70) Tuesday, 2/21: 11:58 PM - “AfterParty!”
In the Oval Office, the President, First Spouse, Beavis,
Butt-head and a tanned, grinning Pete Myers, watched Duke Staley on the friendly
television network, going through his act as the countdown to the second
analog-digital transition reached its two-minute warning.
“Does this remind
you of what baseball great Yogi Berra is said to have said… ‘déjà
vu, all over again?’ Speaking of balls,
and large men on strong drugs, have you written or called in to thank the
President… still in office, thank God… and FCC for pushing the cutoff date back
to the original so we all could watch the Superbowl –
such as it was? Great job… I’ll tell you
what we all really think after the blackout and collapse of the Decency
Doctrine…”
Myers looked to
the First Couple, shrugging…
“Not my fault… I
was on an island where, if you say football, they think soccer…”
“Forty-eight to
seven. Ouch!” declared the First
Spouse. “We owe that actor-looking
Governor with all the wavy hair and… that chin!... that juvenile Moonbeam from
the state with all the Mexicans a case of bean chowder from the Congressional
cafeteria… beans for Moonbeams, as it were!... and twenty pounds of crab
cakes…”
“He’s not
Moonbeam, he’s… somebody else. Some
loser,” POTUS chuckled, “no matter how many crabs he has in his crotch. But we’re grateful, all the same, Pete, that
you would fly back and hold down the fort until this mess gets sorted out…”
said the President.
“De nada! Just letting
the research people do their thing… Harley isn’t even bothering with trying to
make me fudge the findings…”
“Won’t matter,”
said the President. “He’s toast, soon as
I cut a deal with Congress… that new Research Manager seems to have his eye on
the ball regarding our special problem, doesn’t he, Beavis?”
“It’s been
working out incredibly well,” agreed the administrator, gleeful at having been
recognized ahead of his rival, “…especially given that Monday was, in essence,
a wash. Pete’s guy was in some sort of
scuffle at Giga-Plex, he’s walking around with a
cast, even had to get rabies shots… but got the parameters set up, and data’s
rolling in…”
“Good job, Pete. What happened to Vern’s protégé, that lady
who was like… uh…”
The President and Spouse exchanged glances. “As I hear it, she’s gone back to Texas to
take over as interim CEO of Giga-Plex, or maybe it’s
Fred Faubourg’s job…” Myers considered…
“Poor Freddie? They identified his remains yet?”
“Don’t know,” Butt-head jumped in, eager to restore his
status. “Still a couple hundred
unidentified… it was a disaster a Master Disaster! Fortunately, we have Islamic State to blame
whenever anything goes sideways. Zazzbo is the new Bin Laden... ISIS – they’re our new Al
Qaeda. Or would it be better if it were
Iran? Street gangs?”
“A tragedy…” agreed the First Spouse,
switching the channel to a crowd singing and dancing in the streets,
The President frowned. “What’re they so happy about?”
“It’s Mardi Gras,” Butt-Head informed
him. “For one more minute...”
And then, Beavis waxed philosophical… or, maybe, it was just his
long, vote-counting nose doing what it had been all but bred to do… prognosticate. “The interesting thing about the tragedy is
what’s been happening in the sort of low-income neighborhoods most affected,
what people have started doing…”
“Well, there better not be any more of that violence starting up
again,” the President warned an unseen enemy and re-pressing his remote back to
the nice station. “I don’t care if they
say we need to stay the course in the Middle East, recall the National Guard,
defund the police and let the... uh... persons
of color murder themselves and stop rounding up immigrants… if this rioting
and looting keeps up, the lying media will pounce – so I’m sending back the
troops we took out of Ukraine. And, no
matter where he hides, we are going to find Evan Augsberg,
and bring him to justice…”
“Well, then, you might consider it a good thing… what the people
are doing?” Beavis clarified. “Many of
them that still don’t know they can watch TV until, well… it’s early, but we’re
seeing preliminary trends… Peter, if your new fellow can back this up…”
The President’s curiosity was
piqued. “What are the peasants doing?”
“They’re reading.”
“Reading?” the Presidential Spouse frowned. “Like my blog? Like “My Little Pony” books?”
“
“Reading?” the Spouse couldn’t help
repeating. Pete Myers nodded…
Butt-head jumped in. “
“But,” the President wondered, “is that a good
thing?”
“You could issue an
Executive Order, have public libraries shut down in what we might consider to
be sensitive locations,” Myers
ventured. “I’ve always thought that the
principle was rather Communistic, if you want my opinion, sort of Bernie Sanderwich…”
“What?” the First
Spouse frowned…
“You know,” Pete
said. “That guy…” and then he bit his
tongue as the President shushed him… the network sports desk had been replaced
by a big, digital clock… ticking down…
As one, they
glanced up at the big screen of the Dominator ensconced... at taxpayer
expense... in the Oval Office, on which Duke Staley had begun his counting
down… again…
“Ten… nine…”
“So long, all you late-night loser talk show fucks. You Jimmies and jukesters,
you other one with your Lord of the Rings and that Catholic stuff and you Niteliners... America’s sayin’ so
long to you and so long to the haters on the Sunday morning liberal faggotfests...” the President snarled…
“Seven… six…”
“So long all you
Hollywood degenerates, your cop shows for people who hate the police,” he
glowered, “good fuckin’-bye to all you reality show
losers… none of you could hold a candle to the Apprentice – none of you! Baby…” he looked up a the First Spouse,
“would you like it if I joined President Trump in starting another show if
those fool Democrats ever got together on who should be President? I’m sick and tired of Washington – we could
shoot it from Mar-a-Lago or set up another studio in
Miami. Like Jackie Gleason did!...”
“Donald still
hates you,” Pete Myers shrugged.
“Four… three…”
“… or take over a
network, or the newspapers… all of them!
I could sign an Executive Order before I go – wouldn’t that be a fine
plate of shit for that Amazon loser, his woke wife and his lying Washington
Post, the failing New York Times, Chicago, Los Angeles… everywhere...?
“Two…”
“Politics is
nothing but entertainment, and we proved it!
And now I’ll be the one
turning the page onto the future, I’ll tell the sheep what to read, what to
think…”
“One…”
“I’ll be the one. Not Donald, not that jerk
on Nightline, not even Tucker! God, I
miss Big Sonny… he’d know how to herd the sheep – what to do with the losers. Well,” he settled back and aimed the White
House remote at the television (actually a sixty-four, not a Dominator, but
good enough) attached to one of the newest Mega Hi Def boxes, “tomorrow is
here, and like Kanye – my good friend Kanye – and like Kobe and Martin Luther King, you are
going…”
“Zero!”
And America went
black!
THIS CONCLUDES the
2022-23 INSTALLMENT OF “SAVAGE SATURDAY”.
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