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“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/addressee’ 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.”
“And; I; do; not; want; to; hear; any fuck’n nonsense about some bullshit, scientific flim-flam/Mr. Wizard wanna-be, tree fuck’n hugg’n, Druid shit-sack of a study about wreck’n their fragile little…” Only a truly Great Man, could ever hope to shoulder such irony, let alone balance its semblance, onto the points of so many prickly pins, “…fuck’n 2” deep fuck’n compost pile of a bullshit rainforest!”
“Mr. President. There’re vast tracts of your families fortunes held in well trust with them. Sir, I myself have my: princely holdings there. Mr. President, indeed, we are all holding, Mr. President, each others holdings, sir.”
“Fucking rainforest. Damn well better not be! What was that again? Bowl-a? Peppers?”
“Bola Sete, Mr. President. Eight Ball. In: Spanish, sir. I’m sure it will all come back to you. Just like riding a bike.”
“Now you listen here. Pilgrim. Don’t you ever…presume to tell me what…why, or whether it will or will not come back to me on or off a bi-cycle. You got that?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Of: course. Never. Ever, sir.”
“Don’t we have any ‘good’ scientists in this country that are on our side, my side.”
“But of course, sir. America is renown for diverse ingenuity, necessity being the…”
“Cause the fuck’n hum come’n out’ta this fuck’n ‘eight ball’ piece’ah shit is going to my stomach. Up chuck’n chucks’ah breakfast. Leaves a bad taste, Cornwall”
“Sir, perhaps you’d care for a Tic Tac. I have them right…”
“Naw. Fuck that shit. Get me some freaking Mylanta, dad gum it.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“How do I look? Good for the rainforest?” clasped of his lapels, posing, beside Bola Sete; the both of them, The President Of The United States Of America and ‘the hole’ smiling somehow; as though effigies in marbles & stone with far away looks. Way far away. Two line drives to: left field. Over and above the tiniest slurp of a soft drink held in the hand: of a little league, home-plate defender and only then what fell ‘out if the blue’. God need bless America; cycling continuous; moment to moment while stood nearly too near for comfort and so far too near to tons upon tons of feather light nothing slurped with a hum sucking resonance disrupting the more perfect union of all things most near
“Better than that, Mr. President. Good for America, sir. And, Mr. President, if I may hasten to add, sir.”
“You didn’t say ‘mother may I’, Cornwall. But you’re going to get a pass. Just cause I know what is to follow, Cornwall. Don’t I?”
“Well then I say, sir: Then So Say All Of Us. We The People. Your Boys: Or Mine.”
“Good. That’s the way I like to hear it, Cornwall.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“So. How now, Cornwall? Where’s them samba shuffling/rainforest bastards? I feel like being caught on film.”
“Yes, Mr. President. It does seem a good day to die. Sir.”
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