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Thursday, October 10, 2013

God Bless You, Mr. Boehner

This is inspired by the brilliant commenter who has been doing fanfic of the government shutdown. His David Foster Wallace is spot-on.

Listen. John Boehner has come unstuck in time. He went to sleep one night with a bottle of whiskey beside him, a teddy bear in a glass case, a comfort and a joy. Then he woke up in a bathroom stall in a truck stop, his breath smelling of mustard gas and roses.

John Boehner said this to himself: What the fuck.

His ass, hovering above the water in the basin of the toilet, replied: Poo-tee-weet.


John Boehner remembered a fallen comrade. He remembered Newt Gingrich. Poor old Newt Gingrich, who had been run out of office for stealing a good deal of money. So it goes.


Sitting on the toilet, in the restroom in the truckstop, Boehner spied notes scrawled on the fake porcelain walls. He spied this: Shit it down. And then he spied this: You mean shut. Shut it down, not shit it down.

Boehner's ass replied: Poo-tee-weet.

His skin was the color of a Tralfamadorian. His bottle of whiskey was somewhere in the past. Boehner sat on the white toilet, his pants around his ankles like House pages, wondering how he had arrived at this moment. Wondering, of course, what Newt Gingrich was doing right now.

Newt, by the way, was on television, telling people exactly what he would do in Boehner's shoes.

So it goes.

Boehner stared at the words before him. Shit it down. Shut it down.

Pure art.

Next to the 'Shut it down' comment was this: For a good time, call the Salvation Army. Boehner considered this, and even reached for his phone. He bent down to his ankles and fished through his pants pockets. No phone. So he settled back onto the toilet seat.



Tralfamadorians were orange. He knew that. They were the color of two-day salmon left in a warm refrigerator. And they were in his mind, which was currently more busied (busy busy busy) by the graffiti in the stall than by the alien life. "My name," he said to himself, "is John Boehner. I have a penis 3 and a half inches long in the fourth dimension, and I am currently the color of a Tralfamadorian."

"And I have no idea where my whiskey is."

The last line was thrown in for comfort.


Poor old Newt Gingrich resigned because of publishing shenanigans.  He saw the wreckage of a political system he helped shut down in '95, and grabbed a book deal from it, and paid the ultimate price.



Shit it down.

Flush. Except not flush--there was no handle to flush the toilet where Boehner, orange skin and whiskeyless, sat. There was a sensor. If Boehner stood up, the toilet would flush. If he remained seated, the cloudy water in the toilet basin would remain still.

So it goes.


Shit it down. Boehner read the words. Considered them. Shit. It goes down.

Shut it down. Boehner read those words as well. Considered them.


Boehner was forced to consider his own ass.


Orange skin. Talkative ass. A toilet reluctant to flush until someone stood up. Boehner longed for the whiskey teddy bear, and he loved his new orange skin. He stared at the words on the bathroom stall, and made his decision.

His ass, again, went Poo-tee-weet.

And he remained seated, knowing there would be no flush until he stood.

Gingrich, meanwhile, continued to speak about his own government shutdown.

So it went.

1 comment:

Rachel Matteson said...

Fascinating book. Sounds like it's hilarious even from the reviews. I'm going to get one and read it soon. :)

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