A Croupy Toot

tombstone     It was no time for levity. The atmosphere was much too dry. It was no time for fiddle faddle or pussy footing either. That weak shit was so over. But, make no mistake. It was time. The waxed fruits on display were getting no riper. An official brass band blew a rousing croupy toot and the solo President of the United States appeared on stage to adoring pork and bean squeals. Dander mixed with bile and crusted flakes tumbled like confetti from loge seats. Clubs trumped diamonds and high heels stomped spades under crappy tables. There’s nowhere to go but one known way up after that. He was wearing a minor dab of tasteful pancake and blush, a rakish top hat, spats, and a white tail like a lizard.


“My fellow Americans,” the solo President crooned,” and I do mean all among you who have no cause to question or doubt, I come before you not to mourn the failure of a transitory and negligible passing, and not to engage in pejoratives, expletives, or negativisms, because why bother with losers, but to get it on. We are going to get it on so far out there we will be able to stay the way we are, swing it back to the way it used to be, and pretend in 3-D omnicast it is simultaneously like it was and will always be for better or worse in sickness ’til we part. You be sure to stay tuned and follow the bouncing balls. With all my power and spleen, I thank you, along with your so-called government that stands lined up straight to unilaterally second that emotion.”


The cloudburst of low pressure pouring from the top tier boxes was precipitous. Draggy dress rehearsals were never exciting like this. Chilled penguins wiggled flippers and exchanged secret hand signals while skating on thin ice. A mid-century beauty rubbed latex semi-gloss into a stunning clear veneer on a rotating stage. Cheap imported cameras memorialized events in stylish white with velvety undertones of beige and cream in clotted bulk. Howdy-Doody was there, Flub-A-Dub, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Jones, Mr. Peanut, Clark Kent, Urkel, Tonto, though no Zorro. The detachable shelves were stocked with discounted merchandise bouncing off of walls into cages. Branded jello molds jiggled with delight. The pork and beans came with a choice of two mashed sides. Voting was with feet. The cameras focused on a giant applause meter that jumped and swayed. Rumors of hanky-panky were naturally exaggerated. Yes, the best side won as always.

“We, as the gloating winners who are good at it, and have all the proof and nothing but the proof we need to prove it, so help us, are good at getting what we’ve won while the getting is good. Who else knows better what it takes and how it’s done? That’s how it looks to me. That’s how it is and supposed to be straight from the source of Gold Almighty. I know all of you who can speak would agree with me if you could. But that’s my job now. And a sweet one it is. There are no leftover spoils here to be had. I got it covered. Everything’s fresh from the can. We boil twice to be sure, spread it thin. But enough idly said. Taste the pudding and pie filling. Grab some cheap pussy on the house. After that, the price goes up on a normal schedule with compounded interest.”

The rakish solo President cut a slashing figure as he joined the joyous bob and weave on ice. He twirled his diamond encrusted billy club with deft sticky fingers and opposable thumbs. Gold flashed sharp and incisively. There is no substitute for diamonds and gold on skates. Until, that is, he slipped on a flap of loose skin and unsightly leakage from a camouflaged plug came undone. A swift cutting edge re-insertion became required by any means necessary. The Secret Service whisked him away to a broom closet for his own self-protection. How else was he going to be able to remain stiff for the good of the country, praise the fucking lord? This benighted man was no robot out of a mold. His medication worked like a charm once it kicked in.


The band continued to play soft and hard as cover for marching and charging after his premature departure. Talk was cheap and flowed. A conga line formed in triumph to hail. A fragrance gathered underfoot and congealed among exposed toes. Unless that was the limbo. And those poles with sharp points had keen purpose.

The solo President of the United States had a dream that night of staying alive. It had a steady beat and he could dance to it. Fox News covered an interpretation like a blanket of ocher smog. The monotonous chorus would become legend on the gospel trail during the blockbuster Summer season. He appeared as a smoking vision of vitality all night long. His stage too was rotating at no less than a mid-century rate. He was splendidly spent perhaps, but fulfilled by his insertion, and still beige, and clotted, and creamy.




About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in Commentary, fiction, humor, satire and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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