Thoughts On The Dead

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

A Movie Actor? President?

Mr. President?

“Hello.”

Uh, hi. What are you doing, sir?

“It’s called business. When you don’t have any lines, you just fiddle with something.”

No, sir. I meant: what are you doing here?

“I don’t recall.”

Sure.

“It’s 1988 in this picture. I go in and out. Now, tell ol’ Dutch what’s going on out there.”

What’s the last thing you remember?

“Refusing to make any more movies with that damned monkey.”

Wow.

“I marched right into Jack Warner’s office, waited for him to finish getting serviced by a starlet, and I told him flat-out. Incidentally, I met Nancy that day. I remember becoming a Republican.”

Right. You used to be a Democrat. What happened?

“Hippies.”

You hated hippies.

“Terrible children. Foul little monsters. Did you know I was a war hero?”

You were in the propaganda service. You made movies for the Army.

“No, no. Hero. Now tell your president what’s happening.”

I literally do not know how to explain it to you.

“Do it for the Gipper.”

I can’t, sir.

“Young man, I defeated the Soviet Empire for you.”

Yeaaaah, here’s the thing about that: they’re back.

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll have George Schultz suplex you.”

Not lying.

“He wrestled at Princeton. Tough guy.”

I believe you, sir. The Russians made a comeback.

“Like Judy Garland?’

Kinda.

“That damned Communism!”

They’re not really Commies anymore.

“Well, what are they?”

Sort of went back to having a czar.

“Still got the red flag?”

Nah.

“That’s too bad. Between you and me, I liked the flag. Only good thing about the whole situation. ‘Trust, but verify.’ You’ve heard that, right?”

Yes, sir.

“Is that rule still being followed?”

No. The opposite.

“What the hell is going on? Who’s in the White House?”

I don’t want to tell you.

“Now!”

Donald Trump.

“The real estate asshole?

Yes.

“Why would you do that?”

I didn’t.

“Why would anyone do that? Explain your present to the Gipper.”

I keep telling you: I CANNOT.

“Don’t yell at the Gipper.”

I’m sorry, Mr. President. I hate to be the one to tell you this. Although, in many ways, you planted the seeds for this.

“Oh, no. I’m a war hero.”

Yes, sir.

Excuse me.

Hey, get out of here. I’m talking to President Reagan. He’s awesome.

He is not.

No, not according to the record or the facts, but I was too young to understand anything about politics when Reagan was in office; I just knew that he looked like my Grandpa Jack, and he had a shiny black pompadour, and he was gonna fight the Russians for us, and my dad loved him. Plus his NAME WAS RONNIE RAY-GUN. The man was everything a six-year-old could want in a president. I know now that his policies were shitty and destructive, but at the time they would run pictures of him on a horse and I thought the leader of our country was a cowboy. Can’t help it: I’m just fond of the man.

Son of a bitch did look good on that horse.

Can you picture Trump on a horse?

Now I can’t not picture it.

In a red cowboy hat with Make America Great Again on the front.

What’s the horse’s name?

Cash.

Sure.

Can I get back to President Reagan, please?

Sure.

Great. Mr. President?

“Mommy?”

No, sir.

“Barry Goldwater?”

Also no.

“You are Jewish, though.”

Yes, sir.

“Supper?”

Are you done for the day, sir?

“Mommy?”

You’re done for the day.

3 Comments

  1. Tuesday Jackson

    March 27, 2017 at 7:19 am

    The Sommelier of Cartier.

    Let’s mine the harbor!

    Good times.

  2. Luther Von Baconson

    March 27, 2017 at 6:57 pm

    Nancy teaching Shultzie the coco bonk. learned from Bobo Brazil.

  3. from here he looks so reasonable.

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