Category: Farce

Czar d’Oz Episode I: Incoming

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by Smitty

Start with the Czar d’Oz Announcement

I. Incoming
“This is not a test. The Obama Weather Service…”

Julius “Scare” Crowe: [Addressing a lecture hall] American history can be viewed in three stages: pre-Progressive, Progressive, and Modern Obama. The pre-Progressive phase was the worst. The tyranny of an English autocrat was rejected, triggering a necessary, if flawed period where racism was rampant. A bloody Civil War claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, and the Consitutional promise of equality was delivered, but the racism remained.

The next 140 years saw the birth of the Progressives, who understood the need to balance the Constitutional equality with the natural tendency towards racism. This would require increasingly diligent feedback from policy makers to ensure that the States took care of their citizens. The last gasp of the recidivists was the Bush administration, which threatened to plunge the whole country into a dark age.
The Modern Obama age began under something of a cloud, trying to dig the country out from under the avalance of social and economic woe visited upon us by Bush. By Barack I’s closing term, the essential rights of medical coverage had been extended to all, and the economic damage brought on by the Scorched Earth Tea Baggers who resisted this improvement had begun to recede.
America’s retreat from the evils of imperialism had begun under Barack I, and gathered steam under Michelle. The GOP’s last gasp came in 2017, when their attempt at Social Security reform was laughed out of DC. The next year, ObamaLife absorbed it anyway.
The evil of American nationalism would not die for many decades, however. The bitter cling-ons would take another 57, yes, fif-TEE seven years before the signing of the WorldGov Treaty saw the creation of the Vortex as the successor to the United Nations in Holy Davos.
And now, 104 years after Obama, or 2112 by the Oppressor’s Reckoning, is our satisfaction complete.
“…has issued a tornado warning…”

Martin Mann: You must be having me on. [Throwing small boxes over his shoulder from a large box on the work bench in front of him.]

Those supply morons have Bushed it again. You go to the staff meeting. You explain to them what you need. They spout the usual crap about the Eternals, the Vortex, the Czars. They tell you that even if you’re a war hero, you’re still a Brutal.

You give the best years of your life to these people. You give your health, your senses, your smarts. They give you slideshows of chewing gum for the mind. If the economy is so rosy, if the education system is so great, if there really is nothing to worry about, then why are the little things like delivering an order for electronics so hard?

Most of these pointy-headed little bureaucrats haven’t ever left Kanasas, much less served in the US military. And the pitiful few that have done so sure ain’t ever gone overseas to a pitiful place like Zambiniland on a WorldGov mission. How I badly want to see their little Eternal butts taken away from their precious Vortex and made to understand what the Brutals go through.
If I hadn’t got blown up, I wouldn’t’ve had a chance to learn like I did and try to do a little better in life. But now I’m forced to find a way to polish a digital turd into a shiny thing of electronic beauty. Darn right I’m pissed. Those Eternals don’t care about anything but getting their kids to the right school and either an elected position or a job working for a Czar. And they really don’t know jack, except how to use big words to tell you that whatever they’ve done wrong is really YOUR fault. [The box is empty, and Mann smashes it with a metal forearm.]

“…for this area.”

Peter Lyon: [Hastens up the broad steps and into the Temple of Cyrus Rinks (sometimes erroneously termed Syrinx by young hipsters) for his meeting. A disgruntled young man bursts out of the door, face in a rage, carrying a strange, flat, figure-8 device with a long handle, having wires along it. The conference room with the meeting already in progress is just off the atrium, thankfully, directly above boss Murdoch’s office, and obviates the need to go through security. He grabs a seat in the back.]

Meeting Coordinator: Oh look, we were just joined by the illustrious Peter Lyon. Peter, I know you’re busy, but can you offer us the benefit of your insight? A little birdy said you were actually just at the Flyover Czar’s Budget Offsite. Have you got any hot, juicy presentation bullets for the Bureau of Administrative Affairs?
Woman in Front Row: That’s Administrative Actions Bureau. We just changed last week, remember?
MC: Oh, right. Thank you. Doing my best to keep up with the re-orgs. Mr. Lyon?

Peter Lyon: [Standing] Well, the news breaks down into good, bad, and unknown.
MC: Unknown, bad, good.
Peter Lyon: That is our tradition, no? All right. The unknown piece is whether of not the Flyover Czar is going to wrest more control from counties on the East side of the Mississippi from the Southern Czar. While we’d like to expand our operations, and get the budget that goes with it, those areas are some of the least economically productive in the country. Could prove a Faustian bargain–that’s when you make a deal and find out that guy across the table is named Bush.

The bad news is that this weather system is spitting out some monster tornadoes, and has already done some expensive damage in Texas and Oklahoma. This could negatively affect funds for the Obama Nativity Party at the end of the year.

[The room offers a collective groan]

The good news is that the new WorldGov budget finally passed. The WorldThalers now move to New Chicago. The Kansas team looks good for the new season of Political Cage Matches that starts Monday, so our funding stream should hold steady, as long as the Flyover Czar doesn’t screw things up.

“All citizens are to seek shelter immediately.”

