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http://www.nga.gov/exhibitions/dadainfo.shtm :woohoo: a resurgence just as hubby predicted “Yeah, that’s right, you just yuk it up, son of a bitch in your piss ant little blink of a gone-by country. You’re next, shit for brains! Just as soon as we can figure out how: to turn this damned thing around.” When broke into the ear, the wax of a security attaché; a whisper by half, “Don’t have that printed, son. The First Lady’s got me on some damn kind of ‘beta male scale’ or other. Says that I’m too bitchy in public. It’ll just make for serve’n cold soup every night of the week, son. From here on into: the depot. So help me out. Would’ya?” A line delivered from within plaintiff face, plaintiff tones.
“Yes, Sir. Not a word.”
“Good man. Ah shit! There it goes again! Son, I’ve got my hands full, here. Do your country a favor. Grab that stringy-black-bang, that noth’in right, yep, that’s it, right there; and stuff it back in that hole, straight to the middle, like you’ve done this all your life.”
“Actually, Mr. President…I have.”
“No shit?”
“Yes, sir…” grappling the Gordian.
“Hell, I like you ‘stem cell’ guys. I really do.”
“Well, sir.” The grunt, “It’s probably because…we’re so likable.” The groan.
“God, country, soft spot for Big Oil/Big Bizz…and a sense of humor too. Son, you’re an American Hero and you don’t even know it!” The Commander In Chief, watching his security attaché grapple dark-nothing nano moments prior to his being cast into the role of ‘witness’, sooner still: The Observer, as his attaché’ genome, his being…is being elongated, and made ‘otherly’…before the fact.
“Yes, sir…” stayed, within a mortal combat of grunt and groan, “My Grandma used to sing a song just like that to me…” his agents every chi pulled from within and then straight out the top of his head, The President Of The United States is made instead to gasp before a power un-tamed, “When I was little…” his plexus punched, “If I can remember the words…I could write them down…” and with a slurp, he too is gone.
“Dumb son of a bitch. What the hell did he think we were all up to anyhow?” Turning to his Chief of Staff, shaking his head. Along with a smirk.
“For the life of me, Mr. President, I really couldn’t say.” Pulling itinerary out from within a soft, tanned leather briefcase along with a smirk of/his/own. Having been elongated, slurped up when and now made bite-sized, personalized and in this process rend oh so very special; a security attaché no longer a threat or an asset to anyone, anywhere,
The Prez: he continue,
“Sure glad that we made’em…dumb-as-dirt. Half as proud.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whelp, what’s next?”
“Sir, you’ve a photo-op. With Bola Sete.”
“Bowl-O, bowl-o. Peppy? What did you just say?”
“Mr. President. Brazil, is coming to see you and they’d like to get some snap-shots of you and they standing as near as close as is reasonably safe…sir.”
“They ain’t noth’in safe about this damn ‘thing’…Bowl-O…Seppy? Preppy?”
“Sir, the Brazilians are seeking contracted access to ‘the hole’. They’ve good use for ‘it’ throughout The Amazon and have ‘nick named’ it, sir. There’s a national infatuation with respect the ‘the hole’, spreading faster than cuts can be cleared. It’s really quite amazing. Children’s school lunch boxes with no bottoms. Garments with no: stitching. Soccer with no: fans and such. Policies complete and utterly void of: meaning or for that matter: purpose. And their Dadaists, well, they see ‘the hole’ as a maddening, randomly surgical, serendipitously portentous rebirth: of Dada itself.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“Dada?”
“Dummy up, Cornwall. You’re being paid to know my thoughts before I know them. Now get with the program.”
“Dada, it is none nor more than an antiquated Art Movement gone-by; meaning nothing to no one. Always was. Always is. And always will be, sir. Nothing, Mr. President, of any concern baring upon your agenda presently wobbling it’s way through congress, sir.”
“I think I like the sound of that. Did you know that I was going to think that I like the sound of that, Cornwall? Hmm?”
