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Kill the President

Second page (second century of verses), continued from here

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Kill the President

By Pip Wilson

Previous 100 verses

[Verse 101] "And we do have a site – not much of a site –
I put up the headlines each month."
"Are you good on the Web?" "Not bad," Timmy says.
"Well, put this issue to bed, and then ..." Irving says.
[Poet's note: what the hell rhymes with 'month'?].

"We would get this out faster if you were my webmaster!
Huh, Tim? Can we post online now?"
"Sure ... except ... well, the bandwidth ..." [There's no rhyme 'for bandwidth',
I think. The word 'bandwidth' is like 'month'. Blah blah bandwidth.]
Says Lum "Can I help? Show me how."

Tim audibly sighs. Irving studies his eyes.
Tim gulps. Irving says "Son, you're hesitant."
"Well, Lum ... the expenses ––" his amanuensis commences.
"The hell with expenses! Why, our so-called defenses
are a billion a day!" Then he grins: "Plus ... I'm President!"

"I can upload tonight! I'll redo the site.
Lum, Kids will become one of the better mags!
Add a forum or two, and a picture of you
in your hat ––" Tim's enthused. "And I'll make sure Yahoo
and Google can find us." "How?" "Metatags."

"Mega-whoozie?? No worries. No worries chicken curry.
Tried to learn that stuff once. Nearly fainted.
And java – holy sheet!" Then suddenly Pete
appears. "Listen, Pete. In the roof. Sound like feet?
Bit early for Santy Claus ain't it?"

"I'm sorry?" asks Pete. "Feet? I don't hear any feet.
Just the plumbing I guess, Mr President."
"Yeah, I guess," ponders Lum. "Got that trouble at home."
But Lum's acting dumb. "Sure, Pete, just the plumbin'.
White House plumbers. Got the same at my residence."

This scene's fully played out, so time for a fadeout.
Suffice to say, there at Tim's bedside
was born on that day at 30 Elm Way
what people will say many years from that day
was the world's first 'bacterial' website.

Yikes! I'm ahead of my serial. As argot, 'bacterial'
means no more to you, reader, than 'germs',
if I may so presume. Unless you can zoom
fast forward from Tim's room. Allow me to assume
that role. Indeed, those are our terms.

See, 'bacterial', like 'dang', soon entered the slang
that spread with Lumwedder's epistle.
This emergent vernacular with intimations oracular
was sudden, spectacular. And when you look back you'll a-
gree: intercontinental ballistic missal.

Part 12

[110] We now zoom ahead from that scene by Tim's bed,
(once the HQ of Kids – 'Now with Irving'),
to the heart of DC, where Tim oversees
a staff of 23, a dedicated ISP,
his own server, with ten sites that it's serving.

Without hesitation Mom allowed Tim's vacation
when Lum asked if he might sequester
her son: "We are so very proud, he may go
a few days or so." Pete was even more so:
"Heck, hun, let him have the semester!

"I mean, for our nation." "It'll be education,"
said Irving. "He'll be learning, why dang me."
"Mr President, we hear ya!" "And he'll still live quite near ya.
There's a pizzeria, cafeteria ... he'll learn 'bout bacteria ..."
"Err ... great," said the folks. "Shucks, don't thank me."

It took only days for the bacterial craze,
phrase and phase to blaze exponentially.
Kids magazine could have reached 17
(six of whom were Mundines) but its potential was seen
when the website was backed presidentially.

"Bandwidth? No worries. No worries chicken curry,"
Lum had promised. "Make it wide for the masses.
How wide do you need? Like Oprah's ass if you need.
Some sites you can't read, slow as Dubya on speed.
Like NASA's. Loads like sorghum molasses."

Anyway, Tim got the site up and a very good write-up –
cover story on TIME magazine.
Salon, which just loves to be cynical of
almost anything 'dove', called bacterial.gov
"the hottest cool site we have seen".

