Obama Seeks Scapegoat for Hurricane Fiona,
A very strange thing happened to Payne Hertz, the 96-year-old who sometimes substitutes for Ol’ Rajjpuut on those ultra-rare occasions when Rajjpuut has a chance “to get lucky,” ‘er, finds himself with a schedule conflict. You might recall the fine interview that Hertz did with the polar bear** hunter Al Gore . . . .
naturally, we’ll let the elderly gent speak for himself . . . .
It happened this way, I had just left one of my gal’ friends’ apartment about 4:00 in the morning when a couple of juvenile d’s accosted me next to my Pierce-Arrow. They wanted to shake me down, but I was in too good a mood all full of p’ ‘n vinegar to surrender my dignity right then. Of course I pulled out my trusty pack of cards and, using the ancient Monte Carlo martial art form of Stri-chi-baccarat, disabled the taller of the two with a quick Jack of Diamonds to the right temple and a trey of Spades to his right knee which dropped him like yesterday’s bowel movement and was firing the niner of hearts full speed at his friend's lower midsection (technically in Stri-chi it’s called a "collateral damage appendectomy") when the tire iron he’d swung connected a glancing blow with my balding pate . . . as I fell, I could see through fuzzy vision he was worse off than me, but than I lost consciousness . . .
Suddenly it was bright daylight, I found myself occupying the body of a much younger, taller and stupider man. I was on a golf course, that much was obvious. And then I saw that my golfing pard with his putter in his hand was none other than the president of the United States Barack Obama. Talk about a shocker!
I looked into the mirror of the cart and another surprise, the man that looked back at me was Brian Williams, the cub reporter who is somehow anchoring at NBC . . . an incredible revulsion grabbed me and I found my new body projectile-vomiting . . . luckily a couple of secret service guards stepped between me and the president and protected him from my disgust. I dropped back weakly into my seat.
They paused the game for about three minutes while I swigged down some bottled water after rinsing my mouth and felt better. We had only three holes to play and let me tell you that being in the body of a younger man was great . . . I outdrove him on all three holes and outplayed him (what a frigging duffer!) badly and then discovered apparently we’d had a hundred dollar bet. Apparently we’d played several times and he thought he owned me I guess, because he called my a “racist basta-d”, then smiled like it was a joke as he handed me ol’ Ben Franklin, but I could see he was plenty sore.
Anyhow, the real surprise was passing a newspaper vending machine about ten yards before the clubhouse. I could see the date was September 15th, somehow I’d leaped twenty days into the future besides being in the body of a liberal-slanting cub reporter. Anyway, we retired to the 19th hole and despite the secret service men reminding him that Muslims don’t drink and that he had four state functions scheduled for the rest of the day, he downed about five Miss Piggy Cocktails (I thought Muslims didn’t do pork either?) before he’d even deign to talk to me. No matter, I was preoccupied and too busy for him anyway. Was wondering about how to arrange getting to use my new body with the cocktail waitress I was flirting up . . . nobody was around, just the seven of us, the four secret service agents saw to that . . . just me and Ol’ Poor Sport was allowed in there with this gorgeous auburn-haired . . . .
Suddenly, he sneered, “Your chance to make me look good, Bry-boy!” Which apparently meant he’d allow me to ask him a few questions. I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, get myself oriented to the hapnin's of the last twenty days and get him in the mood with some easy ones first . . . .
Q: “Mr. President, how would you describe your administration’s accomplishments for the past twenty days? And how do you feel about them?
He glared at me, for a couple seconds.
A: “I’ve told everybody and you should know better, Bri, I’m not answering questions about the problems we’ve had with disaster relief.”
Suddenly, the newspaper headlines I’d seen made sense. Apparently the names Earl, Fiona and Gaston were the names of three tropical storms, maybe even hurricanes. Now I really did want to get on his good side for at least a couple of questions . . . .
Q: “You know me, Mr. President, I need to get the true picture . . . so that when I slant the story in your behalf, it’s ah . . . it’s got the necessary congruency . . .”
A: Sorry, Bri, must be the drinks, for a moment there I thought I was with Bill O’reilly or Glenn Beck, of course I know you’re in my camp . . . OK . . . OK . . . well, as you know the administration line is that we’re very disappointed in this Gaston scandal thing.”
Q: “Gaston scandal . . . thing?”
A: “Yes, yes, we didn’t think that the meterologists would make such a big deal about a little change like Robby Gibbs was using in his press conferences . . .”
Q: “Little change, Mr. President”
A: “You know calling the third major hurricane to pound the Atlantic Seaboard . . . G.W., that’s really not all that much to ask . . . I mean the storm might have been named 'Gaston-Wilbur,' you know and so G.W. seemed natural enough, but then all those weather people got in a big huff.”
Q: “Wow! I mean I can see how that would upset you, Mr. President . . .”
A: “I mean the whole country seemed very understanding -- even though our response was a lot slower than it was for Katrina and Rita -- when I explained that if George W. Bush hadn’t delayed all the vital global warming counter-activity so terribly long we’d have a cooler globe and everyone of the hurricanes wouldn’t be so violent, I mean category-4 twice and then a -three, that’s pretty rough.”
Q: “You blamed George W. Bush for all three hurricanes! ‘er, I mean to say, Mr. President. When you blamed him didn’t your media support stick with you as you expected?”
A: Well, of course, we neo-marxists understand each oth^^ . . . .
Then, as suddenly as I’d been wisked into Brian Williams’ body I found myself lying on the concrete back in New York twenty days earlier with a doozy of a headache and the still bodies of two bloody juvenile delinquents near me . . . . I know it sounds like I’m stretching the truth, but I’ll swear to it. I only regret that I never got to know that little waitress better . . . .
Well, thank you PH, good job under unusual circumstances . . . now do you readers understand why Rajjpuut never takes a vacation?
Ya’all live long, strong and ornery,
** recently the younger Alaskan Al Gore that Hertz interviewed in the earlier blog had some bad news for his cousin the older and uglier and fatter Al Gore from Tennessee we all know and love. 1) It seems that some naturalists recently revealed that the infamous “Inconvenient Truth” scene of a polar bear floating on an ice floe was not the picture of a polar bear in distress, but to the contrary -- pretty standard operating procedure for polar bears who regularly float out 10-12 miles from shore to find the best hunting grounds for seals and 2) Alaska and Canada are both now lifting their embargoes on hunting polar bears because of the large numbers of the beasts now found all up and down the Artic Circle. The Alaskan said, “Sadly, that may turn out to be a couple of inconvenient truths for my cuz” he grunted, “ Of course, now that the hunting ban is lifted, I can operate legally piling up those bountied bear feet for my Tennessee cuz.”
^^ By the way, the Congressional Budget Office (CBO) now says that their latest forecasts of government deficits and national debt says that by 2020 half of your taxes will go for interest on the national debt and that the national debt the American public will face by 2020 will amount to more than 100% of Gross Domestic Product (GDP). The CBO says that national debt per household will rise to $150,000. Damn, that G.W. Bush anyway.