American Freak Show

by Willie Geist

  57-year-old Keith Walendowski was minding his own business one spring morning, drinking beer, basking in the warm sun, and shooting his lawnmower with a sawed-off shotgun, when officers from the Milwaukee Police Department arrived to question him. Turns out a nosy neighbor had called to report shots fired from the direction of Walendowski’s backyard.

  According to the criminal complaint, Walendowski explained the noise very simply. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he told police. “I got pissed because my lawnmower wouldn’t start, so I got my shotgun and shot it. It’s my lawnmower and my yard, so I can shoot it if I want.” Damn right.

  Despite his seemingly flawless constitutional defense, Walendowski was charged with a felony count of possessing a short-barreled shotgun and a misdemeanor count of disorderly conduct while armed.

  Keith Walendowski’s is a cautionary tale. A country where a man cannot get liquored up at 9:30 in the morning and shoot a lawnmower in his own backyard has come unmoored from its founding principles of individual freedom and inebriation. First they came for the sawed-off shotguns, America.

  Chapter 5

  Obama vs. Cheney: Late Night in the White House Kitchen

  President Barack Obama is jolted awake by the sound of a crash. He sits up in bed and waits in still silence to hear it again, but nothing. The president turns to see the first lady sleeping, unfazed by the noise. Maybe it was just the sound of the overnight staff moving about downstairs, he thought. Or perhaps it was nothing more than the drafty old White House whistling its two-hundred-year-old song. Whatever it was, Obama resents having been woken from a wonderful dream in which he was riding a bicycle built for two along Lake Michigan with his beloved friend and unrepentant terrorist Bill Ayres.

  The clock on the nightstand in the president’s White House bedroom reads 3:37 a.m. He puts his head back on the pillow.

  Then, before he can slip back into unconsciousness, an even louder crash—the unmistakable sound of a plate smashing on a hard floor. Obama springs up from bed. This is no dream. The first lady rolls over, looking up at her husband.

  “Did you hear that?” he asks.

  “Did you lock the back door before you went to bed?” she whispers.

  “Damn it!” Obama smacks himself on the forehead.

  Exasperated by the president’s recent negligence of basic household responsibilities, the first lady shoots back, “Well, get down there and see what it is.” She rolls back over on her pillow. “And sort the recycling while you’re down there—like I asked you yesterday.”

  The president peels back the covers and climbs out of bed. He is wearing the “I ♥ Big Government” pajamas given to him as a birthday gift by his old Republican colleague in the Senate Dick Lugar. (Lugar, as you may know, is Capitol Hill’s king of gag gifts. In the midst of the Lewinsky scandal, he sent Bill Clinton a box of exploding cigars with a humorous note reading, “This one really blew up in your face, didn’t it?! Yours, Big Dick.”)

  Obama grabs a 7-iron out of the golf bag left in a closet by Dwight Eisenhower and tiptoes his way out of the room to confront whomever—or whatever—is making the noise. As the president slides down the grand stairwell with his back against the wall, he sees a faint light reaching into the hallway from under the kitchen door. A couple of delicate, bare footsteps closer and he hears low murmuring—a man’s voice. The president clutches the club tighter and suddenly reconsiders his position on gun control. A loaded semiautomatic handgun would be great right now, he thinks.

  With the loud clanking of silverware now just on the other side of the kitchen door, the president braces himself, with both hands on the club, to face the intruder who has violated the sanctity of the American People’s home. He closes his eyes and counts quietly, “1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”

  “Hey!” the president shouts as he springs into the kitchen ready to fight.

  The silhouette of an older, heavyset man standing at the kitchen’s island is lit from behind only by the small light of the microwave. The man throws up his hands, dropping a butter knife from one and a sandwich from the other.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Easy there, Tiger Woods! It’s me!”

  The president, with the golf club still poised, squints to see the man, but the room is too dark. He reaches behind him and turns on the overhead light. Standing there in the middle of the White House kitchen, wearing only a T-shirt and extraordinarily small white Jockey underwear, is Dick Cheney.

  “What the f**k?” the stunned president mutters under his breath.

  Cheney breaks into a crooked smile. “Can I put my hands down here, officer? You already ruined my sandwich, and I don’t mind telling you, you ruined this pair of underwear, too.”