So Tim got his bandwidth, much more than a handwidth
or asswidth, good for 500 million plus.
That's hits per day, not per month. Why, traffic per month
was a volume unth-inkable, uncountable, unf-
athomable, something like 62 billion plus,

putting Yahoo and Google, MSNBC, Froogle,
IMDB and such sites of high standing,
even Adult Friend Finder, in the shade, a reminder
that a gentler and kinder website can still find a
big readership (my sites notwithstanding).

An auxiliary crew of 150 or two-
hundred volunteer staff answered emails
that poured into 'Bacterial' with requests for material.
Lum's skills managerial proved quite magisterial,
a fact that was not lost on some females,

in response to which, Hedda started tailing Lumwedder
who now had a bed at the Bactorium.
She thought he was running around with some young thing,
some cute little dumb thing, till she heard him say something
about a "World Peace Imaginatorium",

[120] so she realised Lumwedder's libido was no better
nor his brain free of this damn delirium.
Satisfied that no cutie, no raven-haired beauty,
had overstepped her duties, she could rest up. The floozie
he loved was a stupid bacterium.

Part 13

"Listen up, this is magic!" Irving reads: "'It is tragic'
says this latest Matt Drudge editorial,
'that two weeks into this experiment, our disoriented President,
seems locked in his tenement. The Washington sentiment –
congressional and senatorial – approaches terminatorial.'

"Should be 'terminatorious'." The team's now uproarious,
Tim and Irving and everyone laughing.
"So now Drudge's intellectual. But his judgement's ineffectual.
So Shakespearean! Just check, y'all, he mentions y'all and henpecks y'all."
(Sense of humor's a criterion in Lum's staffing,

but there are other criteria. Like a feel for bacteria.
If you've got this, the job's in your pocket.
Like Lum always says, "You don't need to be Prez,
or a genius," he says. "Don't need no headdress,
if you're bacterioid. Job's yours if you grok it.")

"Right. Meeting's in order," says Lum's young reporter.
"Looks like we're all here. It's a quorum."
The weekly staff-meet. Says Lum, "Tim's in the seat."
(He doesn't mean seat but the team is discreet.
Another job requirement.) Says Tim, "OK, about the forum ...

"... if I rightly remember, a lot of the members
of the eight online forums are asking
for T-shirts and stickers. And our java applet ticker,
can we make it tick quicker and get rid of the flicker?"
Lum grins. He loves Tim's multitasking.

"T-shirts, hey that's awesome!" says freckle-faced Winsome
(who finds Tim particularly handsome).
"How many will I order?" she asks the reporter.
Tim looks over toward her, gives her a panic disorder:
"Fifty million, winsome Winnie. And then some."

Lum can't repress a big grin. "Tim," he says,
"Mr Chairman, didn't know you had it in ya.
From Rome, France to Algeria they're talkin' bacteria.
In some town called Liberia they hear ya, and Nigeria.
We got Canadian clubs in Canadia, and the same in Argentinia!

"And it ain't begun peakin'. My press team is freakin'.
Nine hundred calls just from Malaysia!
Elbania, Estania, Lithoania, Tamzania,
Patagania, Mauritania, some place called Tasmania,
which I think is down south. Maybe Asia?"

The Bactorium's impressed. Tim says "Let's not rest.
We can expect a huge increase in traffic. A
lot of organizing needs to be done," Timmy pleads,
"before it succeeds, before everyone reads
about bacteria." Lum mumbles, "Or is it Africa?"

[130] Tim shakes his head with a smile; "Lum you said
you had a vision we might call 'bacterial'?"
"I did? I forget. Oh, you bet, weirdest one yet!
Just lately seem to get these sounds through my hat.
Only happens when I eat other cereal."

The team kinda squirms. "Yeah, not about worms,
and not about germs, least, not very.
In my hat a voice says, 'Listen up, Mister Prez,
to this serial,' she says, and then disappears
loud as a buffalo herd on the prairie."

"What else, what else, Lum?" the team asks as one.
"Nothin' much, she just added 'Elk oil, pa'.
And somethin' about flyin'. Wait a minute, I'm tryin'."
(You can hear his brain trying.) "Yeah, ain't no denyin',
she said 'You flew CI581'. So bizarre!"

