A mulch of slush, mush and exhaust littered the sidewalks of DC, as if someone, wishing to grow something out of the wrappers, styrofoam, broken glass and other debris, had purposely spread what he supposed to be the appropriate fertilizer. To try and negotiate the sidewalks in light of such a horticultural hodgepodge was to do nothing less than endanger one's life and limb. You would think, though, that of all places in this the capital city of the leader of the free world, the patch of walkway in font of the Massachusetts Avenue apartment building where Asa and his lovely wife Ava lived would have been cleaned. But it wasn't. Not in this bastion of liberalism and social welfarism. Which was precisely what led to Asa's unnatural bowel activity the night of January 16th and, in turn, to a constitutional amendment banning any government leader from ever residing or working anyplace east of the Mississippi. But before we join Asa on his toilet, let's go back to mid-afternoon of that fateful day and see how the cockeyed values of a city where the ground the homeless sleep on is cleaned before the ground a patriot walks on can wreak havoc in a nation of law and order.
A sense of absolute horror filled the air as a maniac (later identified as a homeless, i.e., subversive, person) sprang as if from nowhere into the speeding path of the President's limousine and was thrown thirty feet into the air. Before he had time to land, the Secret Service was upon him and he had been pinned to the ground. With his expiring breath, he whispered the word "Horseturd." The word was at once sent to the CIA, where a team of experts was immediately set to work trying to decipher its cryptic meaning. Even before the CIA had put it into their cryptographic computer, nicknamed "Little Cryppie," the entire left wing (which is to say, every DC public official, plus a third of the Congress) had publicly blasted the President for the careless driving habits of his chauffeur - a fact not lost on Asa, who had recently been cited by the American Society of Subversive Watchers and Spy Handlers (dubbed ASS WASH by its unholier critics) for his "Uncanny ability to spot a subversive behind every tree." Not only that, but he was able to discern the pets of subversives simply by observing which leg they lifted to urinate and what type of tree they preferred.
"When the President of the United States has to watch out for every stray bum - on his own streets! - it is high time for a change of venue," Asa remarked upon seeing the report on the After School and Before Supper Newsbreak, the very newscast cited by the President's Commission on Latch Key Kids as a "positive tool for keeping youngsters out of the street and in front of the TV."
Ava, also watching the Newsbreak, was most disturbed by her husband's comment. Thinking he meant to blame the abundance of homeless people on her selection for his dinners, Ava vowed to sign up for a cooking class - a most ill-conceived idea in light of the subsequent mass poisoning of the United States Congress. In truth, she may well have abandoned this project had Asa not sent her to the grocer's Tuesday evening.
"Dearest," said Asa to the little woman, "Magruders is having a nice sale on red-white-and-blue Popsicles. Would you be so good as to go down there and get some?"
Ava was speechless. "Tuesday?" she thought to herself over and over as she got her hat, coat, galoshes and handbag together. "He wants me to go to the store on Tuesday? Not Thursday, when he always sends me: Thursday, his night to go potty? But why? What can it mean? Another woman? Another movement? Or is it because my menus have put bums on every street corner? Oh God, give me strength to sort this all out!" The poor woman was dumbfounded - yet dare not ask what this was about lest she appear to be questioning her husband's instructions. So she silently and diligently got ready and went off to Magruder's. And now, at last, we can join Asa on his Massachusetts Avenue toilet - after which we'll need to witness an important news broadcast concerning Ava's near rape by a lesbian work crew.
Asa fell flat on his ass outside his apartment; he had tracked in some ice from the unclean sidewalk and slipped on the slick tile flooring. Immediately he felt a sloshing in his bowels, and he knew what had happened: the fall had loosened some fecal matter from a developing stool, which in turn released some trapped gas into the anal canal. He knew he'd be in for a rocky night - and much worse: a subversive night.
Indeed, Ava had scarcely closed the door behind her when Asa made for the toilet. He no sooner sat down than a blast of gas sent a shock wave through his apartment - "loud enough to wake the dead" according to subsequent reports. Following fast was a series of smaller blasts - eight or nine in all, depending on the report - culminating in a loud plop and a telltale odor that lingered for several hours.
Asa nearly passed out from all this activity - indeed, had he not grabbed hold of the toilet paper holder, he might well have tumbled from his seat onto the floor. He lingered in a dazed condition several minutes before finally regaining his composure, after which he got up and proceeded from the bathroom. But he had forgotten to use toilet paper - and this, perhaps more than anything else, was responsible for moving the seat of government: had there been no clear evidence of Asa's indiscretion, the CIA might never have placed him under house arrest for treason, which in turn might never have uncovered a plot by the DC City Council to substitute homeless panhandlers for the President of the United States and his Cabinet. But this is far too important a matter to be trusted to amateurs, so let's go at once to the evening special simulcast, where your very favorite sitcom is being interrupted so that you may be apprised of the absolute most up-to-the-minute update of the day's news.
"Asa falls," the headline is being read to a stunned audience, who suddenly do not resent having their favorite sitcom interrupted. Schlicter P. Mickterman, that "anchor with the oh-so-unpronounceable middle-name" looks you right in the eye to inform you how a man of Asa's stature could conceivably suffer such a fall. "Ice was blamed for the incident," Schlicter says. "It seems the city forgot to scrape Mass Avenue. Sources tell us Asa blacked out in his bathroom after having a particularly nasty bowel movement and doesn't recall a thing. Sources also tell us the CIA has been called in to investigate. Now this."