Dorothy Zeda: OK, got the last of the water. [Zeda looks up from her clipboard at a worker in a jumpsuit. They stand in a basement area, to the right of stairs coming down.] We’ve got the combat rations, the medical supplies, the extra nylons. All of the windows are boarded. The blankets, the cots, and the batteries. Anything we’re missing?

Worker: Nope, Zeda, we got it all. Except some dice, maybe?

Zeda: You little scamps do what you will, just don’t come whining to me when all your WorldThalers are gone. The only sympathy you’ll get from me will be delivered by 20 feet of bull whip. You got that?
[Worker smiles at the thought. People are coming down the stairs.]

Zeda: OK, this shelter is divided up into sleeping and recreational areas. Probably everyone is too worried to sleep. There is a copy of WorldGov Saves Zambiniland which is about to start playing, so pull up chairs and relax. We’ll get through this storm in style.

[Crowe enters]

Crowe: Hi, Zeda. WorldGov Saves Zambiniland is a great patriotic film to show. Will you flog me if I yell out lines at the good parts?

Zeda: Of course not. You know all of the lines. I’m too busy for a session now.

[Mann enters, unsteadily, and has to stomp his foot to unfreeze the joint.]

Zeda: We’re playing your show.

Mann: Great. I’d rather have a working leg.

[Lyon enters]

Lyon: Am I the last one in?

Zeda: Indeed you are.

Lyon: Then close the hatch. I fear this one’s a doozy.

Announcement
Prev:Announcement
Next:II. Wreckage

Copyright 2009, Christopher L. Smith

Announcement: Czar d’Oz

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by Smitty

Awash, after the fashion of a country wrecked by a tsunami, in the reviews of the previous efforts of Porch Manqué Productions, we called a meeting. Stacy flopped down on the dilapidated couch, expelling a cloud of dust, through which cover at least two cats made their escape.

“OediPOTUS Wrecks and Waiting for O-Dough were a train wreck followed by a volcanic eruption,” declared Stacy. “We need something that will deliver eyeballs, not debris. You last ideas were so obscure that nobody cared about, much less had heard of, their sources.”

“I have a cunning plan,” I began, continuing on through Stacy’s tortured glance heavenward. “A dystopian future view of the US, merging the plot of an old Sean Connery flick with an American classic, plus a few other elements that didn’t move fast enough.” I handed over a few pages of draft in dead tree format.

After a few moments glance, Stacy inquired, “Have you been tested for Mad Cow disease?”

Episode Index:

Stacy’s initial take matched reviews remain as varied across time, if constant in theme, as ever:

  • Sean Connery: Impossible! A human being that’s a bigger piece of scum than Alex Trebek!
  • Helmuth von Moltke the Elder: No plan of Smitty’s extends with certainty beyond the first encounter with reality.
  • Sigmund Freud: Hey, Smitty: your mother!
  • Stevie Ray Vaughan: Hand me down my shootin’ iron.
  • Randy Rhodes: Next time the Crazy Train comes by, make sure Smitty is on it.
  • Joe Satriani: Congress should limit Smitty to, at most, Ten Words.
  • Burma Shave: In defiance of ‘sane’ / Again wrecks this train. /Far more favorable the /Frobnicated follicle to explain.
  • Captain Ahab: Nothing wrong with Smitty that a firmly cast harpoon could not remedy.
  • Joseph N. Welch: You have done enough, Smitty. Have you no sense of decency sir, at long last?
  • Dan Riehl: Thanks, Smitty! I always like to start the morning by throwing up in my mouth!
Czar d’Oz runs at high noon right here for the next two weeks, or until the FBI shuts us down.
Copyright 2009, Christopher L. Smith

Waiting For O-Dough: Act II

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by Smitty

Waiting for O-Dough: Announcement

Synopsis of Act I: Stacy met Smitty on the Porch, and they awaited O-Dough. Bob Belvedere and Lucky came by, Bob ate lunch, and departed.