The Bactorium team is well used to Lum's dreams,
but they do seem extremely concerned;
as an extreme prophylactic should some scheme get climactic
or some theme deemed galactic, Tim beams up a tactic:
"'K, team, the meeting's adjourned."

Part 14

"'*The ladder of evolution is not the solution',"
says a diner on a stool in a diner.
"I read it last night on Lumwedder's website.
Know sumpin? He's right. Yeah, dang me, he's right!
Honey ... your ribs're the best in Carolina."

Twelve kilometres inland from Helsinki, Finland
elsa msgs oona, her gf:
"gsoh on ladr this prez get badr
he so gr8 he get madr evry day cu l8r
ttys how ur nu bf?", then presses Send.

"'Ladder of evolution is not the solution'?"
asks Professor of Politics Edwin
Reese-Darby at Durban University. "Urban
analysis? Too much bourbon?" While in burqa and turban
they're discussing Lum's burden, among the Bedouin.

Part 15

Agent Graham looks pensive. It's very expensive
to live in the national capital.
So his recent decision to embark on this mission
was a sin of commission, not omission, and contrition
requires admission his condition's no mishap at all.

Man, he's in pretty deep. "John, you really should sleep."
His wife, though she hasn't full knowledge,
can see something's troubling him, seething and bubbling –
in his sleep he's been mumbling – but, let's face it, the doubling
of their pay will send Britney to college.

By two in the morning he's finally yawning,
slips under the quilt with his lover.
All those nights he has tossed and turned in a frost,
accounting the cost of the things he has lost
from those coveted days under cover.

[140] Those days of his youth: thoughts were words, words were truth
and a vow was a vow, made to keep,
and feelings were felt. "Man, she's clever, she's built ...
think she likes me!" The quilt cannot cover his guilt;
and her warmth can't thaw John Graham's sleep.

He could have made other decisions. His brother
told him years ago "Come to Australia.
Johnny, leave all that prattle, come and work with my cattle,
why the hell should you battle in DC? John, that'll
just reduce you to ulcers, and failure."

Now here's a weird thing it was at that same minute
as Graham counted cattle in Chevy Chase, DC,
while those cows would not run, one did run for our Lum, one
appeared with Paul Bunyan. If you ate Onion grunion
you might dream of Bunyan's Babe at 29 degrees!

He was a mite bit disturbed, a little perturbed,
so he reached in the dark for a Lark.
(Unlike many folk, he never did smoke
till he quit using coke. There's a White House in-joke
how that all began with a casual remark:

it seems that Lumwedder had mentioned to Hedda
"Hun, got a letter from some professor who said smoking
can damage DNA. Shoot, if we'd had kids, then some day,
our grandchildren, let's say, could suffer some way.
We should quit children." She thought he was joking.)

Part 16

You might think that the poet is shallow. I know it.
I'll blow it unless I characterize better.
But are you sure there's a hurry? Like Lum says, "No worries,
no worries chicken curry". I promise, don't worry –
I won't forget Timmy or Hedda.

The clues can't be solved nor the conflicts resolved
in the time of a movie or show,
or the time that we read a novel. We need
much more time and less speed. Like, Lumwedder, he'd
understand – it's about eons. You know?

Not that Hedda's a genius. In fact, just between us,
you might say she's as thick as two planks.
You might say it. I wouldn't. As the author I shouldn't
tell, but show, but couldn't you picture her, wouldn't
she get the Oscar in Gump next to Hanks?

I beg patience, dear reader. For example, our Hedda
like you (and, I trust, me) is three dimensional.
Maybe more. Reports which say that those comprise 'rich',
secondly 'witch', thirdly 'bitch', ignore the levels in which
her soul revels – too many levels to mention all.

Likewise Tim's no marshmallow, no creampuff. Not shallow.
'Cardboard' would be a hard word, not descriptive.
I do fully intend to draw him out, my dear friend,
long before this rhyme ends, though the timing depends
on the format, which is prescriptive (and restrictive).