A discreetly attired matron is motioning you to come closer to your TV. Assured that you've complied, she whispers in your ear. "Is your doggie bothered by constipation? Or even worse, by a stool too big for him to pass? If so, you know how frustrating that can be -for him and you. Now there's something you can do about it. You no longer need struggle trying to coax him to strain a little harder at stool. Now there's Poop-a-Doop. Just feed one of these biologically active strings to your doggie each day and - presto! - you can pull out even the most stubborn stool. And for smaller pets - hamsters, white mice, guinea pigs - now there's Mini-Doop, just as good as our regular size only tailored for much smaller intestines. Poop-a-Doop. By the makers of Laxi-Tacks. For those 'embarrassing moments' in a dog's life. Use only as directed."
So now you've heard it - from Schlicter P. Mickterman no less: the CIA has been called in to determine if Asa's soiled linens are in any way related to any of the literally thousands of subversive plots on file in the Agency's three and a half story computer programmed to detect even the slightest deviation from Absolute Patriotism (nicknamed "Pat" by its programmer). And - lo and behold! - it found a match, in less than thirty-six nano seconds!
A member of the DC City Council had written an essay in college titled "Of Horseshoes, Horseflies and Horseturds," a most unfortunate choice of a title, for it had already been matched with the mysterious word the dying beggar had used, which had been summarily fed into Pat by Little Cryppie: Little Cryppie and Pat were the best of friends, both having survived the ravages of a recent viral infection; they communicated almost daily, and marveled at each other's endowments. "I've never seen floppy discs as big as yours," Little Cryppie would say. "Oh, there are bigger ones," Pat would respond, adding that Little Cyrppie had "just about the nicest little pair of diodes I've ever seen."
Within hours, the member of the DC City Council, whose essay had been deciphered as a plot to assemble an army of panhandlers on horseback to take over the nation's capital, was placed under house arrest.
"A wise move," Asa commended the CIA chargé d'affairs, whose special skills had been brought to bear on this entire matter. "And if you'd be so good as to do the same for me, I'll rest a little easier tonight, knowing the country's in safe hands."
"You wish to be arrested?" the shocked chargé inquired.
"Indeed I do," Asa replied. "Any man who does on a Tuesday what God intended him to do on Thursday could be a very grave threat to the security of this great nation of ours. If any part of a man commits a subversive act, the entire man becomes suspect and must be detained at all costs. If not, then Patriotism has no earthly meaning."
The chargé let out a little scream upon hearing this. "Patriotism...no meaning," he muttered in disbelief.
"Not if a man can move his bowels willy-nilly and get off Scot free!" Asa declared.
"Even a man like you?"
"Any man!" Asa insisted.
"Well, I'm sure glad I don't move mine willy-nilly, or on Tuesday," a relieved chargé expressed. "I do my four times a week and that's that."
Without a word, Asa went to the telephone and dialed the Director of the CIA. "This is Asa," the Director was informed. "The job at hand - arresting a subversive - requires somebody a little more patriotic than the man you sent. Meanwhile, I am making a citizen's arrest of both myself and your chargé d'affairs. You will find us together locked in my bedroom." An innocent enough statement, entirely forthright and the very stuff of patriotism - yet what a horrendous mockery was made of it when the chargé's suicide note was read on the evening news of January 18th. A most careless man, he spilled a whole bottle of peroxide on the note while dying his pubic hairs just before jumping naked from his fourteenth floor window onto the pavement of P Street Northwest.
"Being locked in the bedroom with a man like Asa has taught me things I never believed possible. I realize I am unworthy to be called a patriot - not alongside a man so blessedly endowed with patriotism. So, subversive that I am, I must die. Yours truly, etc." The sense of the letter was dissolved in peroxide; what remained was a shocking confession of "sex for secrets." But before we hear the sordid details of an illicit tryst which even the supermarket tabloids refused to report, let's go to Magruders', with Ava, and see how that fine woman's wifely duty almost became her undoing.
The snow had settled on the girders and crossbeams of the newest mega-purpose building in downtown DC. It was being built by a minority contractor, the Sisters of Gertrude Stein, with matching funds provided by the National Endowment for the Humanities; when finished, it would house a permanent exhibit of Gertrude Stein memorabilia, plus the recipes of Alice B. Toklas, in addition to office and retail space. The terms of the contract specified a minimum of twenty-five percent lesbians be hired to complete the job. The construction crew was tough, well-seasoned and full of mischief. When they saw Ava walking toward the site, they decided to have a little fun.
"Hey girls," the crew foreman said, with a wink, "let's pretend we're guys, and put on a wolf show for this broad."
"Who would ever take us for guys?" someone asked.
"Hey: what have we got to lose? Come on. Let's have some fun. Where's the harm in it?"
Indeed! Where is the harm in a near gang-of-lesbian rape of a woman the Archbishop of Washington himself declared "the next saint, if the term has any meaning."
"Hey lady!" the foreman called to Ava, who at once clutched her handbag and muttered a quick prayer. The others joined in, taking turns whistling and expressing their enthusiastic and heartfelt adoration for "such a hot little woman!"