(Smitty sits on the couch. Enter Stacy at right.)
Smitty: Good morning. Once again you neglect the shelter of the porch.
Stacy: Well, I prefer the comfort of my ditch.
Smitty: Even though the union thugs beat you?
Stacy: It’s just a flesh wound. I think it’s more the union management than the actual workers. The management is less competent. The real troops will bite your leg off, I hear.
Smitty: You’d think if they had O-Dough, they could buy some real victuals.
Stacy: Maybe they’re waiting for O-Dough, too.
Smitty: How about those two that were here yesterday?
Stacy: Belvedere and Lucky? They work for Congress. They don’t need O-Dough.
Smitty: Should we apply for government jobs?
Stacy: Why? We’re supposed to get our O-Dough any day now. If only the mail wasn’t so slow. Why don’t they just use FedEx or UPS?
Smitty: I didn’t realize that FedEx and UPS still exist.
(Lucky comes back in from stage right, encumbered as before, with Bob Belvedere’s eyes covered. Lucky stops in the middle of the stage. Belvedere wanders forward, trips, sprawls.)
Stacy & Smitty: Let me help you up. (Jump off the porch to assist Belvedere up.)
Stacy: You were here yesterday.
Bob: I was?
Smitty: Yes. Have you called Congress? Did you remember to mention our O-Dough?
Bob: What are you talking about?
Stacy: You came by here, had some lunch, and then went off. Claimed you worked for Congress. That’s why you can have what looks to be nothing other than a slave (though, as long as he’s a consenting adult, there’s nothing wrong with that).
Bob: Did I say I work for Congress? To you? I would have been more discreet than that, if it was true.
Smitty: Well, there you have it. Stacy, we’re just going to have to go and find our O-Dough.
Stacy: Do you have a map?
Smitty: It’s behind the couch. (He starts to rustle behind the couch, creating a cloud of paper and debris.)
Stacy: But if we leave, we won’t be here to take receipt of our O-Dough. We’d better stay.
Bob: What’s this O-Dough you expect, then?
Stacy: Our kickback for our years of patience!
Smitty: The economic stimulus that will create more jobs than it destroys!
Stacy: The worker’s paradise we were promised by Progress!
Smitty: The end of all systemic risk!
Bob: Yes. That’s all well and good, but where does this O-Dough come from?
Stacy: The Treasury Department cuts a check.
Bob: And how did the money get to the Treasury Department?
Smitty: A goose laying golden eggs?
Bob: Right, although it’s really more a duck. A mandarin duck. It’s been all fowl play since the Federal Reserve Act. Now, what do geese do?
Stacy: They float in water.
Bob: What else floats in water?
Smitty: An island.
Bob: Just so. Now, if there is a problem with the goose providing the golden eggs, what should you do?
Stacy: Wait for someone to give up an island for the Treasury Department.
Bob: Precisely. Now, it’s late. I must be going. The madness of men has driven sight from my head.
Smitty: Since you know so much, do you really work for the Congress?
Bob: I wouldn’t accuse it of being work. I’ll leave you two to the toil of the human condition. “They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.” Take me out of here, Lefty. Best wishes on the O-Dough, gentlemen.
(Lefty and Bob exit stage left.)
(After a moment, the Boy re-enters, stage right.)
Stacy: Have you seen the postman?
Boy: He’s already been by, while you were talking to that blind man. You didn’t get anything.
Smitty: No O-Dough today?
Boy: No, and the rumor is that it might not be for some time. They just discovered a few hundred fresh pages of legislation governing O-Dough. Got to take time and follow the law, you know.
Stacy & Smitty: *Sigh*

PORTICUS RUIT

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Copyright 2010, Christopher L. Smith