[150] Anyway, that's a digression. But an earnest expression
of my hope that, among matters bacterial
and eccentricities of rhyme, if you'll just give it time,
– for we're unclocking time – 'Kill the President' will climb
to some heights, plumb some depths, characterial.

"Hurry up!" is the wrong call; join me for the long haul.
"The medium is the message" being the inference.
So said Marshall McLuhan, and that's what we're doing,
though McLuhan would be rueing that phrase, for McLuhan
said "the medium is the massage", but same difference.

Message or massage, the rites of our passage
exalt time as our temple, our staple.
By the way, I can see no reason to hide that capuccino
is why today I'm so keen, so full of stanzas and beans, so
loquacious – two strong ones, bacon and eggs (drowned in maple).

Part 17

The White House cafeteria. They're not talking bacteria
for a change, Winsome, Cletus, Tim, Stephanie
and a few more from the team. "What the hell does it mean?"
asks Carlos. "It seems," says Geoffrey, "a dream."
"Aw durrrr, Geoffrey!" sniffs Tiffany, "Try epiphany?!"

Cletus's big age difference is met with indifference,
there's no preference or deference the kids feel.
He's a hoot, totally funny, his disposition is sunny,
totally cool, he's got a gun he's grown up so there's money,
and stuff like an automobile.

Though nobody's saying, they think that John Graham –
well, they don't do much playing when that guy is around.
Sure, Graham had a kid and, far as they knew, Cletus didn't,
and John isn't forbidden, they haven't overridden
him, it's more like the other way round.

Not the whole Secret Service, just Graham makes them nervous,
and they could feel a lot better about Hedda.
They're not trying to diss, but unless she insists,
she's not part of this. "So who'd really miss
nasty Hedda?" Win begins. "Not Lumwedder ..."

Tim plays with his salad. "I don't know if that's valid,
Winnie. Sure, Hedda's different, no contest.
But to say that she's nasty – I think that's too hasty.
I think maybe she's spaced, she ––" "Hey, Tim, that looks tasty!"
says Cletus. Says Tim, "Be my guest.

"There's some who say Hedda is one of the better
First Ladies this country has had."
"Like you said, no contest," (Geoff's idea of a jest).
"OK, Geoff, we're impressed, but it's no intelligence test
to marry a president. I'm not sure she's so bad.

"Why does everyone pillory her? She's no Hillary,
no Nancy." (Is there an echo in here?)
"So what if she's rich?" "Timmy! Tim!! She's a bitch!"
says Carlos. The pitch of the topic must switch,
so Cletus says "Ditch it!! She'll hear!"

[160] "Whatever," says Heather, "I never think about Hedda.
But I think about 'Listen to this serial'.
And 'CI581' – I don't know where they come
from, these oracles Lum's getting. Am I dumb?"
"You're not dumb," Tim replies. "But it's immaterial ...

"Where they come from, I mean. The question, it seems,
isn't 'where?' but 'what?' and 'why?' – that has me guessing.
I'm sure the team agrees that whatever Lum sees
and hears, they're mysteries. Cletus, got any ideas?"
Cletus does: "This is great Waldorf dressing!"

It's rumored the Service hired Cletus Merle Purvis
to have a Lum-alike there in the snoops.
That notion has traction. He's no man of action –
food gives more satisfaction. Lumwedder's reaction
was good: "Say, a snoop who likes Loops!".

Tim smiles. "Oh, my, Cletus, I think you will eat us
out of White House and home. What I was saying
was, about the epiphany, it's eerie, and Tiffany
has her theories, and Stephanie ––" Cletus says, "Hear me Tim, if'n he
listens up, he'll just find it dismayin'".

"Yeah, but Cletus, it's mysterious." "Hey, fellas, I hear yez,
but tain't mysterious." (He's a little imperious.)
"Now don't shake your haid! It's just like I sayed.
Ain't no mystery, I'm afraid." Then Carlos whispers to Jade
"Is he serious?" "I think he's delirious."

