Tuesday, December 19, 2023

A Christmas Clinton

A Christmas Clinton
by Jim Duchene

Hillary Clinton sat alone in her study contemplating the upcoming 2024 presidential election. 

     Biden had a successful four years, she thought, but surely he realized it was not in the best interest of the Democratic Party for him to run for a second term, and if he didn’t run that created an opportunity. The opportunity to run again. That would be good for her, but, more importantly, that would be good for America.

     “God bless us every one,” she said out loud, liking the idea of it.

     Oh, sure, by the look of things she might end up running against Trump again, but she liked the idea of that, too. Fate seemed to be offering her a second chance to prove what she had known all these years, that she had been cheated in 2016.

     The doors to her study burst open and there stood a ghostly Bill Clinton, chains attached to his wrists and ankles, a thick metal collar padlocked around his neck. A fifth chain hung loosely from the back of the collar, making it look like a dog leash.

     “Well, he always was a hound,” Hillary thought, finding little amusement in her weak joke.

   “Hillary! Hillary!” his spectral image intoned in a weak and raspy voice. “Fear not, but before this night is through you will be visited by three ghosts.”

     “Don’t be such a melodramatic fool, William. You know very well that the last person dumb enough to visit me in the middle of the night was Vince Foster.”

     “Will you listen to me for once in your gosh darn life?” Bill beseeched, his chains clanking this way and that as he wobbled unsteadily on bare feet.

     Long sultry fingers sensuously wrapped themselves around the chain attached to the collar around his neck.

     “So there you are, Mr. President,” his caregiver slash dominatrix said, icy words slithering out from between thin lips. “You’re such a bad boy for wandering off like that. Now you’ll have to be punished.”

     But the former president's train of thought wouldn't be derailed.

     “Remember what I told you, Hillary,” he said, disappearing backward down the hallway. “Three ghosts. Heed them. Heed them well.”

     “Bah humbug,” Hillary said, dismissing the idea.

     There was an impish laugh behind her.

     “What the fudge?” she yelped, only she didn’t use the word “fudge”.

     “I am the first ghost your husband warned you about,” the specter explained in a playful, childlike voice. “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”

     Hillary surprised the phantasm by squawking loudly for her...

     “SECURITY!”

     Two Secret Service agents immediately ran into her office, jumped on the tiny trespasser, and forced him to the ground. 

     “The usual, Madam?” the lead agent asked.

     “That’s Madam PRESIDENT!” she spat. “And, yes, get that deplorable little creature out of here!"

     “But I’m The Ghost of Christmas Past!”  it tried to explain as it was quite painfully dragged out of the room. “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past!”

     When all was quiet once again, Hillary turned to sit on the leather chair behind her desk.

     But someone was already there.

     “Who the fudge are you?” she demanded to know.

     Having seen what happened to the first ghost, the apparition trembled fearfully in the chair. “I-I-I’m…” it said, not quite getting the words out. “I-I-I’m…”

     “Doesn’t matter,” Hillary interrupted. “SECURITY!”

     The Ghost of Christmas Present’s body was found the next day in an apparent murder-suicide with Christmas Past. A lover’s spat gone bad, the authorities would conclude.

     “What next?” the former First Lady groused. 

     What next, indeed, as The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come opened its black cloak…

     “SECUR…”

     …and swallowed Hillary into the depths of its billowing darkness. She was transported instantaneously to the future. Election night 2024, to be exact. After having just clinked glasses of champagne with rock star John Bon Jovi, the results began trickling in and it wasn’t good news. Bon Jovi snuck away and before dawn the next day the truth was irrefutable: Hillary had lost AGAIN to Donald Trump.

     “Nooooooooooo!” she howled.

     She sucker punched the Secret Service agent who had the bad judgement of standing closest to her, then kicked a second Secret Service agent right in the babymakers. Seizing hold of her political strategist James Carville, she put him in a vicious headlock and began punching him savagely in the face. When President Clinton tried to intervene, he immediately regretted his actions when she grabbed him by the throat with clawing hands and began squeezing so hard his life began flashing before his bulging eyes.

     It was sad, but it had to be done. Someone called her doctor, who called someone else, and two men in white coats came and led her away. 

     “Get the double,” Bill ordered, barely able to get the words out. 

     The new Hillary graciously conceded the election. As time passed, everyone commented on how pleasant she had become in her retirement from politics, even allowing underlings to once again make eye contact with her. Bill seemed happier. The world seemed happier. There was even peace in the Middle East. 

     Reality skidded to a stop and jerked back to the present.

     “What’s wrong, Madam President?” a Secret Service agent was asking. He didn't know what to do. Hillary lay crumpled on the floor. She was sobbing uncontrollably.