  Obama lowers the club. “What the hell are you doing here, Vice President Cheney? It’s three-thirty in the morning. And you’re wearing your underwear. Jesus Christ, you scared the crap out of us.”

  Cheney lowers his arms. “First things first: call me Dick. Everybody else in your socialist party does,” the former vice president quips with a laugh.

  The look on Obama’s face suggests that Cheney’s attempted icebreaker has failed to break the considerably thick ice.

  “Aw, phooey, did I wake you up when I dropped that plate? I apologize. I’m just having a little late-night snack here in my kitchen. That’s my bad on the noise. Hey, how great is this T-shirt?”

  Cheney pulls down his shirt to reveal the words I’M WITH STUPID and a photograph of President George W. Bush.

  “Lugar gave it to me,” he says with a chuckle.

  Obama does not laugh. “Why are you in the White House, Dick? This is not your kitchen.”

  Cheney has turned back to his sandwich, spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I live here, Barack-Attack! We don’t like to make a big fuss about it on account of the press would go batshit, but, yeah, got a little underground setup downstairs here. You wanna go check it out? I’ve got Xbox on the big screen and everything. Only downside is that we have to ride the dumbwaiter to get down there.”

  Obama puts the club down on the island and walks toward Cheney. “You live in the White House?! This is an outrage!”

  Cheney takes a bite of the sandwich, stuffing a loose piece of lettuce into the side of his mouth. “Oh, spare me, Obama! I’ve been running the United States government since I got Scalia to give Slappy the Clown that 2000 election. Would you believe that whole crazy thing was decided over a late-night game of pinochle at Newt’s place? You tell anybody that, I’ll have you sent to a black site in Siberia. No shit. I will do that.”

  Obama shakes his head as Cheney continues.

  “Don’t look so shocked, my man. Have you happened to notice that your foreign policy looks exactly like Slappy’s? Well, you can thank your old Uncle Dick for that. Yes, sir. Still calling the shots down there.”

  Obama is stunned. “Good God!”

  Cheney turns and opens the refrigerator, takes a swig of milk directly from the gallon jug. “And, look, I’m sorry for being an asshole to you all the time.” Cheney wipes away the milk around his mouth. “I have to do that every now and again to throw everyone off the scent. I start praising you and people wonder what the hell’s going on between us. That’s why all the ‘dithering’ and ‘He’s making us less safe’ ranting and raving. Are you mad at me?”

  Obama does appear to be mad now.

  “ ‘Mad’ is not the word, Dick. You are running my presidency from a room underneath the White House—”

  Cheney jumps in, “Not just yours, Obama-Rama. Remember, I ran Slappy’s, too. He started sobbing like a little girl on 9/11 and I took the wheel from there. Every time he got his courage up and asked to be included in a big decision, we’d tell him, ‘The grown-ups are talking,’ and send him to Crawford to clear brush for a couple of weeks. I know how that sounds, but trust me, it was better for everybody.”

  Obama speaks slowly and in a stern tone: “Mr. Cheney, I think you should finish that sandwich, go downstairs, pack up your things,
and be on your way before I call the Secret Service.”

  Cheney lets out a hearty laugh. “The Secret Service?! Those guys love me. Besides, you’re not gonna tell anyone. You want the world to know you’re not really the president? Sure, let’s go ahead and give The Washington Post the scoop right now. Who should I call, Woodward or Bernstein? Come on, Bam-Bam, get real!

  “Plus, I ain’t going anywhere until my bacon and cheddar Hot Pocket’s done in the microwave. That is non-negotiable.”

  Obama concedes the condition. “Very well. You can wait until your Hot Pocket is ready.” The president folds his arms and stares at Cheney as the Hot Pocket rotates in the soft light of the microwave over his shoulder. Cheney smacks his gut, looks up at the ceiling, and exhales. “Sooooo, this is awkward. How ’bout those Bears! Butkus is having another good year, huh?” Obama remains expressionless.

  Cheney’s face lights up with a thought. “Hey, do you know about The Book?”

  Obama shakes his head. “What book?”

  Cheney throws up his hands. “You seriously don’t know about The Book? Oh, you’re in for a treat. Have you ever seen the movie American Pie with that babe Tara Reid?”

  Obama shakes his head again. “I have not.”