Cletus goes on: "See, son. See, what happens to Lum,
same thing happens to me, see, if I've ate one.
It's nothin', just onion. Just a bowl of Onion grunion.
Indigestion ain't fun, son. Ain't nothin' in Babe 'n' Bunyan ––"
"Yes, but Cletus, this has beat us: 'CI581'."

"Hey Timmy, don't sweat it. You guys! Just ferget it.
Amanda used to get it. In Atlanta.
Amanda's my ex – had some hex with Tex-Mex.
Didn't expect the effects. She ate onion: no sex.
I ain't perplexed. All due respects, Lum needs Tums. And Mylanta.

"Think about it. Perhaps ya will find it's dyspepsia."
Tiffany says, "Interesting suggestion. Indigestion.
Dad gets it real bad. My mom says that he's had
stomach trouble since she had me. It's really too sad."
"But does he get epiphanies?" asks Stephanie. "That's the question."

"Not exactly," says Tiffany. "Not exactly epiphanies.
Just gets him biffin' me, and tiffin' with my mother."
"Dang me! Hi Tiffany! Hey Carlos. Cletus. Stephanie.
Hey guys, that woman's given me a second dang epiphany!
At least, I think that I've just had another."

Tim says, "Lum, you're kidding me! Another epiphany?"
Says Lum, "Have you guys finished eating?"
"No. Pull up a chair," Jade says. Lum says, "Where?"
Carlos says, "Anywhere." Lum says, "OK. There.
Man, I love this cafeterial seating.

[170] "Should eat here more often. The seats are so soft an' ––"
"Excuse me," says Tim, a little nervous.
"Say what?" "Mister Prez," Tiffany diffidently says,
"You heard from that woman?" Lum says "How'd you know? Oh ... oh ... yes,
I just told you! Do they serve fries with their burgers?"

"You can fill your whole plate! And the salad is great,"
says Cletus. "Leastwise, I liked mine."
"Well that really sounds nice." "And a very good price."
"Great. Don't have to think twice! I'll be right back you guys."
So they wait while Lum stands in the line.

"Do you think it's historical?" asks Jade. "What?" "The oracle.
Or maybe it could be allegorical?"
Cletus says, "You mean gas?" (He seems nice, but no class.)
"That Amanda had gas. But a real piece of ass."
"No, Cletus!" laughs Jade. "Like ... metaphorical."

"Dang me! That woman on the checkout ain't human!"
laughs Lum. "She got biceps like Tyson!"
Still chuckling, he sits. "She didn't like me one bit
but I'll get over it. Anyways, who gives a shoot?
Hey, did I tell you about me and the bison?"

"Not yet. Tell us that!" "Gang, I heard from my hat ..."
They hold their breath as he sips his capuccino.
"Not the feathers. The head. The buffalo head,
sometimes wear that instead. Other mornin' it said,
'Listen, young Lum. Some call me C13H16ClNO.'"

"What else did she say?!" "She said 'But I spell with a K
my other name. But that's all that you need
for today. Goodbye Lum.' And I asked 'Will you come
again soon?' She said 'Some time, Lum, yes I'll come.
When I'm called.' And she's gone, like a drummin' stampede."

"This shouldn't defeat us or beat us," repeats Cletus.
"I bet it's just flatus. I can smell it."
Tim laughs, "Great, then it's bacterial!" "Getting back to that word 'serial' ...
Lum are you sure it was 'serial'?" asks Jade, in a voice quite ethereal.
"I wonder some, as she thundered away, Lum ... did she spell it?"

"Mr President! You're here!" Agent Graham appears.
"Did you forget your appointment – the Bolivian
Ambassador?" "Oh dang! I forgot about that thing."
"Didn't your phone ring?" "Huh? Oh, maybe I didn't bring
it from home." (1600 Pennsylvania Ave, Oblivion.)