Waiting For O-Dough: Act I

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by Smitty

Waiting for O-Dough: Announcement

(Smitty sits on the couch, trying to get his boot off. Enter Stacy at right.)
Smitty: (Giving up on the boot again) I got nothin‘.
Stacy: Yeah, me too.
Smitty: I reckon we’re morally equivalent, then.
Stacy: Yep.
Smitty: So, where’d you hang your hat last night?
Stacy: A ditch.
Smitty: There was room for you on the porch!
Stacy: Sure, but your snoring is enough to wake the dead.
Smitty: Hmm. Maybe that’s who keeps getting in line ahead of me for the sleep apnea appointment.
Stacy: When, that famous event?
Smitty: Dunno. Can you help me get this boot off?
Stacy: How cool we were, Smitty, long ago, before even CPAC, when the presidential campaign wasn’t an ignoble train wreck. When there was a possibility of a real economy. When we weren’t stuck here, unemployed, waiting for O-Dough…
Smitty: I said, can you help be get this boot off?
Stacy: Oh, alright. (He stoops, grabs the boot, tugs mightily. Simultaneously, Smitty comes off the couch, landing on the porch. Stacy steps back, looses his footing on the corner of the television and lands on the porch. The boot traces an arc out into the yard.
They both slowly rise.)
Smitty: Do you see where my boot went?
Stacy: It’s out in the yard, past the second truck.
Smitty: Will you go get it?
Stacy: Ain’t my boot.
Smitty: I cain’t go in that yard barefoot! Until I get me some O-Dough, there ain’t no way to cover the payments on what you’d catch walkin‘ out there with nekkid tootsies.
Stacy: Oh, alright. (He goes to get the boot, comes back. Smitty stares at the collection of junk on the porch.) I was wonderin‘ on my way over here: you ever read the Bible?
Smitty: I heard of it.
Stacy: Do you remember the Gospels?
Smitty: I remember dad had rituals to get the truck started. He called them the ‘Go spells’. Lost dad, lost the spells, the truck ain’t moved in years.
Stacy: That sounds like a Country Dungeouns and Western Dragons song. Are you a musician?
Smitty: (Gestures into the window, where a guitar with two strings is visible on the table.) Isn’t that obvious?
Stacy: What about the two thieves?
Smitty: Were they in the Legislative or Executive branch. With 537 to pick from, why just the two?
Stacy: I’m not talking about the government, silly. The Gospels. The crucifiction. The two theives.
Smitty: Why didn’t the government offer them free health care?
Stacy: What are you, stupid? The government carried out the crucifictions. It was the opposite of health care.
Smitty: Are you saying the Roman government was like the Bush administration?
Stacy: You are so completely dense. Maybe we need a change of scenery, to give you some fresh air. This porch is too depressing.
Smitty: We can’t leave. We’re waiting for our chance. The big bailout. What’s owed us for all our suffering. O-Dough. It should be in the mail soon.
Stacy: How soon?
Smitty: That’s not clear. Digging us out from under the wreckage of the previous administration has been hard. There is so much unfairness. Such a lack of social justice, income justice, racial justice, economic justice. It’s taking time to get down to the “just us” justice.
Stacy: Right. You hear that, coming around the corner of the house?
(Enter Lefty stage left, on a leash, carrying: a seabag, a folding chair, and a picnic basket under a large coat. Lefty advances around to the middle of the porch. A whip cracks, and Lefty stops, cowering, but with a hint of a smile. Bob Belvedere at stage left. )
Stacy: Are you the postman, come with our O-Dough?
Smitty: Yes.
Bob: I present myself: Bob Belvedere.
Smitty: Isn’t our postman named Bob? He brings the O-Dough!
Stacy: Curb your enthusiasm.
Bob: What is this O-Dough?
Smitty: It’s the big cash infusion that is going to lift us from this porch!
Stacy: It’s the social justice we are owed!
Smitty: It’s the re-distribution of wealth away from the evil capitalists and toward the people!
Stacy: O, the answer to the evil W!
Bob: Never heard of it. (To Lefty, cracking whip) Set up for lunch! (Lefty sets up the chair in front of the porch, opens the seabag, extracts a folding tray, and works on lunch preparations. A tablecloth, a bottle, and a basket appear before the hungry eyes of Smitty and Stacy. Bob sits.)
Smitty: What’s up with him?
Bob: Hey, the new jobs program is a huge success. Look at how Lefty is employed.
Stacy: But, aren’t you violating OSHA regulations here?
Bob: I might be, if I didn’t work for Congress, where none of the laws apply.
Smitty: Really? What’s Lefty’s career path, then?
Bob: Well, as a junior intern for the Ways and Means Committee, he has to be tested, which is what we’re up to here. Following the success of this Training Run (heh), he’ll be allowed to take calls from donors, lobbyists, and industry to request certain language in legislation. (Bob extracts a sandwich from the bag and devours it.)
Smitty: Really? What if Stacy here would be interested in such a position?
Bob: Well (A giant swig from the bottle), I imagine if Stacy were suitable for such a position, I should have heard of him. What year did you graduate Yale, Stacy? Or was it some other Ivy League school?
Stacy: Well, it was really Kudzu League… Hey, next time you call back to DC, can you ask what’s up with the O-Dough that Porch Manqué Productions was supposed to get?
Bob: But off course. Now, you are aware of the suggested campaign contributions? One hates to dwell on the minutia, but the time of the Government is precious, and it takes time to work all the way down the list. You have to take responsibility for yourself and the management of your position on the list. (Another tremendous bite, and the sandwich has disappeared. A long quaff of the bottle, a belch, and a sigh. Stacy and Smitty look on, eyes and mouths watering.) Well, lads, we really must be off. Lefty, clean up. (Lefty carefully stows all the debris with practiced ease. Bob cracks the whip, and they exit stage right.)
Smitty: Is it too late for the mail today? Bob really got my hopes up about the O-Dough.
Stacy: Probably. Maybe tomorrow.
(A boy wanders in from stage right.)
Smitty: Say, lad: have you seen the postman?
Boy: Didn’t you? He was just by. His bag looked totally empty. If your box is empty, you struck out.
Stacy: Do you know of anyone who’s gotten their O-Dough?
Boy: I hear rumors, but no one in this area, that’s for sure.
Smitty: Thanks.

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Copyright 2010, Christopher L. Smith

Announcement: Waiting For O-Dough

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by Smitty

Flush, in the manner of a defective toilet, with the success of OediPOTUS Wrecks, Porch Manqué Productions and its publisher, The Other McCain, were poised to move forward with equally ambitious, dramatic, culturally significant work.

But the budget just wasn’t there. So, like any shameless contemporary American outfit, they sought a bailout. When in Rome, do as the Georgians, no?

This piece of Reality Stage-blogging catches Smitty and Stacy as they are poised on the edge of the cusp of success, Waiting for O-Dough…

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Characters:
Stacy
Smitty
Bob Belvedere
Lefty
Boy

Critical reactions have stunned us, along with minor contusions and a possible fracture. Who knew the SEIU and ACORN were theatre-goers? Here’s what they’re saying:

  • Samuel Beckett: Intellectual sodomy!
  • Vlad the Impaler: I’d like to give Smitty tea, crumpets, and a sharp stick. And I’m out of tea and crumpets.
  • Alexander Solzhenitsyn: There are archipelagos full of creeps like Smitty.
  • Archimedes: You reek-a!
  • Togo Heihachiro: This junk goes down like the Russians at the Battle of Tsushima.
  • Horatio Nelson: Hei domo, T?g?-san: sound your ship’s bell. You know this leaky fishing boat really sinks like the French at Cape Trafalgar.
  • Chester Nimitz: Jolly good, Horatio. But you know that this garbage scow actually hits the bottom like the Imperial Fleet at the Battle of Midway.
  • Cliff Burton: I’d like to offer Smitty some free dental work. Some anesthesia, pulling teeth, you know?
  • Tiberius Claudius Ceasar Augustus Germanicus: I’d throw Smitty to the lions, but that would be unethical treament of lions. Maybe wild dogs?