     “It’s not true. It’s not true,” she kept saying.

     The Secret Service agent looked around. He knew that she had always balanced precariously on the high wire of sanity, so he was trying to decipher just what it had been that had broken her so thoroughly, but he couldn't see anything in the shadows of the empty room. It was sad, but it had to be done. He called her doctor.

     Who called someone else.

     And two men in white coats came. 

     “Put this on, Madam,” one of them told her.

     “That’s Madam PRESIDENT!” she screeched, spitting venom as she was forcibly squeezed into a jacket with sleeves that secured in the back. 

     It would be a long time before she would be seen in public again.

 

     When everyone left and the house was empty, a dark figure shrouded in a heavy black garment which concealed its head stepped out of the shadows. Tiny hands moved up and threw back the hood of its cloak.

     Had anyone else been in the room they wouldn't have been at all surprised to see that it was Donald Trump.

   

Monday, December 11, 2023

A Frisky Four

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene


A Frisky Four

"What was he thinking?"

 

...one...

   

Back when I was a kid, my parents bought me a very expensive gift for Christmas.

It must have cost them a pretty penny and, trust me, a pretty penny was a lot of money in those days. Ugly pennies, not so much. Being in the lower single digits age-wise, I played more with the box than the gift that came inside.

     The following Christmas, not knowing they were talking about me, I overheard my father tell my mother, "Why not give him another box and buy something for ourselves instead?”


...two…

 

Somehow, my brother remembers those holidays like this: "Remember when Santa brought me a bike? It was an expensive, top of the line Schwinn and must have cost mom and dad a month's salary. All he left you was an air pump, two tire tubes, and a dollar. When you asked dad why, he  told you, 'If your brother gets a flat, Santa wants you to fix it. The dollar is for you to buy him a soda while he waits.' It was the best Christmas ever!"


...three…

 

My wife and I ran into an old buddy of mine at Costco. He was with his wife. Sadly, he’s in the early stages of  Alzheimer's.

     He and I sat down in the snack area to catch up with one another. I even bought him a slice of pizza because 1) I was hungry, and 2) if I waited for him to buy me a pizza I'd be waiting a very long time. I'm not saying he's cheap, I'm just saying copper wire was invented when he and his brother fought over a penny. Meanwhile, his wife and mine wandered off to see who could empty their bank account first.

     On the drive home, my wife confided that she asked how it was having a husband with Alzheimer's.

     "Great," my buddy’s wife answered. "Whenever he’s feeling frisky, I tell him, 'Honey, we were just in the bedroom. Don't you remember?' He’s too proud to say he forgot, so he'll say 'Oh, yeah,' and wander off for a nap. I haven't had to fuss with him for months."

     All I can say is…. I hope I never get Alzheimer's.


...four…

 

Speaking of Alzheimer’s, even before my father was diagnosed with it he never had an internal editor to filter out the things he shouldn't say. If you had a question, but didn't want an honest answer, my father was not the one to ask. He was more than blunt, he was brutal.

     Another thing he was, especially before he was married, was a hound dog. If you've ever heard the old blues song Nosy Joe by Bull Moose Jackson, it pretty much tells the story of my father's bachelor years.

     I remember once going with him to look at a truck he saw advertised in the classified section of the newspaper. He was planning on going alone, but my mother made him take me along. She didn’t want him getting into any shenanigans afterward.

     He pulled up to the house and we both got off. When he knocked on the door a very attractive lady greeted us and then went inside to call her husband. When he stepped outside my father was already checking out the truck which was parked in the driveway with a For Sale sign taped to the inside of the rear window.

     "So," the man said, "are you thinking about buying my truck?"

     "No," my father told him, "I'm just looking at your truck. What I'm thinking about is your wife."

 

***************************************

I’m not getting old, I’m becoming a classic.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

Sunday, November 5, 2023

Back To Four

 RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene


Back To Four

"Who would buy him?"

 

...one...

   

Back when my beloved mother was still alive, she told me something scary that happened to her and my father when they were home alone.
    Not scary in an “Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein" kind of way, even though it could have been. You see, the house I grew up in is supposed to be haunted. I say “supposed” because nothing frightening ever happened to me there, unless you count experiencing mysterious gas fumes every night emanating from my laughing brother's side of the bedroom we shared.

     Anyway...

     They were in the den watching TV. She was sitting on the couch and my father was in his favorite chair, when—all of a sudden—my father began to choke.

     "Honey!" my mother screamed.

     Panicking, she got up from the couch, picked up the remote, and turned off the TV. 