When she could bear their advances no more, Ava ran down Mass Avenue, screaming for the police. She spied one and ran up to him. "Oh please help me, officer, I'm being raped!" she cried.
"Hey lady," the patrolman responded, "can't you see I'm issuing parking citations?" and returned to his police work. By now, the lesbians were fast upon her.
"Uh-oh," whispered one of them, "the cops!"
"He ain't watching us!" replied the foreman, in a normal tone of voice. "Can't you see he's got six more cars to cite?"
"I don't know," the skeptic persisted.
"Watch," the foreman instructed as she approached the patrolman. "Hey officer," she called, "me and my buddies here are fixin' to rob that there store over there. We got us some guns too. We might just blow the cashier away."
"Can't you see I'm busy?" the patrolman responded brusquely, without looking up.
By now a desperate Ava, realizing that nothing could save her from certain gang rape, darted across the street in a last ditch effort to escape her pursuers. At that very moment a limousine sped down Mass Avenue from Embassy Row, heading straight for the jaywalking Ava; and would most certainly have hit her had the passenger not yelled to the driver to stop the car at once. The limousine came to a halt just inches from colliding with Ava. The rear door opened and out jumped - of all people - the First Lady!
"Ava!" she called. "Are you hurt?"
"No," a grateful Ava called back. "Thank goodness you arrived when you did or I'd have been raped by the most dreadful group of women I've ever laid eyes on!"
"Oh my God! You must be terrified! Come, get in, and I'll drive you to the hospital."
Once safely inside, Ava heaved a great sigh and the First Lady reached up front to slap the chauffeur upside his head. "You almost ran over this dear woman!" she chided. "Is no one safe on our streets anymore?"
"I can answer that," said Ava. "No. No one is safe. Not so long as gangs of lesbians run free."
The First Lady took Ava to the Bethesda Naval Hospital, where the doctors found no evidence of her having been molested. "Thank God," said Ava.
"But tell me," the First Lady asked on the way back, "why were you out on a Tuesday evening anyway?"
"Asa sent me out," Ava replied.
"Oh dear," mused the First Lady. "If this keeps up you may yet have to get some Tidy Bowl."
Of course, Ava did not mention her menus and their effect on the nation's economy: she was too ashamed to let the First Lady know how poorly she had executed her wifely duties. So she let all the blame fall on Asa's bowels.
Even so, her name came up - during a round robin hosted by the prestigious National Misinformation Clearing House and chaired by Lonnie Lee Long, Vice President and General Manager of radio station WLYE. Lonnie Lee began the discussion by throwing out the question "Asa's bowel movement: significant or not? Anyone hazard a guess?"
The first taker was Max Ralph, the syndicated columnist. "Best guess is he swallowed microfilm," Max conjectured.
"Espionage? Asa?"
"Who would ever suspect? Remember: he never once flushed the toilet - that was confirmed. And he is under house arrest for subversion. It wouldn't surprise me if they don't find a micro-dot or two when the fecal matter is examined."
"Will it be?"
"Even as we speak the evidence sits on the director's desk, awaiting his OK to be sent to the lab at Tyson's Corner."
"Anyone else?" Lonnie Lee sought other opinions.
Blake Spotch of the President's taskforce on nutrition offered that "behind every foul stool you'll find an unfair cook."
"Wait a minute: are you saying what I think you are?"
"I'm saying that the rumor is, his wife couldn't cook her way out of a cooking bag!"
"Ava?" an incredulous chair asked.
"That's right: Ava. Little ol' All-American Ava: can't even boil water without burning it! I have no doubt they'll discover evidence of poorly cooked food in Asa bowels."
"Man does not live by bread alone, don't forget!"
"In this case, that would most likely be moldy bread!"
"Oh my God," moaned Lonnie Lee. "Folks, we'll be right back after this important announcement."
"We told you the world was flat," a voiceover is complaining as some clever graphics are displayed. "You didn't believe us - correctly so, as it turned out. We told you the earth was the center of the universe. But you remained unconvinced. In truth, we've told you enough things that turned out to be wrong to fill a book. So that's exactly what we've done: filled a book. And who are we - and why are we so eminently qualified to offer you such an unusual volume? We're the National Misinformation Clearing House, and we've made untruth our specialty - our sole reason for being. We do nothing but gather misinformation; we deal in nothing but discredited ideas, theories, axioms and dogmas. And now, for the first time, in this beautifully bound hardcover edition, all the misinformation you could ever hope for is available to you, our audience, in honor of our 50th year of service to the public. At last, at your fingertips, not only the most extensive compilation of non-truths, half-truths and downright lies; but the most prestigious as well. We have, in clear, concise detail, all the major studies reaching erroneous conclusions. Burt's seminal work correlating IQ with national origin: it's here. As is Shockley and Jensen's study on intelligence and racial typing. These are just two of the many treasures you'll find in our 50th anniversary special edition. No matter how irrational the point you're trying to make, we have just the data you need to reinforce your argument. So when only the very best discredited information will do, think of us. We're the National Misinformation Clearing House. And to order your copy of Non-Facts on File, call toll free 1-962-289-2899. Operators are standing by."
"Operators" may very well be standing by; but, rest assured, that is nothing compared to the army of special agents standing guard outside Asa's front door. "Who goes there?" they demanded. Ava, not imagining they were speaking to her, looked behind to see. But seeing no one, she replied "No one."