Very roughly, even brutally, equivalent praise for OediPOTUS Wrecks:

  • H. P. Lovecraft: Typically, consumption by Cthulhu diminishes literary output. Smitty writes on; fearless, mindless, soulless. Scientifically fascinating.
  • Rob Roy MacGregor: O! many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant! A thousand words, at random spoken, Would improve upon this jackass jokin’!
  • John Wayne: You’ve got ta be kiddin’ me, pilgrim. Why, I haven’t seen a manure stream that bad since they drove a herd of diarrhetic cattle across the river feedin’ Michael Moore’s ranch, givin’ us Fahrenheit 9/11.

Copyright 2010, Christopher L. Smith

OediPOTUS Wrecks: Finale

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by Smitty

Announcement

Synopsis:
In the Prologue, a Rose Garden press conference announces a connection between the tanked economy to a monstrous evil pertaining to the death of the 42nd POTUS.
Scene I brings in a prophetess with a palindromic name and a chip on her shoulder. Verbal sparring ensues, ending in an accusation.
Scene II has Ramen the Chief of Staff trying to clear himself as a suspect. The question of the death of the 42nd POTUS looms. His widow, Cthulia, the Secretary of State under OediPOTUS, arrives to try to defuse the situation.
Scene III has an old family friend come to announce the death of the man who was a father to OediPOTUS. The news brings little comfort, as unsustainable tragedy begins a methodical turn to farce.
In the final installment, the mysterious Rosor arrives to tie everything up, in his fashion.
OediPOTUS enters, paces
OediPOTUS Wrecks: When will this doctor arrive?
Sandy Hamburger and Esarhaddon Cyphre enter
Sandy Hamburger: Your family doctor, Esarhaddon Cyphre, Mr. President.
OW: You’re related to Ramen? I guess I never made the connection.
Esarhaddon Cyphre: Brothers, yes. We’re everywhere. “You can’t de-Cyphre the world,” as we like to joke. But this is not the time for stand-up. The news is terrible. Kerry Kennedy has passed. My condolences, Mr. President.
OW: Thank you. But I didn’t drag you here for an obituary. Sandy has stated that you know something important about my birth. From where did I come?
EC: Ah, that detail. This is not easy.
OW: Indeed. My entire worldview is upended. I really don’t know where I came from, where I am, or where I should go.
EC: I understand. This isn’t easy. What I can tell you is that we took an embryo from the fertility clinic that originally came from–
Cthulia enters
Cthulia: Mr. President, I have come to proffer my resignation. I can no longer serve in your cabinet. This looks completely disloyal, given that the international situation is as bad a shambles as the domestic. However, with your sudden focus on ancient history, and unwillingness to heed wise counsel, there really isn’t anything more to accomplish.
OW: No problem. I only needed you for the votes, never trusted you fully, and have been seeking to undermine you at every opportunity. Please go on, Dr. Cyphre.
EC: Well, since she’s here, I’ll announce that the embryo implanted in Olga Kennedy was removed from a British fertility clinic, and that one of the provisions of Kerry Kennedy’s will was that you be made aware that Cthulia Williams is, in fact, your mother.
Here: puke into this.
Cthulia screams, exits, leaving OediPOTUS heaving into a wastebasket
OW: Ohgodohgodohgod, but…I didn’t kill Williams, did I? How can this inconceivable thing be happening?
Enter Rosor
Rosor: OediPOTUS, you ignorant slut. You have managed to destroy everything. One derives a foolproof plan; the universe produces a bigger fool.
I needed a moron to accomplish my task of destroying the US economy, in service of the goal of a unified world government. Jefferson Williams was the seed moron, as a father and President. Yet that Vast Right Wing Conspiracy kept Pettifogger from winning the election in 2000. However, Sphinxor proved quite the silicon boob when he was in office: obvious; defiant of everything, including gravity. The consolation party for Pettifogger was to be the time I revealed the grand design to both of you.
You managed not only to be late to the soirée, but to kill your own sire in a feat of vehicular manslaughter. Bravo. Manipulating the investigation to keep you out of trouble was a challenge. Brainwashing you to forget being fished out of the water, and depositing your bewildered butt in Newport proved so trivial as to be sad.
OW: What are you TALKING ABOUT?
R: I made you. Every bit of your political rise was due to me. Every person who advised you, every event that seemed due to your supposed brilliance, every tragic boo-boo that seemed to occur to your foes, is entirely due to my Machiavellian machinations. Roughly the only thing I could not do is prevent you from destroying yourself as a result of your own arrogance and incompetence. You are fired.
OW: Liar! I am the President of the United States! I used all of the tools of Alinsky to beat my foes as fairly as anyone else! Only the Congress can remove me, and I’ll bury them in peaches before any impeaches. I’m sick of your phone calls, giving me orders all the time. I’m the PRESIDENT. You can’t take this office. No, you can’t take that away from me!
Guards appear and move toward OW to take him under control. He struggles.
R: Oh, dear. That fragile mind has snapped. *sigh* Who did we put on the ticket as Vice President, again? Bring in that bit of Folderol.

