Big Problems in the Big Easy

Talked to Mom today on the phone. Hate it when she calls me Junior. At least Dad doesn't call me that...anymore...but I don't think "Slappy" is much better. Heard Dad in the background yelling "Children doo's learn! Oh yes, they doo's, they surely doo's. Remember that golden oldie, Slappy!? How did we let the dimmest bulb on the Bush marquee get the job I once held? And the job Jeb will now never be able to hold?" Geez, one little miss-speaked on my part. You'd think I did it twenty-four hours a day. Well, maybe youforgot but I do sleep. Then there was this bunch of kids at that press conference who were just like Dad...looked at me like I miss-speaked all the time...yeah, well let's just see who gets health insurance this upcoming school year. Rummi still won't take my call. Heard he doesn't miss me. This after he begged me for a Medal of Freedom! Should have garroted him when I put it around his neck. He wanted to be bigger than Robert McNamara. All I want to tell him is he is bigger now, by order of magnitudes...because he's far worse. And that's saying something. What energy that Rummi had. He never sat down. Stood at that maitre d' podium in his office all day. His wife said he even crapped standing up; taught the whole family to do it. In an embarrassing aside she told me she only gets laid standing up. That they kept a podium in the bedroom that she'd hang onto. That whenever they walked into a restaurant with a maitre d' podium, Rummi would whisper in her ear to hold his reservation in the love booth for one. The real tight dark booth in the rear.

Again, problems with the trailers that should have gone to New Orleans for the hurricane victims. They're still in some giant muddy field and sinking into the ground. Jesus! Who put them there in the first place? Why is it everyone I appoint to get something done is a total numbnut? Is it me or am I imagining things? In the end, though it's always up to me to fix things. And I feel the heavy weight of responsibility to come through for the boys at the Court who got me this job. I'd hate to make them look bad in front of their colleagues. I mean this is the Supine Court we're talking about. They looked at Gore and then me and had to know that if America ever got backed into a corner and the chips were down, I was the guy who'd show up with the salsa. And will the press just get off the Court's back for stealing the election the first time around? I mean come on, those boys on the Court aren't going to leave a mon-u-spendous decision like choosing a President up to the general public. Jeez, there are people out there in the "general public" who actually watch Bill Moyers' Journal for Chrissakes...say "it's the best news and opinion show on T.V." Well for my money, which is really Dad's money, Moyers' show is nothing more than The LIE-ABRAL Press in full lieable mode. For example; so what, that on the day I found out that Ben Lauden was about to attack in the U.S. I went straight to the ranch to clear brush for the entire two weeks before 9/11. That brush had to be cleared. It's not like I'm Mitt Romney. I couldn't hire illegal Mexicans to do it. God knows U.S. citizens want, get this, a "decent wage", for that kind of work. So I decided to clear it out myself. Put a chainsaw in my hands and get out of the way. Whether it's Texas brush or the U.S. Constitution, it's gone and it won't ever be back. This is exactly what the boys at the Court knew. Stolen election you say? Hell, there wouldn't be an America without theft. Big deal...the Founding Slaughterers stole the land from the Indians. They were squatters in the first place. "We should have sent 'em back to India where they came from." That's a Joe Biden line. He used to whisper it in my ear whenever we'd cruise into a 7/11. Then he'd burst out in his trade mark Chiclet-wide grin and chuckle, like he made a big joke or something....Well if it's a joke, I never got it. We should send 'em back. But Americans are a generous bunch, we let them Indians stay. And on some pretty choice land, too. Ask any bug or reptile.

So back to MY problem. How do I fix the trailer mess? What do I do with those Negroes in New Orleans who didn't have enough common sense to realize that a roof is not a second home to flee to in case of an emergency? Hmmmmm...got it! If the mountain can't go to Moe Howard then bring Moe Howard to the mountain. Send all the victims of the floods to the trailers and let them move in. To quote the late game show announcer Johnny Olson, "Come on down"...wait a minute...is he still alive? Well if he is, I can fix that too.

Decidedly, W.