Willie Nelson finally accepted my personal invitation and spent the weekend here in the White House. He slept in the Lincoln bedroom.
He must have started smoking that wildwood weed he's so fond of, because the Secret Service woke me up to tell me some funny-smelling smoke was wafting out from the bottom of his door. I told them not to do anything that would embarrass my new best friend, and that I'd take care of it. They agreed, so I woke up my wife and sent her to tell Willie that he couldn't be smoking that wacky tobacky in the White House.
She came back almost two hours later, eating a brownie.
He's sleeping real good now, pa," she assured me. "He won't be bothering nobody until tomorrow."
"Thanks, ma," I said, gratefully.
Was she wearing her pajama bottoms backwards? Hmm, must be the new style.
I sniffed the air like my best coon hound.
"Are you wearing a new perfume?" I asked her.
"How come?" she asked me, looking down at herself like she could see the perfume I was talking about. Then she reached up and smoothed her hair a bit. I don't remember it looking like a tumbleweed when I sent her into Willie's room.
"Because," I told her, "it smells just like Willie's cologne."
Dear Diary,
Do you know the last thing a girl wants to hear after having sex with Willie Nelson?
"I'm not Willie Nelson."
Dear Diary,
Yeah, that one was a knee-slapper.
Dear Diary,
Well, I'm officially out of a job. Ronald Reagan was inaugurated today and is now our 40th president. I must admit, he beat me pretty good. Worse even that those egg-sucking dogs I used to beat with an ugly stick so they'd stay out of the hen house. Yeah, he beat me good.
I hope the country goes to Hell for not voting for me.
I surely do.
Dear Diary,
Don't you wish Elvis were still alive?
Yeah, me too.
American Chimpanzee
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
@JimDuchene
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