OediPOTUS Wrecks: Scene III

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by Smitty

Announcement

Synopsis:
In the Prologue, a Rose Garden press conference announces a connection between the tanked economy to a monstrous evil pertaining to the death of the 42nd POTUS.
Scene I brings in a prophetess with a palindromic name and a chip on her shoulder. Verbal sparring ensues, ending in an accusation.
Scene II has Ramen the Chief of Staff trying to clear himself as a suspect. The question of the death of the 42nd POTUS looms. His widow, Cthulia, the Secretary of State under OediPOTUS, arrives to try to defuse the situation.
Scene III has an old family friend come to announce the death of the man who was a father to OediPOTUS. The news brings little comfort, as unsustainable tragedy begins a methodical turn to farce.
Finally, farce grinds to a halt as the mysterious Rosor ties the tubes up for everyone.
Cthulia wanders into the Rose Garden, thinking aloud
Cthulia: What to do with OediPOTUS? He’s so wrapped up in the past. None of my usual means of reaching him appear to be working…
Sandy Hamburger enters
Sandy Hamburger: Do you know where OediPOTUS is? I have news that he should really hear first.
C: Oh, come on. What else has gone wrong.
SB: I never said this to you, but Kerry Kennedy has died.
C: I see. This is bad news, but maybe it will get his mind off of that evil Hanah woman and her accusations.
Enter OediPOTUS
OediPOTUS Wrecks: Cthulia, you sent for me?
C: There is news.
OW: Who is this man, and why is he standing oddly, as if there was something in his shoe?
C: Sandy Hamburger has lost some weight lately, so maybe you fail to recognize him. He stands like that out of the longstanding habit of keeping reading material in his footwear. But that’s not important right now. He is just come from Martha’s Vineyard. Your father has died.
OW: This is horrible news. What happened, Sandy?
SH: He signed up for POTUScare. The Death Panel decided that his usefulness to society was expended, and some deadbeat should receive treatment instead. We tried to argue with him against the patriotic folly of signing up for POTUScare, but, well, you know how stubborn he could be about the need for Progress at all cost. Including, we see, his life.
OW: Well, that whacky Oedipus Rex prophecy is disproven, as I haven’t seen the old duffer since I won the election.
C: See?
OW: Well, Olga von Kleindrubble Kennedy, my mother, is still alive. A partial fulfillment would be horrible on several levels.
SH: Olga? What’s the worry, modulo the fact that she’s beyond botox? She may have carried you to term, but she’s not your mother.
OW: Run that by me again?
SH: Look, she survived ovarian cancer before she married Kerry Kennedy. She was medically incapable of producing a child.
OW: This gets weirder by the moment. So if she is not my biological mother, is Kerry Kennedy my father? Do I have any clue as to my heritage? Do I even have time to deal with this whole mystery of where I came from and who killed Williams, and why the economy is tanked? This situation is completely wee-weed up.
SH: All I can tell you is that you should rely on the judgment of Ramen and Cthulia.
C: Why don’t you keep your mind focused on the economy. We can have a combination Roots and Ellery Queen episode later.
OW: Right. Ramen is still on my poo-pooh list. But I have to know, or it will eat at me: where did I come from?
SH: You could ask your old family doctor, from back in the day before POTUScare. Coincidentally, he was my doctor, too, so I have him on speed dial.
Pulls out cell phone, makes a call. Brief exchange, nods.
He’ll be on a flight here in two hours, and can explain everything.
C: Listen to me. Why are you wasting time on this? How do events of forty years ago have the slightest bearing on the current problems? Do you think that this doddering old fool doctor has records of what went on? You should drop this irrelevant inquiry right now.
OW: Cthulia, you’re not my mother! I will not listen to you, do you hear? The truth must be made known. You know as well as I do that the economy is still going to be tanked in months out. I can’t unwind in one year the mistakes that Sphinxor made over eight. The fact that I can have success in pursuing the answer to a small, yet important question like ‘How did I get here?’ is crucial to me holding on to sanity right now. This question represents the bottom of this current quagmire. We get through this, and the slope is totally positive on the other side. The question is a millstone around my neck: I have to deal with it.
C: You absolutely miserable fool! You’re so stupid as to defy description. I’ve had all I can stand of this crap!
Cthulia runs off
OW: Bring on the crap. I have to know this. I’m an American citizen, born the usual way. Even if my mother was a hamster and my father smelled of elderberries, I’d need to track down this answer. That’s just the way it…is.