That didn’t help.

I don’t know why she thought it would.

Next, she started slapping him hard on the back. 

That didn't help either.

     He clawed at his throat. His eyes bulged. He fell to the floor.

     Now THAT helped.

     The obstruction dislodged and my father could breathe again.

     "Are you okay?” my mother cried.

     Taking in huge gulps of air, he used it to chastise her.

     "Why did you turn off the TV?" he griped.

My mother let that slide.

     When the hubbub was over and my father was back in his favorite chair, happily eating the very same snacks he almost choked to death on, my mother asked why he got mad at her for turning off the TV.

     "Because,” he explained, “if it was my time to go, I wanted to go watching my favorite show.”

 

...two…

 

Years back I saw a very sexy 72-year-old Helen Mirren riding onto the Academy Awards stage on a jet ski and thinking about it now reminds me of how my father can be romantic in his own way.

     Once, as my parents were watching one of Helen’s movies, my mother told him, "I can't believe she's MY age. She's so beautiful."

     Tenderly, my father reached over and patted her hand.

     "You're almost as beautiful as she is," he told her.

 

...three…

 

On a trip to visit family who live out of state, I sat with my father as the plane we were already on slowly filled. One of the pre-boarding perks of getting old.

     I sat by the window, and my father sat in the middle seat. Soon, an attractive elderly lady came and sat in the seat next to him.

     Playfully making small talk, she told us, "Are you the gentlemen who paid extra to sit next to a beautiful woman?"

     "Yes, we are," I told her.

     If I had a hat, I would have tipped it.

     My father, however, was his usual self. Turning to me, he grumped, "Is it too late for a refund?”

 

...four…

 

There's a business in Japan where a person can rent a grandparent. I read about it on the internet, so it must be true.

     Now, I told you THAT to tell you THIS:

     My father lives with me. He's elderly, widowed, and has been diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's. A trifecta of reasons why I should cut him some slack.

     On one particularly stressful day, my wife and I were worn out from dealing with him. My children and grandchildren COMBINED weren't as much trouble.

     "Think I could sell him?" I joked with my beautiful wife after he finally succumbed to the medication his doctor prescribed when he’s a handful.

     "You could," she told me, "but who would buy him?"

 

***************************************

You know what’s as good as it used to be?

Nothing.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

Monday, October 16, 2023

Just Three

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene


Just Three

"an inconvenient obligation"


...one...


Not only is my wife beautiful, but she’s an excellent cook.

     When I look into our refrigerator, I see nothing to eat. My wife, however, can look into anyone's refrigerator and come up with a feast. Her leftovers are better than a gourmet meal at the snootiest of restaurants. My father agrees with me, but he has a backhanded way of delivering compliments.

     One weekend, I was laid low with a nasty cold, so my wife made me a hearty stew. There's no such thing as canned this or that or anything from a bag with my wife. She loves to cook and cooking from scratch is the only way she knows how. So she prepared the meat, chopped up the fresh, carefully chosen vegetables, and dropped them into her favorite stew pot along with her unique blend of spices and herbs that Colonel Sanders would be envious of. As the delectable concoction was simmering on the stove, the intoxicating aroma enticed my father to get up from from his favorite chair in the den and saunter into the kitchen, where he then stood over the stew pot and, with his eyes closed, took an appreciative whiff.

     "Mmm..." he moaned, hungrily.

     "Would you like some?" my wife asked him, pleased he was so taken with her food.

     "Oh, boy," my father said. "You bet."

     So my wife served him a bowl.

     She's thoughtful that way.

     "Oh, yeah," my father said after several spoonfuls. "This sure does hit the spot."

     My wife smiled at the rare compliment from my father.

     The spell was broken, however, when my father added, "Campbell's sure does make good soup."


...two...


Adults have never understood kids and kids have never understood adults, but it's a different kind of generation gap we live in today.

     What am I saying?

     I'm saying I like to shop at used book stores. I love books, but I'm not particularly fond of paying full price for them. One of my favorite used book stores is affiliated with the city's libraries, so I get a good deal and the money goes to a good cause. It's run by some very sweet elderly ladies who, if you were looking for the typical stereotype of a librarian, would fill the bill nicely.

     I was standing in the science fiction section hoping to find either a collection of Fredric Brown's short stories or Jeff Rice's novel The Night Stalker, which Darren McGavin's classic TV-movie and eventual series was based on, and, in an interesting side note, was the inspiration for Chris Carter's The X-Files, starring David Duchovny and the hauntingly beautiful Gillian Anderson.

     Well, I didn't find either, but I wasn't disappointed.

     It gave me an excuse to come back.

