Billy and the Mad Bombers: from A Gremlin and his Goober
Just as I had feared, it wasn't long before the pool of paramours who came to the White Castle for a spin on the president's round bed began to spring a few leaks. First there were whispered references to Billy's bent tool that made the rounds at Capital City's most exclusive dinner parties. Next came the inevitable allusions on the nation's comedy circuit, where comics stole each other's jiminy jokes with such abandon that just about any hack worth his or her salt could spit out half a dozen Billy Bumkin one-liners without missing a beat.
From there the rumor spread to the lower strata of the gossip press, where true confessions of every sordid sort began to appear, some of them even illustrated. Right behind came the mainstream press, whose reporters shamelessly stole each other's scoops while claiming to abhor the rumor mongering in which they were perpetually enmeshed.
As you can imagine, we had to fight these scurrilous truths in any way we could. Hilda swore before anyone who would listen that she "had never seen or otherwise detected any irregularity in her husband's organ" (which was a cold, hard truth indeed, I'm afraid.) Billy deflected any innuendoes by deftly alluding to his Straight As An Arrow policy, and he confronted the rare direct inquiry by insisting that any irregularity in his physiology, of which there were none, would be irrelevant to the performance of his duties anyway.
I myself began a campaign of terror against the erupting bimbos who were threatening the president's integrity. The most secretive machinations of the state were turned against each of the numerous strumpets who had appeared brazenly in the tabloids spewing those titillating tales of theirs.
Worse yet, sympathetic members of the press, which was naturally dominated by DoGooders, punished the strumpets by besmirching their reputations, while their careers were destroyed by Billy's wealthy DoGooder donors. Meanwhile, any of the president's lovers who chose to keep quiet was showered with tax refunds, humanitarian awards, and a lucrative sinecure at some DoGooder enterprise.
More to the point, Billy sent out feelers in the medical and scientific communities suggesting that anyone who could cure a crooked parsnip could expect the ultimate in royal treatment from the Bumkin administration.
Those feelers paid off right away when a stunning blonde masseuse came into the Oblong Office one day as Billy and I were strategizing. When I say stunning, well, even Little Woody stood at attention when this number walked in.
It turned out that not only was she an exquisitely beautiful creature, she was also a champion masseuse who just happened to specialize in the very part of the anatomy that plagued Billy. To top that off, she had developed over her career a miracle cream that, if applied often enough and with sufficient vigor, would cure any and all penile irregularities, or your money back.
"Well, darlin', I'm willin' to try anything," Billy cooed to the bombshell, whose pulchritude was legendary among her many clients. "Of course, you must understand that our relationship will be purely professional. Now, let's get right down to business...might as well use my round bed, eh?"
For the remainder of the Bumkin administration, the masseuse paid weekly visits to the White Castle, and sometimes she came more than that. Billy even learned to apply the miracle cream himself, which he did with gusto on a regular basis.
"At this rate," he chuckled, "it'll be back in line in no time flat!"
But while Billy was throwing himself hand over fist into his new therapeutic regimen, Little Woody was feeling a bit neglected. One day during consultations, the wooden boy interrupted us to ask Billy if he could borrow some of the miracle cream.
"I would like my twig to grow larger," he said.
And indeed, I noticed for the first time that the toymaker who'd assembled our oaken mate had, whether by whim or accident, left a tiny, slender wisp of a twig right where Woody's willie would be.
"I don't think it'll work on a...on you, buddy," Billy reasoned. "What you need to do is water that thing every day, maybe two or three times a day, with the strongest fertilizer my gardener can whip up. In fact, I'll get him right on it."
From then on, whenever Billy set aside fifteen or twenty minutes to vigorously apply his miracle cream, Little Woody would waddle off to the Castle's rose garden to water his vice presidential twig.
"Does it look any straighter to you?" Billy would ask his little friend.
"Yes. It does," Woody would reply in his wooden tone. "My twig appears not to have grown, however."
As the Bumkin administration rolled on, not everything was quite so quaint, however. In fact, various vague threats to the national security were afoot. There were, in that time, not one, not two, but three mad bombers loose in the world, each of whom had evil designs on our beloved United State. One was a stone cold psychoterrorist who lived in exile; another was a tyrannical tinhorn dictator; and the third was a mentally ill emperor for life.