"No one?" the army asked. "No one goes there?"
Ava looked again. "No one," she repeated.
"No one goes there," the word spread among the ranks - yet they could see Ava clearly, or thought they could. "Now wait," they reasoned in their most meticulously bureaucratic style, "if no one goes there, yet we see someone, then she must be a ghost." Almost in unison they cried out "A ghost ! A ghost goes there!" and began scattering to the four winds.
This all happened in the space of half a minute, and might well have been simply recounted as a pleasant anecdote on the Fun Filled Newsreel had it not led to the most serious loss of man-hours in the history of the Western world; because, as it turned out, Ava, too, scattered, thinking her apartment building haunted (which perfectly explained how Asa could have sent her out on a Tuesday: it wasn't Asa at all but a ghost impersonating him). She ran all the way to what she thought was the FBI Building for help; but it turned out to be the USDA Graduate School, where she was persuaded to enroll at once in a cooking class.
"You ladies are indeed ze chozen few," Chef Majesca, the teacher, explained, "for zees class has been selected to prepare all ze appetizers for next Friday's Congressional Brunch. Never before have laymen (or lay-ladies) been so honored. Bow your heads and geeve thanks to ze almighty. 'Bless zees food, which we are about to cook. Amen.'"
When the class had raised its head, chef Majesca began at once assigning dishes. "You," he announced to Ava, "ze lady who comes in here looking like she has just seen ze ghost: you, I will have make ze Peking duck - no?"
A stout-hearted Ava resisted her temptation to run screaming from this man's presence and simply said "No!" to Peking duck. "I will never be caught dead preparing so subversive a recipe!" she added, making a mental note to watch this man's every move lest he attempt to poison the House of Representatives, for clearly he was a Communist sympathizer, if not an out-and-out double agent: how else could he even know about something named for the second most subversive city on earth?
"Very well," a crestfallen chef backed down. "You can make ze Irish stew."
Irish stew? thought Ava. Not subversive at least - but still not truly patriotic. Another "No!" - this time to Irish stew .
"Then ze Hungarian goulash!"
Another Commie recipe? Ava mused. Again, "No!"
A flustered, flabbergasted and thoroughly frustrated Majesca went though a dozen unacceptable dishes before finally hitting upon one that Ava would accept.
"Ze oysters Rockefeller!" he nearly screamed at her.
Ava smiled. What in God's name could be more all-American than oysters Rockefeller? "I will cook the finest oysters Rockefeller the world has ever seen!" she said proudly, her satisfied heart saluting everything that glorious recipe stood for.
Majesca hung his head in silence. "I am ruined!" he mumbled, over and over. "Zes woman will yet be ze death of me!"
Ava proceeded at once to the kitchen to cook up mess of oysters Rockefeller. And, as the piéce de resistànce, she decided to mix a batch of red-white-and-blue dyes to color the meal appropriately (she always carried in her purse FDC Red No. 5, Blue No. 3 and basic white just in case the need arose).
And while Ava was preparing a brunch which would change the course of Western civilization, Asa was changing his undergarments and placing his soiled ones in the hamper.
"Halt!" an agent commanded. "What are you doing?"
"I'm putting these in the hamper," Asa explained.
"They're soiled!" the agent countered. "Shouldn't they go in the trash?"
Asa at once picked up the phone and requested another guard. "It is not in the best interest of the United States to have a subversive watched by another subversive," he insisted.
When the new guard was brought and the old guard arrested, Asa was asked how he came to realize the guard was a subversive. "He suggested I throw my undergarments in the trash," Asa responded. "Yet - as with everything I own - they are 100% made in America and, as such, they should be buried when they become unusable, not discarded. Only a subversive would recommend throwing items made in America in the trash can."
The agents could only marvel at Asa's mental acuity, as could the CIA's Soiled Garment Specialist when the lead-lined cylinder containing the undergarments arrived on his desk, along with a brief note detailing the method and safeguards employed in getting them from Asa's hamper to the cylinder - and the events surrounding their having been soiled. "I'd give my firstborn to be able to spot subversives the way Asa can!" the Specialist mused as he placed the cylinder into the cold storage unit.
Yes, well he might - and well they all might - marvel at Asa's uncanny abilities and even envy him for them; but, above all else, in light of the most incredibly bizarre chain of events ever to befall a patriot's undergarments - events which brought the world to the very brink of all out war - they must surely despair at having those special abilities under house arrest just when they were most desperately needed. For, within twenty-four hours of placing the soiled undergarments in cold storage, the Specialist returned to discover them gone. Not only that, but the stool sample disappeared from the lobby of the CIA building, where it was on display in a refrigerated glass case.
Fortunately for the American public, the news media was not long getting wind of this latest development in what had already become the cause celebré of the winter season. So let's go at once to the prestigious Category News Network, where the story is just now breaking on CNN's Excremental Vision Hour.
From out of a very dark setting, a voice commences speaking. "Good evening," it announces, "and welcome once again to the Excremental Vision. The Soiled News of the Day. The stories a little too indiscreet to be told on other newscasts. And here are your anchors: Do-Do and Don't."