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OediPOTUS Wrecks: Scene II

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by Smitty
Synopsis:
In the Prologue, a Rose Garden press conference announces a connection between the tanked economy to a monstrous evil pertaining to the death of the 42nd POTUS.
Scene I brings in a prophetess with a palindromic name and a chip on her shoulder. Verbal sparring ensues, ending in an accusation.
Scene II has Ramen the Chief of Staff trying to clear himself as a suspect. The question of the death of the 42nd POTUS looms. His widow, Cthulia, the Secretary of State under OediPOTUS, arrives to try to defuse the situation.
Still in the Rose Garden
RLC: My job is to support and defend the President, in spite of these heavy accusations. And that’s what I intend to do, even if I’m getting hit with some fragments while on the job.
MO: Everyone was getting just a little bit spun up. That lady sure knows how to push peoples’ buttons. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the President that distracted.
RLC: The implication that I had put those words in her mouth stung a bit.
MO: Again, I wouldn’t take it too seriously. She provoked him.
RLC: Are you sure? Was it clear that he wasn’t fully deliberate when he said that?
MO: I’d rather avoid speculation, but here is OediPOTUS himself.
[Enter OediPOTUS]
OW: Ramen: you’re back. Are you so stupid that you don’t think I’ve got your number, or so brazen that you think you’ve got mine? It’s obvious that, since no one would vote for you in the election, you simply discredit me, and have Vice President Folderol nominate you as his VP, then arrange for his impeachment, and become President yourself. Who said Fordism is dead?
RLC: Am I allowed to speak at any point?
OW: You can confess everything.
RLC: I would appreciate the privilege. I confess that I have no idea what crimes I have committed, save completely honorable loyalty and devoted service.
OW: Sending for Hanah was your idea, no?
RLC: Absolutely, and I wouldn’t hesitate to restate the suggestion.
OW: Fair enough. Now, when exactly did Jefferson Williams–
RLC: Williams? What’s he got to do with Hanah?
OW: How long, exactly, since Williams perished?
RLC: Nine years, seven months, plus or minus a week.
OW: And Hanah, was she representing some Alaskan hell-hole in Congress at the time?
RLC: Sure. Quite a bridge-builder, she was.
OW: Did her bridge building reach me?
RLC: No, you were still cruising on the Chicago radar scope at the time, way below the national picture.
OW: Right. Now, Sphinxor’s inquiry into the death of Williams: was my name anywhere in the report, even in a draft?
RLC: Well, no. I’ve only looked at the final version, but your name would have stuck out, were it included.
OW: So, is it reasonable to assert that, if Hanah had evidence on me in the case at the time, and said nothing, then the guilt is all on her?
RLC: I’m not sure. That would depend on the nature of the evidence.
OW: Well, if she didn’t get that evidence from someone conspiring against me, say, you, I don’t know how she’d have formed the accusation that I
killed Williams.
RLC: If she said that, then she must have somehow gleaned it from you. But let me cross-examine you.
OW: Fair enough. I’m no killer.
RLC: First, then: you’re the President?
OW: I won.
RLC: And I work for you?
OW: For certain conspiratorial values of ‘work’.
RLC: Let me walk you through my thinking. First, look at how much you’ve aged in a year. Have I told you how much I enjoy my mattress? As
your Chief of Staff, I enjoy the substantial benefit of your aura, without so much of the stress.
When I call on your behalf, to carry out your policy, I get results, but I’m not a slave to policy, getting my face ripped off by the conservative blogs on a daily basis. Monthly, perhaps. However, right where I am is just fine by me: helping you get the credit, while substantially dodging the blame. Prior to this day, the arrangement had seemed a good one.
But let us re-open the investigation. If you find me in any way guilty of doing anything other than the best job possible, including bringing in cranky old Hanah for advice, or even conspiring with her to do something unspeakable, then fire me.
However, don’t debase leadership capital through questionable accusations. Seek facts.
MO: Very well said, Ramen. Judgments too quickly formed are dangerous.
OW: Oh, really? That speech was more than a play-action fake? Something meant to distract, while other actions occur off-stage, so that you can spring a trap on a man who spends too much time thinking and talking, and not enough time taking action?
RLC: Hey, if you’re interested in a resignation letter, I can make that happen.
OW: No, I want your duplicity laid bare, so that the entire, suffering country is clear as to the source of my problems and theirs.
RLC: So you’re insisting on clinging to accusation, at the expense of investigation?
OW: Why should I even listen to you?
RLC: It looks like you picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.
OW: You are evil incarnate!
RLC: Maybe, just maybe, you’ve misjudged the entire situation.
OW: Yet, I’m the President, and I have to press on.
RLC: Not if you’ve already run your ship aground.
OW: Oh, the poor country.
RLC: It’s my country, too, Mr. President.
MO: Gentlemen, the Secretary of State has come from Foggy Bottom. Possibly she can employ a bit of diplomacy, and diffuse the situation.
[Enter Cthulia]
C: What is all the noise about? The country is falling apart and metaphorically burning, and you two trade riffs on the fiddles. Ramen, if you’ll