There was also in that time a particular nation, one of substantial size and rank, that was secretly plotting to usurp the supremacy of the United State through subterfuge--from behind, as it were. The mad bombers were all exquisitely dangerous, but make no mistake about it--this nation was Number One Enemy.
The United State was in considerable peril, to say the least, and it fell to Billy to rectify the situation.
It just so happened that I worked in close proximity to several well-placed spies and soldiers, from whom I extracted more information than I should have. Otherwise I wouldn't have known precisely how Billy responded to these threats. As it is, I suspect that all three of the mad bombers probably had gremlins of their own, and that Billy's gremlin was in cahoots with the others.
Otherwise, there's no explanation for Billy's behavior other than simple depravity.
As for Mad Bomber Number One, Billy had not one, not two, not three, but four opportunities to lay hands on the stone cold psychoterrorist; but each time, the president came up with one of those patented excuses of his not to put the sick bastard in prison.
As for Mad Bomber Number Two, Billy had not one, not two, but over a dozen chances to depose the tyrannical tinhorn dictator and try him for crimes against humanity; but each time, the president delivered one of those signature doublespeaks of his and let the sick bastard go on terrorizing.
As for Mad Bomber Number Three, Billy had a golden chance to deprive the mentally ill emperor for life of the materials needed to build the most destructive of bombs; but instead, Billy Bumkin gave those very materials to the sick bastard in exchange for a promise not to be naughty.
And as for the teeming agents of Number One Enemy, Billy should surely have protected the secrets and treasures of the United State from them with all due diligence; but instead, he sold them whatever they were willing to buy, and he gave away a great deal more hoping for future favors from their leadership. At their behest, and perhaps out of a dogmatic faith in parity, the president seems to have worked quietly to undermine any advantages the United State enjoyed, beginning with our military superiority.
Truth be told, Billy loathed the military and everything it did. He went so far as to emasculate the vaunted army of the United State, forcing soldiers to display bouquets in the barrels of their guns and sending whole divisions to run errands in far-flung lands. Worst of all, in later years (when the gremlin was no longer around) the former president would sanctimoniously badmouth his successor's campaigns to confront the considerable dangers Billy himself had dodged.
If you still doubt that Billy Bumkin had a gremlin in his goober, just try to imagine what my job was like back then. Explaining the appearance of Little Woody and Hilda's Grimm was child's play compared to explaining Billy's foreign policy. There were days when I was relieved to be dealing with all those bimbos and strumpets, who continued to come like a flood. Thank heavens we had the DoGooder press on our side.
I remember one morning when Billy was escorting an especially delicious treat out of the Oblong Office, where I was busy researching the notes for an important speech to the Committee on Foreign Affairs. Little Woody burst in with a barely detectable swagger in his waddle and said with a scintilla of boastfulness, "Please observe my twig."
Sure enough, while it hadn't grown in either length or girth, three tiny leaves had sprung up just above Woody's teeny-weeny twiglet. The wooden boy came as close to a smile as a wooden boy can come.
"Hot damn, little fella," Billy fawned, "that's just fan-freakin-tastick!" Billy gave his departing dish a devilish grin, pulled down his zipper, and let loose the presidential prick. "What about me?" he asked her without a trace of sheepishness. "Is it straightened out or what? Whaddaya think, hon'?"
"Uh, sure, it looks fine to me," she purred, even though she knew deep down inside that Billy was as bent as he could be.
"It looks straight to me also," Woody said flatly without looking.
A pause ensued, and I felt Billy's eyes on me. "Yeah, right, I'm right with you," I muttered absently as I pored over my notes.
"A miracle cream for my magic wand!" the president laughed. "Jee-hosephat, this is the life!"
You'll understand that the young lady was just telling Billy what he wanted to hear. Woody was just saying what the gremlin wanted him to say. And I was just protecting my position.
But as God is my witness, Billy really, really believed that his manhood was once again as straight as an arrow.
courtesy of the rebelholler.com thread |
