4th of July at the White House
And so, the Good Family spent the 4th of July at the White House. You might think spending the 4th of July at the White House was an honor. You’d be wrong. Spending any time with Nixon and Dad was a drag, not an honor. Out front, Nixon put on a big show for Dad. Fireworks, the Blue Angels, a performance by Elvis. Stoned to the gills on magic chocolate fudge, Dr. Strangelove ignored the whole shebang. He was busy at the buffet, seeing how many shrimp he could cram into his mouth. Show over, Nixon and Mom came inside looking for Dad.
“There’s my favorite CIA agent,” said Mom, giving Dad a kiss on a stuffed cheek.
Dad nodded, mouth too full to say anything. When the president ignored the utterly cool hippie in the room (who in turn, ignored the creepy president), Mom said, “Mikey’s here, too, Dick. Say hello to your uncle, Mikey. ”
“Howzit, Uncle Dick.” I wouldn’t shake his slimy right-wing hand, but out of politeness, I gave him a shaka sign.
Ehrlichman and Haldeman stood next to him, so I threw a Nazi salute. Instinctively, they clicked their heels and saluted back. I knew it.
“Ah, yes, my favorite nephew,” lied Nixon. After we finished laughing, he squinted those beady eyes and asked, “How’d you get past the Secret Service agents?”
“Now, Dick, make nice,” said Mom. “It’s a special day.”
Nixon pouted, then sighed. Shaking his jowls in that lovable way of his, he said, “All right, I will if he will.”
“No problem, Uncle Dick. . .after you resign in disgrace.”
“Never, Mikey; not in disgrace, anyway. Only with honor, dignity, and glory.”
Thinking he was kidding, I cracked up. Instead of joining me, he raved, “The country needs me. Bla bla bla—I am not a crook.” Then, “Goddamnit, stop laughing.”
Here was my chance. Nixon’s neck was only inches away. I felt my hands tightening, longing to strangle something. And if I wasn’t a pacifist, and it wasn’t Dad’s big day, and if those Secret Service guys weren’t pointing guns at me, I just might have. I thought it through. On the plus side, I’d eliminate a dangerous foe. I could picture crowds cheering: Yea, Mikey! I’d be a hero. On the minus side, the Secret Service would fill me full of holes. I could picture crowds booing. Well, at least one voice: mine. How then would I change the world? An idea came to mind: Mikey G., zombie philanthropist. Anyone called me a vegan, I’d eat him.
Not yet ready for zombification, I went outside for a doobie break. There were straight people in suits and dark glasses all over the grounds; they had walkie talkies and ear plugs and none of them looked cool. Way out back by the service entrance, I smelled something illegal, and headed that way with a smile on my face. Two Secret Service agents and a tall, effeminate guy in a white track suit heard me coming and turned around fast, you know, as if feeling busted.
“Take it easy, guys, it’s cool.”
Tad and Skip, two agents from Air Force Two, recognized me.
“Hi, Mikey,” said Tad, reholstering his gun.”
“Howzit, guys. Smells good.”
“Heh heh . . .we’re taking a break from the stiffs inside.”
“Me, too.”
Skip offered me a tiny roach. “Sorry, you got here a little late.”
“That’s okay, I travel fully loaded,” I said, pulling out a fatty of Maui Wowee. “In more ways than one.”
A minute later, two Secret Service agents and a tall, effeminate guy in a white track suit enjoyed coughing fits.
The guy in white wheezed out, “Damn, that’s good. What is this stuff?”
“That, my friend, is da kine Maui Wowee. Mamba Kush, to be specific.”
He introduced himself as Brandon. “I’m Nixon’s masseur.”
“No kidding?”
Brandon nodded. “If anyone needs it, it’s him. That man is way too uptight.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I try to help with homeopathy. . .”
“Not on me, you don’t,” said Tad.
“That’s not what it means,” snapped Brandon. “I also do amateur proctology on the side. Well, not on the side, heh heh, but you know what I mean.”
“When you’ve got your hand up there, Brandon,” I asked, “you ever pretend he’s a puppet? You could have him say, ‘I’m guilty.’ ”
Everyone laughed at that one.
“That’s the only way that bastard will ever admit it,” said Skip.
“He’s not just uptight mentally,” confided Brandon, loosening up from the smoke, ready to dish some dirt. “He hasn’t taken a dump in weeks.”
That intrigued me. Also, confirmed a theory of Ray’s involving Nixon’s pursed lips. He was convinced pursed lips were a sign of an anal-retentive personality full of pent-up anger, which, in Nixon’s case, led to aggression and war.
“I keep massaging his prostate,” added Brandon, “hoping that’ll help.”
Something made me ask, “Does it?”
“Not with the constipation, but he seems to like it. I might have to put some suppositories up there before the man explodes.”
Bingo! Brandon didn’t know it, but he’d given me a killer idea.
“Mikey,” asked the president’s proctologist, “you think you can get me some Maui Wowee? Why are you rubbing your hands together like a mad scientist?”
“I’m sure we can work something out. For you and the president.”
“You’re all right,” said Brandon, holding out his hand to seal the deal.
“Sorry, Brandon, but I know where that hand has been.”
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