  Cheney breaks into a wide smile. “Oh, it’s a really terrific coming-of-age story. You oughta rent the tape. So there’s this part in there where the high school seniors pass down a book full of secrets and advice every year to the next class. Well, the outgoing class here at the White House does the same thing. It’s all in The Book. Just like in American Pie.”

  Obama is mildly intrigued. “Is Tara Reid the one who’s had the ongoing struggle with her personal body image?”

  Cheney points at Obama. “That’s her!”

  Obama nods. “Oh yeah, she’s very good.”

  Cheney ignores the microwave, whose beeping indicates the Hot Pocket is ready. “I think you’re ready to see The Book, Tommy Barama. Technically, you are a president, I guess. Even if you were born in some terrorist hotbed.”

  He walks toward a shelf full of cookbooks and pulls away two of them. He reaches into the gap left by the books and comes out with a beautiful, red leather–bound volume embroidered in gold. Cheney wipes away a thin layer of dust on the book’s cover to reveal the title The Book.

  “Here it is, BO: The Book! Wisdom from all the presidents who have lived in this house. Unfortunately we only have the volume from the last one hundred years or so because that cocksucker Grover Cleveland took the first one home with him when he left office. You become the only guy to serve two non-consecutive terms and suddenly you think your shit doesn’t stink. The whole ‘I’m the twenty-second and twenty-fourth president’ thing went straight to his head.”

  Cheney hands the book to Obama and walks back to the microwave to retrieve his snack. “If it’s just the same to you, I’m gonna take my snack back downstairs and catch the lottery drawing. I played the Pick Six tonight with the nuclear codes. Feelin’ lucky! Hey, enjoy the book. There are some gems in there.”

  With that, the former vice president, wearing his T-shirt and snug tighty-whities, takes his Hot Pocket and stuffs himself into the dumbwaiter, descending slowly into the bowels of the White House from which he controls the United States government.

  President Obama, standing in his pajamas in the darkness of the kitchen at four o’clock in the morning, opens The Book and, by the light of a microwave still warm from Dick Cheney’s bacon and cheddar Hot Pocket, meets the ghosts of the White House past.

  WILLIAM “BILL” MCKINLEY

  JUNE 14, 1897

  For the record, the last asshole, Grover Cleveland “Steamer,” stole the first volume of “The Book.” That’s okay, Grover, I’m sure future presidents would have no interest in the wisdom of Washington, Jefferson, or Lincoln. Dick move, man. Dick move.

  DECEMBER 14, 1898

  Get out the sunblock and fire up the margarita machine because I just took Puerto Rico, a bunch of the West Indies, Guam, and the Philippines from Spain! They call it the Spanish-American War, but trust me, it wasn’t much of a war. More like four months of looking at island property in the Caribbean. See you in San Juan!

  THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  SEPTEMBER 15, 1901

  Well, I guess McKinley isn’t gonna get to chill in San Juan after all. He’s chillin’ in the morgue right now. Some crazy anarchist popped a cap in him. Fuckin’ anarchists. Anyway, guess what this means? I’m president! I have no idea what I’m doing. Seriously. Don’t tell anyone!

  APRIL 22, 1903

  If you’re reading this book it’s too late for you, but this job kind of blows. I used to do tons of cool stuff—I was police chief in New York City, governor of New York, I led the Rough Riders up that hill—but this is boooooooring. I think I might go dig a canal for shits and giggles.

  NOVEMBER 7, 1906

  Okay, started the canal. It’s gonna be kick-ass. Now they want me to get excited about the Meat Inspection Act. Meat Inspection?! I don’t mean to big-time anybody, but do they know who I am? BTW, that would be a hilarious name for a porn film—The Meat Inspection Act. Ha! I’m so not running for reelection. I’m going to shoot elephants in Africa instead. Smell ya L8TR!!!!!

  WILLIAM H. TAFT

  JANUARY 1, 1913

  It’s been a heck of a ride here in the White House, but I just have to say, I did NOT get stuck in the goddamned bathtub! Seriously, you guys. That’s an ugly smear spread by opponents who would rather focus on my weight than on the issues. Could I lose a few pounds? Sure. Could I stand to skip a few trips to the buffet? Of course. Does that mean I get stuck in bathtubs? Absolutely not. I’m gonna be SO pissed if the spurious bathtub story overshadows the legislative achievements of my historically great presidency. Do you think the Sixteenth Amendment passed itself?!