     Sadly, that wasn't the case for two young boys who walked into the bookstore. They walked up to one of the ladies and asked her, "Do you have any Star Wars books?"

     I gave the shelves a quick glance.

     I didn't see any.

     Adjusting her glasses, she answered in the affirmative. The two boys looked at each other. I could see them practically jump up and down with happiness.

     "They're over here," she told them, and led them to where I was standing.

     The boys eagerly looked, but were immediately disappointed.

     "These are Star Trek," they complained.

     The cashier once again adjusted her glasses.

     "What's the difference?" she asked.


...three...


"Do we really have to go?" I asked my wife.

     She didn't answer. She just gave me The Look. The one that means Tread Carefully. You know, the old Stink Eye. Still, I pressed on.

     "It's not like we're really related or anything," I tried to reason, but there was no reasoning with The Look.

     And it was true. The person who had just died and whose funeral my wife was obligating me to go to was the relative of a relative, and not even a blood relative. He was of the in-law variety.

      "Look," my wife told me, "it's YOUR family. If anything, I should be the one complaining."

     She had a point.

     "Okay, pop," I told my father. "It's time to go."

     My father reluctantly got up from the baseball game he was watching. A classic, according to the premium baseball channel we get for him. In other words, it was one he had already seen.

     "Can’t people die when there isn’t a good game on?" he grumbled.

  

I don’t ask for perfection.

Just a little less imperfection.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

Sunday, September 3, 2023

Another Four Stories

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

  

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene


Another Four Stories

“let sleeping angels lie”

 

When my granddaughter was four-years-old we were driving back from a road trip and she was asleep in her car seat. She looked like an angel, her hair a delicate tangle of curls. She was perspiring the way children sometimes do when they slumber.

 Suddenly, she startled awake.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

She looked around, slow to take in her surroundings.

“I dreamt my hair was on fire,” she finally told me.

“Well, you’re safe now,” I assured her. After a few seconds I dipped a toe into the water. “You woke up pretty quick,” I said.

She nodded.

“You wake up fast when your hair’s on fire,” she told me.

I guess you do.

Now my granddaughter is eight, and she’s a pretty bright kid (she gets it from me). She’s back at school and was telling me they were teaching her about fire safety. She had learned to Stop-Drop-And-Roll, been reacquainted with dialing 9-1-1, and that it's "Smokey Bear," not "Smokey THE Bear."

Playfully testing her knowledge, I asked, "What would you do if your clothes were on fire?"

"I'd buy some new ones," she said.


********************

I've told you how my buddy Maloney and his wife Gail ended up living together, but I've never told you how they ended up getting married.

Maloney was laid low by an aggressive bout with the flu, and she moved in to take care of him. Unfortunately, once he got better, she didn't move out. As far as I could tell, taking care of him consisted of her eating bon bons and watching TV while Maloney slept the day away, but that's neither here nor there.

Well, maybe not here, but it DID end up there. At the Justice of the Peace, I mean. Where the two of them entered the first of what's considered a trifecta of fine institutions. Prison being the second, and a mental facility the third.

"You're already living together," I told him. "Why get married?"

"It's a case of opposites attracting," he explained. "SHE'S pregnant and I'm not."


********************

I was driving with my father recently.

We were on our way to lunch.

On my dime.

I don't want to say he takes advantage of being diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's, but it sure is convenient how he always forgets to reach for his wallet when the check comes.

Anyway, what happened next in the car made me lose my appetite.

"Did you just pass gas?" I asked my father.

My father gave me a sly grin.

"Of course I did,” he chuckled. “What do you think, it’s my natural aroma?"

When we got to the restaurant he continued being a little stinker. 

“Where have you been all my life?" he flirted as the hostess showed us to our table.

Fortunately, the young girl could hold her own.

"Waiting to be born,” she answered, sweetly.


********************

"What are you doing?" my father asked me.

Wait a minute... cancel that.

Let me begin by saying that I hate having to sign up for new things on my old, out-of-date Apple computer and having to constantly come up with different passwords.

Which is what I was doing.

"I'm trying to think of a new password, pop," I told him.

He had seen how stymied I had been for these last few minutes, so he couldn't resist rubbing it in a bit.

"What's so hard about that?" he said.

"It's just hard to come up with something unique that's easy to remember," I told him.

"Let me try," he offered.

My initial instinct was to say no, but I've learned that when you tell people no, they will quit offering to help.

"Okay," I told him, "but it has to be eight characters long."

"Eight characters? That's easy," my father snorted in victory. "Snow White & The Seven Dwarfs."


********************

  

What’s worse than entering middle aged?

Exiting it.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene