ONE DARKLY-COMPLECTED OUTFIELDER.”

“The girls, the young women, they neglect themselves. Unshaven legs with no stockings. Makeup slapdash, if at all. Some of them do not wear, uh, the proper undergarments. Brassieres, I mean. There is a great deal of movement. To and fro, bouncing, that sort of thing. I blame the parents.”

“AH BLAME TH’ BEATLES.”

“Yes. Them, too. Elvis, Mister Jiggs is still making love to Churchill’s head.”

“JIGGS, DAMN YOU! AH TOL’ YOU TO MAKE YOUR LOVE BEFORE WE CAME TO TH’ WHITE HOUSE!”

“There’s an intensity in that monkey’s eyes I almost admire, Elvis.”

“MISTER JIGGS IS A CREATURE OF PASSION. IGNORE HIM, SIR. THIS IS MAH PRIVATE NURSE, RUBY DEVILLE.”

“Miss Deville.”

“AN’ THIS IS TH’ MULTI-TALENTED LATOYA JACKSON.”

“Miss Jackson.”

“THIS HERE IS GO-KART TOMMY.

“Go-Kart Tommy. What does he do?”

“HE TAKES CARE O’ THE GO-KARTS.”

“Of course. Elvis, now Latoya Jackson is making love to the Churchill bust, as well.”

“THASS TO BE EXPECTED. YOU NOW HOW AH TOL’ YOU SHE WAS MULTI-TALENTED?”

“I do.”

“THAT THERE IS ONE O’ HER TALENTS. BUSTS, STATUES, SCULPTURES: SHE’LL LOVE UP ON ALL OF ‘EM.”

“A specific talent.”

“SAW HER HUMP A FRIEZE ONCE.”

“Fascinating.”

“MISTER PRESIDENT, THIS HERE IS TH’ GHOST O’ LOU GEHRIG.”

“The Iron Horse! Pleased to meet you, Lou.”

“LOU IS A VALUABLE MEMBER OF MAH ENTOURAGE. NEVER CALLS IN SICK.”

“No, he wouldn’t, would he?”

“NIX, IF YOU COULD BE ANY ANIMAL, ANY ANIMAL AT ALL, WHAT WOULD YOU BE?”

“An elephant. Powerful, intelligent, Republican. Perfect animal. You?”

“HELL, MAN: AH’D BE MISTER JIGGS. THAT MONKEY GOT IT ALL FIGURED OUT.”

“He seems to be enjoying himself.”

“JIGGS HUMPS LIKE NO ONE’S WATCHIN’, NIX.”

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