Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Election Night at the White House

To say the least, I was a bit surprised when the President himself greeted me at the front door of the White House wearing a toga, a tie, and a corona civica. President Obama--the man who once saved my life in 'Nam--had invited me to join him, his family, and "a few close friends" to watch the coverage of the presidential election. I misunderstood. I didn't realize I had been invited to a toga party. I came attired in my best casual suit and I was way over dressed.
     The White House was filled with men and women, young and old, Simon and Garfunkel all dressed in togas and dancing wildly. There was a huge screen on the far left wall, but instead of showing the election results, they were showing only the scenes where Helen Hunt appears naked in her new movie, The Sessions, which is to say they were playing the entire movie.
     I ducked as a bottle of beer flew past my head. It shattered against the door behind me. I felt like I was in college again.
     "Glad you could make it," Obama told me. I could see he was sincere. Michele, on the other hand, was giving me the stink eye from the other side of the room. Before he became president, whenever Obama would step out "for a pack of cigarettes," I know she knew I was somehow involved.
     "I  wouldn't miss it for the world," I answered, and handed him a folded piece of paper. "I guess you can have this back now."
     Even though he knew what it was, Obama unfolded it, and took a look. He let out a chuckle. It was his legal birth certificate from Hawaii.
     "You were right, Jim," he told me. "Hiding my birth certificate sure did keep those Tea Party guys from paying attention to everything else I was doing."
     Obama smoothly handed the document to an aide who was standing next to him. The aide bowed low and slowly backed away from us, chanting, "Salami, salami, baloney," on his way out.
     "By the way," he said, "there's a girl I'd like you to meet."
     He nodded toward a spicy little bite of kimchi in a tight little toga. She was half sex kitten and half Viet Nam flashback. I shook my head.
     "I'm married, Mr. President," I told him.
     "What does that have to do with anything," he said, and gave me a wink. "Go have a good time. We'll talk later. As-salaam alaykum."
     "Aleichem sholem."
     I looked over at the makeshift stage. Bruce Springstein and the E Street Band were performing. The occasion was so special, even Clarence Clemmons took the night off from touring with Hendrix and Joplin just so he could come back and play some hot licks on the sax for The Boss one last time.
     Joe Biden was standing next to them, and leaning against the old refurbished jukebox I had given the Obamas as a wedding gift. Biden had a bottle of beer in one hand and was pretending to sing into a microphone. He was drunkenly swaying side to side. Springstein was singing a rock-n-roll version of the old Isley Brothers hit Shout. Thirty-seven minutes later, he was still playing the same song.
     I looked around. A mountain of empty kegs filled one corner. Someone should have alerted the Guinness World Record judges, because urinary records were undoubtedly being broken.
     Jay-Z and Pimp With A Limp were in one corner. They were in a heated discussion, apparently arguing about the size of something. Pimp had both of his hands in front of him with his palms about a foot apart. Jay-Z was using the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to measure out about three inches.
     "It's not the size of the boat," I could hear Beyonce say to Jay-Z reassuringly, "it's the motion of the ocean, baby."
     And then she excused herself to go talk with Ron Jeremy.
     I heard the roar of a motor in the distance. It grew louder. Bill Clinton came bursting through the front door on a Harley-Davidson. He had an alto saxophone strapped to his back, and his hair was greased into a 50's duck tail, Fonzie-style. He wore a pair of Ray-Bans, and seemed oblivious to the shenanigans going on around him, as if this was an everyday occurrence.
     Maybe it was.
     Clinton grabbed a long-neck from a barrel filled with them, all iced down, nice and cold. He broke the neck off against the edge of a desk, and poured the frothy liquid down his gullet.
     "Hey, Jim," he called out to me, almost shouting, "what's got two grey legs and two brown legs?"
     "I don't know. What?"
     "An elephant... with diarrhea!"
     He got the biggest kick out of his own joke, and with a rebel yell, he aimed his hog toward the door and was never heard from again.
     I walked over to the stairwell, where I saw a gaggle of gray-haired geriatric groupies gathered around someone playing a guitar. I looked closer. Holy smokes, it was Mayor John Cook! He was sitting on one of the lower steps, strumming his six-string, and trying hard to impress the chicks.
     "I gave my love a cherry, it had no stone," he warbled. The (much) older ladies were looking at him adoringly. Hilary Clinton, not so much. She happened to be walking down the stairs right then. I hadn't seen Hilary since she went into hiding after taking the bullet over this dead ambassador thing in Libya. So much for 2016.
     She sniffed the air, as if she had just stepped in something, angrily grabbed the guitar out of the El Paso mayor's hands, and smashed it against the wall. Not just once, but several times. Making sure it splintered into a thousand pieces. Everybody looked at Hilary in shock, especially Mayor Cook. She just shrugged.
     "Sorry," she said, not really meaning it,and continued walking.
     Obama jumped up on the stage. He seemed excited. Springstein had just begun playing Louie, Louie, when the President held up his hands, and the room quieted down. I looked at my iPhone. Fox News had just called Ohio.
     "It's official, guys," he announced. "Mitt Romney is losing so bad the Dallas Cowboys are laughing at him. You know what that means, don't you?"
     Everybody looked at Michele, and then yelled at once.
     "ROAD TRIP!"

American Chimpanzee

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