  WOODROW WILSON

  FEBRUARY 24, 1913

  Dude, Taft totally got stuck in that bathtub. I hate to tell tales out of school, but I have it on good authority. It happened. They brought in the National Guard.

  JUNE 28, 1919

  Let’s see, what did I do today? Oh yeah, I ended the Great War! Signed a treaty in the morning and by five o’clock I was four bottles of Lafite deep with Clemenceau celebrating world peace. All in a day’s work. (I know it sounds like a cliché, but Paris really is beautiful this time of year if you get the chance to go.) Oh, and don’t worry, you won’t be hearing from those dumb Krauts anytime soon! Buried ’em at Versailles! There is absolutely no chance of a horrific backlash that will lead to the rise of a genocidal madman and haunt the world for centuries to come. You can thank me later.

  AUGUST 18, 1920

  To all the ladies in the house: let’s not forget who got you the right to vote today. You’re welcome, girls.

  WARREN G. HARDING

  JULY 19, 1923

  My advice? Stay away from Teapot Domes! Jesus Christ, who knew anyone would give a shit? Totally misread that one. Also, I haven’t been feeling well lately. If, God forbid, anything should ever happen to me, go easy on Coolidge. He doesn’t say much, but he really is a sweet man.

  **NOTE: President Harding died in office of a heart attack two weeks after writing this entry.

  CALVIN COOLIDGE

  AUGUST 4, 1923

  Oh great, I’m president! I did not sign up for this shit! I’m not a people person at all. Ugh. So pissed right now . . .

  AUGUST 27, 1928

  We just signed the Kellogg-Briand Pact ending war everywhere forever. No more wars. Ever. Anywhere. Not bad, huh? Call me “Silent Cal” all you want, but I just ended fucking wars forever. Did I say that loud enough, bitch? There will never be another war ever again because of me. Everyone promised. I got it all in writing. Who’s silent now?

  HERBERT HOOVER

  OCTOBER 29, 1929

  OH SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Can’t talk—I think the world economy just collapsed. This is not good.

  FEBRUARY 21, 1930

  Note to future pr
esidents: you get blamed for shit you had nothing to do with. I hadn’t even unpacked my cotton-pickin’ Dopp kit yet when the stock market crashed and it’s somehow all my fault? Everyone’s like, “Do something, Hoover!” and I’m like, “Fucking call Coolidge, man! I’ve been here for five minutes, dude.” So ol’ Herbie Hoover’s a big joke now while that cock Coolidge plays with himself on a beach somewhere. I’ll tell ya, I must be a pretty damn effective president if I single-handedly orchestrated a global economic meltdown in the first 8 months of my presidency. That’s some feat. This is such bullshit. I want out.

  MAY 31, 1932

  This sucks! People chase me down the street with pitchforks and torches like they do mythical ogres. Homeless people live in shantytowns named after me. I was hoping to save the name Hooverville for my presidential theme park back home. Guess I can forget that now. This is not going well at all. I’m running a half-assed reelection campaign before I turn this clusterfuck over to Roosevelt. It’s all yours, Frank. Good luck!

  FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT

  MARCH 15, 1945

  Sorry I haven’t written sooner. Been a little busy, as you may have read in your history books. Just got back from Yalta and had a minute to write in “The Book.” I guess as I look back, I really have only two small achievements to put down in writing: saving the world economy and freeing the planet of tyranny. You know, generally restoring our faith in humanity. Good luck living up to that legacy, guys.

  Now, I respect the shit out of Abe Lincoln, as anyone who knows me will tell you, but honestly, you’d have to move me past him at this point on any list of Greatest American Presidents. We both healed the country, yes. But unless I missed something, I’m the only one of the two of us who healed the WORLD. Defeating both the Depression and that little fuck Hitler is a hell of a day’s work, if you don’t mind my saying. True, I gave myself a couple extra terms to get it all done, but I did it nevertheless. BTW, keep an eye on that Stalin. We look good together in a Yalta class photo, but there’s something about those Russkies I don’t trust. I feel like he’s hiding something behind that bushy porn ’stache.