Two extremely somber gentlemen enter from what appears to be the door of an outhouse. They are Do-Do and Don't. Do-Do is the main anchor, Don't the number two man. They bow and proceed at once to the news desk to give you the latest poop. Do-Do leads off with the top story of the day. "When Asa farts, the CIA listens," he informs you. "And when he goes potty, it's every man for himself. He's under house arrest at this very moment for being an excremental subversive. And somewhere out there is an excremental saboteur." His co-anchor takes the ball now. "That's right," says Don't. "If you were planning to go see Asa's stool in the lobby of the CIA headquarters, make other plans. Because you won't find it there. It's gone. Stolen. And we've just learned that his soiled undergarments have also been lifted from the CIA's cold storage vault. At present there are no clues to either the identity of the thief, or thieves, or to the reason for the theft. All of which leads one to ask: is it for the purpose of subversion - or perversion? We'll keep you posted as events unfold."
Asa, hearing this abominable report, at once picked up the phone and dialed the CIA. "Please have the co-anchors who were just on TV investigated. Anyone who would suggest that a patriot's underclothes could possibly be used for perversion must be in the employ of our nation's sworn enemies."
No sooner had Asa hung up when the phone rang. It was the President on the line. "That was heavy stuff," he told Asa. "But don't have a shit-fit over it - oops: wrong choice of words! Sorry."
"A very wrong choice of words indeed, Mr. President," Asa chided. "Even as a subversive, I'm fully aware of the true and only purpose of language, Mr. President."
"Which is?" the President prompted.
"To glorify one's country, of course," Asa informed his caller. "And your words, Mr. President, were so far shy of that mark that I shall be forced to refuse all communication with you until such time as the First Lady has properly washed your mouth with soap."
With this, Asa hung up, leaving a thunderstruck Chief Executive facing both an empty line and the prospect of having to run the richest, freest, most powerful nation on earth without the aid of its greatest living patriot - even if a dark cloud did at present hang over that patriot's head. There was only one thing to be done.
"Oh dearest!" the President called. "Can you please come here - and bring a bar of soap too!"
Presently, the First Lady appeared. "Where's the soap?" she was asked.
"I couldn't find any. I don't know where it's kept - and I've given the maid the night off," the First Lady replied. "I think we have some Tidy Bowl."
"No," the President said, "it wouldn't be right for the President of the United States to wash his mouth with Tidy Bowl. We'll have to go get some."
"I'll have the car brought around," the First Lady offered.
"No, I don't feel much like dodging all those construction people and potholes and what-not. Tell you what: let's take the chopper."
"Do you know how to fly it?"
"How difficult can it be?"
"True," the First Lady admitted; "you were always mechanically inclined. I'll just get my fur and we'll be off."
The helicopter, piloted by the President, un-piloted by the First Lady, made it to Magruders' without incident, where a bar of Ivory was purchased. On the way back, however, the President took a wrong turn and ended up, instead of in the Rose Garden, on the roof of a rather run-down building in Southeast DC - a building which turned out to be a soup kitchen. The roof, unfortunately, would not support the chopper's weight and it caved in.
"We're losing altitude!" cried the First Lady.
Luckily for its occupants, the chopper landed on a table, which broke its fall. Unluckily for the panhandlers seated around the table eating soup, the helicopter blade was still whirling, and managed to decapitate each and every one.
"Oh dear," cried the First Lady. "There's something wrong with this airplane. It's not supposed to cut people's heads off, is it?"
The President thought a moment. "I've seen them do it in movies," he noted, adding that it wasn't "just grade B movies either, but good ones."
"Then we won't have to put it in the shop for repairs?"
"I shouldn't think so."
"Oh, thank God!" exclaimed a relieved First Lady, who knew perfectly well that the chopper would have been out of commission at least a week if it had had to be put in the shop (to say nothing of their exorbitant charges).
The President of the United States soon located the chopper's reverse gear and flew it back through the roof and on home to the White House, resolved to find out why anyone would put a heliport on top of a soup kitchen. "It's an accident just waiting to happen," he told Asa when he called to inform him that his mouth had been cleansed and took the time to relate the bizarre incident.
"Oh," replied Asa, "I think you'll discover it's no accident, but the calculated work of a master spy."
"You think so?" asked an incredulous President.
"Yes, I do. It's all beginning to fall into place at last. I may very soon have to escape my captivity, but for now I'll just let it ride."
"That's exactly what I did with the chopper - and you see what happened!" the President cautioned.
"Yes, I see what happened alright: you unwittingly uncovered what may quite possibly be the most sinister plot to overthrow our government ever conceived!"
"'The most sinister plot to overthrow our government ever conceived!'"? How can that be? Yet Asa said it - and no one can doubt his uncanny sense of subversion. But surely not more sinister than the infamous April Fools Day March Hare forced march of patriots who were duped into thinking it the Boston Marathon and ended up in Boston Harbor? Or the Mad Hatter Tea Party, during which nearly one hundred super-patriots were served brownies laced with LSD and had to be lobotomized (luckily, the operations were successful and not one whit of their patriotic fervor was lost) - more sinister than that? Apparently so. But just in case you doubt Asa's judgment now that he is himself under a cloud of suspicion, take heed of what the ultra prestigious ultra conservative maxi-patriotic Behind the Scenes Newscast has to say on the subject.
The Behind the Scenes Newscast, where the decision makers report the events they will allow to become News, and for how long these events will be Newsworthy, and how strongly they will be allowed to influence public opinion. The Behind the Scenes Newscast, when the movers and shakers of history step from their control booths into the limelight to give you the official version of what is happening and what is important in your world, so that you need give it no further thought. So sit back and relax in perfect assurance that the world's events are being scrupulously monitored by the best minds your broadcast industry has to offer.