“Yes, Mr. President. I think that I did think that you were going to think that you would think that you like the sound of that.”
“I’m cut’n your pay-grade anyhow, Cornwall. Slippery Stanford party boy.”
“Yes, sir. Still though, Mr. President, it’s Spanish, more or less, more-more than less: Portuguese for: Eight Ball, sir. You know? The contentious little orb you will-need soon feel better: out from behind.”
“ME!”
“Mr. President, please. I merely mean to convey, in advance so as to say, the free-wheeling Brazilian Spirit Of The RainForest already en route from Ronald Wilson Reagan International Airport, Boston Tea Party, Flat Tax & Robber Barron Duty-Free Blast-Off & Saddle Soap/Cotton Candy & Jelly Bean Emporium…sir.”
“You left off…one title…me bucko. On purpose!” even The President Of The United States must if no less than from time to time…draw a narrow bead.
“Sir?”
“You just ain’t a good thinker, are you? Maybe I’ll crumple you up and get me some other jack-ass.”
“Mr. President, I um, sir, OH I KNOW WHAT IT IS! I remember. Very well, sir.”
“There you see? Tonight, you go home; and tell your children; then you tell your wife when y’all laying in bed, fun’n me for eat’n cold soup every night: that it took me to make you a good thinker of things today. Now. What? Is? The title?”
“….contra….” so said beneath the lash: of a bully puppet.
“That. Is. Co. Rect. My friend.”
The wryest of little moments; they do sometimes yield to a surrender marked with dimples and gentle, wagging faces filled with fingers…
“Sir…”
“That’s right.” Nodding along. Bringing it all: of the cow’ home to roost.
“Mr. President…” Though they, the so many at these echelon…flush with a blush? At: high noon? In: public? Humbug: be nearer the mark.
“Whose yer dad gum dada daddio now, Smart Ass?”
“Sir. I do…find myself to be at times flown upon your ample; histrionic wings from time to time. And pleasantly so” Satisfaction, so born as such we will paint with a wide, sloppy brush, “But you know as well as I do. The house has been signing resolutions for 125yrs now, they’re stacked up, sir, over at his marble shrine to Right Wing American Capitalism; and, we are yet, still to this day, unable to sign a single, red blooded American willing to handle his charge, sir. And your ‘hug a wet back today/do it for America’ program has itself been a little wobbly on take off. And so…‘Contra’, Mr. President, is not to be found as yet, on any sign anywhere near to his memory, sir, for low these many years now…” with a gentle wag of a finger of his own, “And I rather suspect that you know this, sir, to be the case. Yes?”
“YOU’RE GOD DAMN RIGHT I DO!” Crescendo. Spun with snake eyes, “And that’s just the way we’re going to keep it. Off the freaking: sign, Cornwall. Forever. ”
“Yes, Mr. President.” So said with a giddy up click. Or two.
“That Reagan delivered a line better than Richard Harris, Richard Burton, and Richard Simmons all rolled into one. ‘All the world is a stage’; that’s the one thing that fairy footed faggot hit right on the top the nail, dad gum it!”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Now. What’s all this fuck’n bullshit about a rainforest? There had better not be a fuck’n rainforest or I’ll be knock’n me some pointy-fuck’n-heads pronto, tonto.”
“Sir.” Whispering, “It is incumbent upon me to impress upon you that children are present, and, and sir, that the microphone is near, sir. Always too near, Mr. President.”
“Fuck’em! They ain’t got a dog in this race anyhow. That dad gum rainforest had better…”
“Mr. President…let me put your mind at ease.”
“Well alright, Cornwall. Let the mind-easing begin, ole son.”
“This particular Brazilian Cartel, sir, they’re ordnance, they are returned to sender/addressees’ postmarked: Jump Street, Brasilia, Brazil, c/o USA.” Said with the trailing wisps of a hiss-like, snaky phonic what pleases The President Of The United States Of America…today.
“Um hmm. So that’s where the checks have been going?”
“Yes, sir.”
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