The Speechwriter

Not too many decades out of college I finally landed my first full-time job, as a White House speech writer. I know, you would expect I would not start at the top and then claw and grab and snatch my way to the less immoral bottom of a Certified EcoTherapist career ladder, but apparently the President preferred to abuse and neglect someone with no more public sector experience than he had accumulated to this sorry state of deforesting a nation's wealth, and I was clearly the least experienced applicant who bothered to desperately apply for a patently thankless job. I was broke and I thought perhaps I might wrestle a Presidential Pardon for my therapeutic student load of toxic debt. My first assignment was a ten minute stand up comedy piece to be delivered to the Press Club by the least good humored non-politician I had yet to meet in ludicrously self-incorporated personage. To my amazement he did not stray off teleprompter more than on and did acquiesce to my suggestion he could only be funny, rather than tragic, as a cross-dresser who had simply forgotten to change before leaving his rompish bedroom, thereby transposing his deadly public sector lack of comedic hopelessness experience. He chose a pastel blue chiffon maid's uniform, a Big and Beautiful Girl's minidress with matronly white apron all gathered at the waist, or at least doing its best under stressfilled circumstances. Where he found the fishnet stockings with seams intended to aim straight up and down the back of his hairless white calves, I should not say. But his seams tended to wander off to his dominant right, should there actually be such a lonely place as a gratefully suppressed left in the mercifully unseen forest of his meaty thighs. While I couldn't see his party platform pumps on EarthTribe network coverage, I later heard this was not by accident and I should feel fortunate to have avoided fascinated allegiance to their ruby red, scuffed white, and sky blueness. After pandemonium subsided he began: Under-dressed ecofeminists and junk-brained gentlemen of the fake press, thanks so much for this utterly predictable and distressing invitation to speak over your heads tonight about the profound merits of New Reactionary Republican reproductive resonance and replete regenesis of religious right remains right, although sometimes a bit tight around my rapidly expanding middle. Leftist liberal libertines like to quote that notorious drug addict Janis Joplin: Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. Reactionary Republicans have some of our own definitions for new economic and old political values. Justice is another merciless word for no one left of Jews. Speaking of which, isn't my son-in-law doing a great job of being a quality not all that Jewish Republican? And possibly the only Republican Jew east of the Mississippi and north of the still contested Mason-Dixon Line. Although he is now trying to steal his sister-in-law's gentile inheritance. Let's see. Oh yes, Peace is just another word for being between wars. Patriotism is just another word for nationalistic loyalty test jargon where all the supremacist lyrics rhyme with juicy jism, like monoculturalism and racism and sexism and currently trendy anti-democratic totalitarianism, where once resided MotherLand Libertines cynically quoting Janis Joplin. Liberty is just another word for nothing left worth stealing, and grabbing, and snatching, and rubbing up against, and preferably eating, eventually. Virtue is just another word for robbing integrity from future generations because, as my Elders taught me, it's better virtuous us then plundered them. And, last and maybe least, love is just another word for nothing left to hate and monger fear about at least until my next election, another corporate raid on pubic sector treasures. Thanks so much and may God bless the sacred FatherLand.