excuse us, I need to discuss some policy with the President. Let’s set aside the trivia, please.
RLC: Trivia? I’m close to being fired for sedition here.
OW: Seriously, Cthulia: he’s plotting against me.
RLC: I’d take the death penalty if that was true.
C: Give it a rest, Mr. President.
MO: Seriously!
OW: OK, then what should I do?
C: Take Ramen at his word.
OW: Oh, fine then, and let me be kicked out. Wherever Ramen goes, hatred will follow him.
RLC: Thanks for nothing. Your personality is your punishment.
OW: You can resign, you know.
RLC: Considering it. My reputation is intact with everyone but you.
MO: Madame Secretary, didn’t you request a meeting with the President?
C: Yes, but first, just what is all of the racket about?
MO: There has been a series of accusations this afternoon between Hanah, Ramen, and OediPOTUS, but no follow-up yet.
C: Specifically?
MO: We’d be better off to let it go, and consider the economy. Everyone is frazzled.
C: Hm. OediPOTUS, blasting Ramen and Hanah helps how, exactly?
OW: Ramen and Hanah plot against me.
C: Oh, really?
OW: Yes. Ramen accuses me of murdering your husband.
C: Husband? Oh, yes: him. Yes, I had successfully put away the…pain. I should thank you–I mean, uh, we should be thankful that we have a legal
system that requires evidence in these cases. Has Ramen got any?
OW: No, he just brought in Hanah to drop accusations.
C: Oh, well, she doesn’t have anything that could stand up in court. Did you know that, when Jeffy and I were newlywed, he was a Rhodes Scholar, and we were in England?
OW: Something about bad air over there, and he couldn’t inhale freely?
C: Right. I was young, and wanted to get the children out of the way, but, well, Jeffy had some problems with sperm count. He simply wasn’t the man you are, wink-wink. So we had to use a fertility clinic. I was impregnated, and we went to Devon on a weekend. Some distant cousin of his was in the cast of Oedipus Rex at a theater called the Oracle.
The tragedy was on us, though. The fetus was imperfect, and did not survive. Oedipus means “swollen foot”, you know, and the shepherd was supposed to tie up the infant’s feet prior to exposing the child.
Now, Jeffy could have been running around on me even then, and sired the terrorists who killed him, I suppose. But I doubt it. Things hadn’t soured between us, as far as I knew, until we made it back to Louisiana.
At any rate, unless you were running around in the Middle East somewhere in your youth, I don’t see how you’re tied Jeffy’s…sad demise in any way.
OW: I just had a weird tingling sensation run up my leg. The Oracle at Devon…
C: Yes?
OW: After I finished up at Harvard, I went on a highly educational vacation to Europe for a few months.
C: Is that where you learned that one thing you do with–
OW: Don’t distract me, you. While wandering England, I happened through Devon and also caught Oedipus Rex at the Oracle at Devon. A strangely compelling production.
C: Hm. Well, that’s fine trivia, but it isn’t helping either the domestic or the international situation. Maybe we need another offsite in Aspen, just you and me, to…focus.
OW: No, we need to get to the bottom of this here and now. What was Jefferson Williams like? They always paint the portrait early in the administration, before the real grind sets in.
C: About your height, graying at the temples, certainly exhausted by eight years in the job that should have rightfully been mine, you naughty little campaigner. Why don’t we have the FBI send over an agent familiar with the case for a debrief?
OW: Yes, please do. The economy, the death of Williams. It all seems so weighty, but disconnected. I may need to see a shrink.
C: You can confide in me, too..
OW: You’re right. I feel like I’m about to explode. My parents were Kerry and Olga Kennedy. I grew up in Newport, Rhode Island…sailing…swimming. I was partying at Harvard, naked, of course, when a tipsy fellow announced to all present that I’m not a natural Kennedy. Talk about shrinkage.
So I asked mum and da about it when next I visited the Martha’s Vineyard compound. They became very defensive, and called my classmate a scurrilous, foolish, drunken idiot. He didn’t seem that drunk at the time, but I mostly forgot about the whole thing.
Then, I saw Oedipus Rex, and realized I needed to make sure that I never saw Kerry or Olga again. And I stayed away from home for a couple of years. But that was stupid, so, when they were hosting a fundraiser for you and Williams after Pettifogger lost the election to Sphinxor in 2000, I decided it was time to man up and go see them again.
Unfortunately, and this is the weird part, I never made the party. I woke up in Newport, Rhode Island, with no recollection of the week leading up to that party, or why I’d not been in attendance.
Now, I’d been the one driving in the head-on collision that killed Williams, and been thrown in the water, I could have swum to Rhode Island. I was into distance swimming at the time.
The good thing is that Kerry Kennedy was not in that car. Otherwise, in a spooky way, I’d have been carrying out Oedipus Rex. To think that I was the source of the manslaughter. Heh. That’s nearly as twisted as the economic situation.
MO: Well, there is still the file to review. And maybe some DNA comparisons would be a good idea.
OW: True. Also, there is the matter of the report of Williams dying as part of a terrorist attack, not some prosaic car crash. That overshadows any spooky aspects of my memory.
C: That’s absolutely true. Let’s not fret more about these premonitions until we’ve studied the facts.
Exit

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