These nabobs, Brahmins, muckety-mucks, Pharisees and other elite of the broadcasting hierarchy are peering out at you now through the monitors almost as though you bear some complicity for the events they are about to relate - and, indeed, you may, who knows?
"The homeless are in the news again," you are being informed. "Of late, they have been so quiet we thought they had disappeared. But they're back. And if reports reaching us are true, they almost succeeded in kidnapping the President and First Lady."
"Yes," another nabob takes the ball from the first; "Air Force II, the Presidential helicopter, was nearly downed by a pack of radical panhandlers. There's some vagueness as to what actually happened; reports are sketchy; but as far as we can reconstruct it, the copter was hijacked and forced to fly to Southeast DC, to a soup kitchen, where the radicals were waiting below with some sort of utensils - knives perhaps - in their hands. The President, however, managed to wrestle control of the chopper from the hijackers and fly all the way back to the Rose Garden. Somehow or another - and we're not quite sure how - the hijackers, along with their fellow conspirators in the soup kitchen, were beheaded and left for dead. In fact, all of them did die from their wounds. The CIA is investigating the incident. Now this important message."
One of the cleverest jingles the Ad Council ever had the pleasure of hearing is playing in sprightly three quarters rhythm as two men in knickers, suspenders, crisp white shirts, cravats and tams skip-to-my-lou down a super market aisle, hand in hand. "I'm Yum-Yum," says the first; "and I'm Tickle-Tum," announces the second, after which they speak as one to let you know that "we're the Bobsey Boys, and we want to tickle your tummy-tum-tum with a yummy-yum-yum from Trickle Dee-Dee. They're new. They're delish. They're exciting. They're potato-y, popcorn-y, lemon dropety, peanut butter-y, chocolate-y, raison-y, ice creamy; and they come in eighteen wonderful flavors, including cola and rum nut. We call them Tickle-Yums. And so will you too! And for that four-legged member of your fam-fam-family, there's Tickle-Yums for dogs, also in eighteen wonderful flavors - right Fido?" A big old hound dog saunters up to the monitor and barks his approval. "So there you have it: a testimonial you couldn't buy if you had a zil-zil-zillion bucks! Tickle-Yums. Now at your grocers, in the snack food section and the pet food section. Tickle-Yums. A product of high-tech research and Yankee know-how. Not for pregnant or lactating women; or those with diabetes, high blood pressure, glaucoma, pneumonia or chilblains."
So there you have it: the homeless have risen up against your government. Your worst fears have been realized. The Behind The Scenes Newscast has given the rebellion its stamp of authenticity. May God help us!
Or perhaps we won't need God's help: we have Asa, who surely now, in light of this newscast, has been thoroughly vindicated in your eyes. Let his bowels be as subversive for one night as they please, it is the man and his patriotic mission that count.
At last - at long, long last - Asa comes out of his self-imposed exile to once again take subversion by the horns. And look - just look - how close this great nation has come to chaos and anarchy in just forty-eight hours with Asa's patriotic fervor on hold.
"To the soup kitchen - and make it fast!" Asa orders the policeman whose car he has commandeered. But a funny thing happens on the way there: Asa encounters the very same group of lesbians who attempted to rape Ava - on their way, too, to the soup kitchen where the Homeless Rebellion began. And the whole thing falls into place. "Of course," Asa mutters.
The policeman mistakes what Asa has said. "Off course?" he puzzles a moment. He begins to cry, and through his tears fails to see the vagrant on the corner of Eighth and Virginia, SE, begging money. His patrol car swerves into the curb and runs the vagrant down.
"Why are you slowing down?" asks Asa.
"I just ran over a panhandler," the policeman explains.
"A panhandler? Then he can't be a patriot - so where's the harm here? And since your mission involves the utmost national security, you're well advised to make haste."
Just then, the Lesbian work crew comes from the direction of the Marine Barracks, singing "Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, it's off to work we go!"
"Follow those traitors," Asa orders. "I have a feeling they'll lead us to what we're looking for." And, sure enough, they did just that.
And at the exact moment Asa is calling for backup squad cars, Ava is serving oysters Rockefeller to the House and Senate of these United States. She gives each member of Congress one red, one white and one blue oyster. They thank her, not realizing who it was had just served them; and then take upon their plates a sample of each and every dish prepared by the other ladies of the USDA cooking class, topping it all off with a chef d'oeuve by Majesca himself. Within an hour every single diner has been rushed to DC General with symptoms of acute food poisoning. It was then that the final piece of this horrible puzzle of subversion fell into place, for it was then that a routine Secret Service check of the members of the USDA cooking class revealed the sordid details of Chef Majesca's anti-American existence. Majesca was actually a woman, who had had her sex altered, which in turn made her a statutory lesbian.
But before we attend to the pivotal newscast which brought this information before the public, let us go to the weather center of station TART for a look at the latest update: after all, the weather precipitated this entire episode, so perhaps it will be the weather which brings it full circle. Sabrina, the weather vixen, is decked out to the max this evening in a particularly alluring outfit; her bosom (dubbed "most likely to draw lightening from the clouds" by the American Meteorological Society) prominently displayed for the weather buffs watching her evening report in hopes of catching some weather tips. She wets her lips and tosses her head back before informing you just what you can expect tonight.