"Dang gang," says the Prez, "gotta do President biz.
John, I forget this guy's name. Was it Oliver?"
"D'Oliveira." "Near enough. Team, it can be pretty tough
to remember this stuff. Well, see you soon, sure 'nough.
Better hurry, gotta see Oliver from Boliva."

The agents and president head back to the residence,
John and Cletus sticking close to the Prez.
Says Tim, "Guess we'd better get back to work." Heather
agrees and together they all notice the feathers.
"Oops! Almost forgot the headdress!" Irving says.

Part 18

[180] Scene: Brisbane, Australia. "Oh, my beautiful Thalia,"
says Dad. "You'll be belle of the school formal.
Drive her carefully, Jess. What's that button on your chest?"
"A new rev from the Prez." "Hey, I like what it says:
'*We gotta live like society is normal'."

They're printing stamps with Rev 2 in Nepal and Nauru,
and even minting a coin in Grenada.
From Khartoum to Kiev they're all quoting the rev –
it's been rumored they have in West Bank and Tel Aviv
'rev breaks' during lulls in the Intifada.

Back home in DC a man laughs: "Yeah, we'll see.
It depends what you think is 'normality'."
In the capital, you see, it's not all who agree
with Lum's project. Indeed, it must be said that some see
some kind of threat from this new informality.

Lum has heard rumblings of a few people grumbling
but he's more focused on the revelatory.
(No one could want some new epiphanies to come
more than I, except Lum, but until they do come
there are other aspects to our story.)

It's a day or two later. "No," Lum says to the waiter,
"thanks Dean, I'll have hotcakes instead.
Think I'll change my routine." Then he looks up at Gene
(who he always calls Dean). "A change you know, Dean,
is as good as a holiday, it's said."

"I know what you mean, sir. By the way ... my name's Gene, sir."
"Oh dang me, you told me that, Gene.
Three, maybe four times. Trouble is, see, my mind's
kinda scattered at times, it's full of all kinds
of presidential kinda stuff. Sorry about that. Sorry Dean."

He's been thinking about Jade and that thing that she said,
about the spelling and "listen to this serial".
"Well dang me!" he cries. "It's right before my eyes!"
He phones the other guys: "Team, I've got a surprise –
it ain't 'serial' – it's 'listen to this cereal'."

Tim says "Mister Prez, that's just what Jade says.
Matter of fact, I was just about to text."
"OK, so it's 'cereal'." "Yup, and we thought it was 'serial'."
"Yeah, but it's so queer y'all." "This could be quite material ...
now we just need to know what comes next."

He puts the phone in his pocket. "Tell me, Dean, can you grok it?
Does nothing appear like it is?
I'm just thinking aloud – but when you see a cloud –
what do you see? And how'd you see it? You're allowed
to tell me the truth. Pretend that it's President biz."

"A cloud?" "Yeah, tell me Gene." "It's Dean, sir – I mean Gene!
I don't know ... I see shapes. Maybe a sheep, or a face,
ice cream, or a tree. Sir, what do you see?"
"Well, it looks like to me, some kind of vehicle, maybe.
Made by microbes to get to some place."

[190] "Could be, Mister Prez. Never noticed," Gene says,
as he heads straight away to the kitchen,
where he senses some tension between Curtis and Henson – 
almost too little to mention, but a sense of dissension,
and he hears Henson whisper "Quitcha bitchin'!"

"So, what's the matter, Curtis?" asks Gene. "Nothing. Purvis.
Yeah Purvis. The Service. Damn snoops.
Why the hell do they come into the kitchen? Does Lum
send them in here? How come? "Settle down. Make me one
stack of hotcakes." Asks Henson "No Loops?"

A few minutes later, Lum asks Gene the waiter,
"Tell me, why did your folks call you Gene?
Is it short for Eugene?" "No sir. Just plain Gene.
My mother, it seems, had a dream about genes."
"Why, her druthers is my ruthers! Know what she means.

To be continued ...

Previous 100 verses

Text is subject to amendment at any time.

 

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(This is Page 16 of Pip's poetry; Number 2 of Kill the President)

I enjoyed Don Dubya very much