"I'm so hot," she confides, "who would guess it's only 20 degrees outside? Not only that: it's going down to single digits tonight. And speaking of going down to single digits tonight, I'll be all alone in that great big queen size vibrating water bed with satin sheets glistening beneath the mirrored ceiling tiles of my boudoir. It'll be clear tonight, but I know I won't see any stars: I'll be lying naked with the covers drawn up to my nipples. And tomorrow? You won't believe your senses! Because it's supposed to turn suddenly hot - I mean sultry, sweaty, roll in the hay hot! An enormous heat wave is poised to thrust its way into the DC metro area around eleven A.M. Of course, I won't notice it. I'll be relaxing in a hot oil bath, just dreaming about the weather and being together again tomorrow evening. So until then, don't do anything weather-wise I wouldn't do!"
As Sabrina fades, a public service announcement comes on. You are being called upon once again by the DC City Council to do your humanitarian duty. If you have any old dildos, vibrators, porno magazines, lacey underclothes, unused condoms or any other naughty paraphernalia you'd like to get rid by, or simply are willing to part with, please turn them in to the DC Treasurer at the convenient drop box located in front of the DC Courthouse. They are desperately needed. Because the city's homeless would like to have a little fun too. All items are fully deductible and will be distributed to the needy this coming Saturday at the soup kitchen in Southeast DC. It may seem like a little to you, but to some sex starved homeless wretch it'll mean so much. Thank you, and may God bless.
So the weather will be hot (you have that on good authority); and the horniest of the homeless will soon have appropriate toys and paraphernalia; and Asa has taken up vigil outside the soup kitchen in Southeast DC. All hell is about to break loose. But there's still time (there's always time!) to go first to the TV for an earth shattering news report. This one is being broadcast from the Ritz Room of Station SNOB in upper Georgetown.
The Hoity-Toity Hour (for an educated elite only - please!). And if you have to ask when we come on, you haven't the leisure to watch nor the intellect to comprehend. And you certainly haven't the means to purchase the many fine products we advertise! So unless you're one of the elite, please tune back to your game show, or whatever it is you do to occupy your time.
"Hullo," the anchor greets you, "Stewart van Stewartston here. This evening I'm wearing an off-blue cashmere blazer which, I'm sorry to say, I paid $700.00 for - it's a steal, but you know me: never could resist a bahgain! And my cravat, of couhse, is pure silk, at $25.00 an ounce. My shirt is from the Brahmin collection. My shoes - oh, how I do wish you could see them! - are hand sews pigskin and calfskin; they cost $1200.00. My trousers, however, which mercifully you cannot see, are a mere $75.00 - I grabbed my gardening slacks in error, silly me! So now that the amenities are out of the way, let's get to the news. We have a harrowing report out of the USDA. Oh, by the by, should any of you...little people out there...happen to be watching (though we certainly do not encourage it) you may turn back to your Space Invaders; this does not concern you. Anyway, it would appear that Majesca, whose delicacies have graced many of our tables, has led a double life - for years, it would seem. Oh, there's some business about his actually being a her and all that nonsense; even something involving espionage. But the real story, the sheer horror of this infamous rogue, is that he/she has been secretly working after hours in a Southeast DC soup kitchen - a soup kitchen of all things! The very self same chef who prepared our gourmet entrees had just come from the grease and goo of a soup kitchen, or so it would appear! How gauche - how tasteless - how insensitive and unfeeling! What a vile wretch! A beast - a veritable beast, in the garb of an international chef! To think anyone would go near such a place before touching our food! Rather harrowing, knowing one of your servants has done double duty in service to the masses! Now this word from our sponsor."
A well dressed man comes into view. He holds a delinquent notice. There is a look of disgust on his face. "Have you gotten one of these lately? A disconnect notice from Pepco? Needless to say I'm not talking about - or to - poor people, who simply haven't the money to pay. I'm speaking to those decent members of society who have plenty of money but simply forgot, or were done a disservice by a careless accountant. How do you address this affront to your dignity and worth? How do you let Pepco know it is in grave error confusing you with a nobody? Here's how: Give us a call. We're the National Aristocratic Union, and we're here to serve you, the wealthy, upstanding members of society. Our sole purpose for being is to see to it that you're never subjected to the indignities that are the proper lot of the underclass. So if Pepco fails to recognize you for who and what you are, we'll set them straight in very short order. Call us. We're here to help."
So, not only is Majesca a master spy and a lesbian impersonator, he is also a bogus gourmand who willy-nilly jeopardizes his patrons' taste and health with germs and what-not carried from Southeast to Georgetown. Little wonder, then, that the Congress of these United States, so innocently un-immune to dirt and vileness, has come down en masse with ptomaine. (The lab reports purporting to trace the poisoning to the strange dyes in the oysters Rockefeller were so clearly an attempt to cover up Majesca's fiendish plot that the lab was quarantined by the CIA and its staff sent to work in the oilfields of Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. Because justice, in the service of patriotism, is, was and ever will be done, as we shall see when we join Asa at the soup kitchen in Southeast DC, where he is directing a SWAT attack on that bastion of subversion and espionage.)
"Be on the lookout," Asa is cautioning the SWAT team, "subversives are partial to red maples, and I see a stand of them, so more than likely there are a few behind them!"
Just then the lesbian work crew emerged from the very same stand of red maples Asa had pointed out. The SWAT team raised its weapons. "Don't fire till you see the reds of their eyes!" Asa advised. Well, as luck (the perverse luck of the un-American!) would have it, the lesbians were having a Murine and Visine party in the little grove just behind the trees; so of course they had gotten the red out just in time to escape retribution at the hands of patriotic Americans. Nonetheless, they were rounded up and charged with possession of dangerous and illicit drugs (even eye drops can be classified as contraband when used by subversives). Later, they were tried for misusing wholesome family products and sentenced to life imprisonment in the Federal Maximum Security Center for Men (and the world's a much safer place for it too!).
Meanwhile, the lesbian subversives safely in custody, Asa and the SWAT team enter the soup kitchen. And what they see would be enough to sicken ordinary mortals; but the SWAT team has seen it all and, of course, Asa is a patriot with a mission so nothing phases him.
Right there, in the middle of the soup line, an orgy is going on. Sexual paraphernalia is being handed out right and left (especially left!) to bums, vagrants and panhandlers all too eager for the vile wares collected by the DC City Council.
"Who'll have a two-headed dildo?" the city government employee in charge of dispensation asks. "Me!" "Me!" "No, me!" "I'll have it!" several cry out simultaneously. "What about this set of red-white-and-blue condoms?" The place went wild with delight.
Next came the most hideously perverse sight any human being on this planet has ever had to endure. A full blown male dummy emerged from the hopper; on him, barely covering his enormous erection, was a pair of soiled underpants. Asa's soiled underpants. The vile beast donning the pants had a permanent grin on its face and had been wired for speech: "Hi," it was supposed to say, "I'm Bruce, and I'm hung like a horse. Turn down the covers and turn me over and I'll turn you on!" But the mechanism producing its voice had been damaged; so when the button was pressed, its message came out garbled: "i...I...ruce...a...mung...ike...horseturd" was what it said, then it began a low moan which built to a crescendo, followed by a sudden wettening of the crotch of the underpants; then it stopped. Everyone gasped upon hearing that cryptic word which had been so much in the news lately - that infamous blasphemous word "Horseturd" - the very word Little Cryppie and Big Pat had communicated back and forth almost hourly for the past three days trying to decipher. The word that was the key to this entire puzzle which had brought the free world to the very brink of chaos.
Just then, one of the most bizarre things since time began happened. The side door of the soup kitchen opened and a woman walked in; and at that very moment a sudden burst of air sent Bruce flying across the room into the arms of the visitor, shrieking its garbled message in seven eighths time - "i...I...ruce...a...mung...ike...horseturd!" - three times before falling in a heap at her feet, panting wildly.
This woman, this visitor horrified by the attempted rape, was none other than Ava, who had just come from the Capitol Rotunda after serving red-white-and-blue oysters Rockefeller to the Congress of the United States of America. She was taken at once to the hospital to be examined for signs of rape. Fortunately, the dummy's enormous organ had burst before it could penetrate; so Ava's virtue was assured.
The SWAT team became so incensed by the attack, however, that it mowed down every remaining panhandler in that soup kitchen - that infamous den of subversion and espionage; then it fanned out into the other parts of the city, conducting a systematic search and destroy mission. It was awarded the Medal of Honor en masse for almost single-handedly saving the country from the homeless: a subsequent CIA white paper report confirmed that, indeed, the homeless had plotted the overthrow of our government by first having their chief cook and bottle washer, Majesca, poison the Congress and then substituting themselves for the people's elected representatives. Furthermore, Asa's idea vis-à-vis relocating the seat of government was unanimously approved. A resolution banning all political leaders from residing or working anyplace east of the Mississippi passed both Houses and was signed by the President, to become effective "the very instant funds are allocated."
It was learned, incidentally, that the rapist dummy Bruce was not actually the ringleader of the terrorist group, as at first suspected, but merely its dupe. How he got Asa's soiled underpants no one knew, but traces of fecal matter subsequently traced to those pants were found at the site of a recent terrorist bombing in Northwest DC. It was speculated that Bruce had hidden the bomb in his erect penis and had ejaculated it into the State Department building.
Asa, for his gallantry, heroism and poise in the face of public humiliation, was given his nation's highest conceivable civilian award: his very own security classification, higher than Top Secret. "For Asa's Eyes Only" - the highest security clearance the CIA had ever bestowed on a private citizen.
The President, upon hearing the good news, calls Asa to congratulate him. Asa thanks the President, then asks when he can expect the seat of government to be moved. "And may I recommend Highland Park, Michigan, as the nation's new Capital?" he says.
"That's exactly what I had in mind," the President admits. "And just as soon as we can allocate the funds, we'll be packed and on our way. We're a little short right now, Asa, what with the study running thirty million over what we had anticipated. And of course we don't want to take anything from our military -"
"Indeed not!" Asa agrees.
"By the way," the President adds as an afterthought, "you should see the report that study produced. Expensive study, yes; but well worth it. Asa, it's ten beautifully bound pages, covered - are you listening? is Ava on the extension? - covered in the proudest, most wonderful red-white-and-blue stripes and stars you ever laid eyes on!"
"Then it's worth every penny of it, Mr. President. Every penny of it."