Meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the new 640 million dollar hexagonal hydrogen bomb-proof Huddle Room, General William Bomb presiding. Also present: General Elijah Hard, Marines; General Kevin Best, Army; Admiral Boris "Flipper" Palindrome, Coast Guard; Admiral Raymond "Rabid" Flush, Navy; General Frederick Beak, Space Force.
General Hard: My boys, as always, are ready, eager, to, if called upon by the Commander-in-Chief to so do, enter Ukraine to block Putout's illegal invasion.
General Bomb: No doubt they're salivating to go in, but the President hasn't decided on his next move.
General Hard: Sanctions.
General Best: Sanctions. When Saddam invaded Kuwait President Arbusto turned the desert into a shield and there I was sent with my tank battalion. Arbusto did not hesitate.
General Beak: The polls. President Lieden seems affected by polls.
Admiral Palindrome: The polls show a mere thirty-six percent of the population supporting the president's handling of Ukraine.
Admiral Flush: Low numbers, but what do the wants and needs of the people mean to this endeavor?
General Bomb: Not a thing. If the president wants to go thermonuclear on Moscow he'd get a low poll rating for that, too.
Admiral Palindrome: Has he said he'd like to attack Russia?
General Bomb: No, but he muttered something about living a quote, nice regulated life underground in a bunker, that would be nice, end quote.
General Hard: My boys would no doubt be wiped out in a nuclear exchange. I'd like to keep this thing conventional.
General Bomb: We all agree on that, yes?
The other five nod and say "Aye."
General Beak: Space Force is not yet ready to transport V.I.P.'s off planet so World War Three can't happen, yet.
General Hard: It seems as if the president and his advisors are thinking of a slow escalation, turning Ukraine into a European Syria.
General Best: Let's hope that's the goal, otherwise, our boys and your boys may be left out of the fun.
Biff Jeezus, Founder of Mississippi, world's largest package delivery racket, on secure phone with Terry Stein, the real Terry Stein, not the alleged Terry Stein: dead man "hanged, probable suicide, in his cell," except that's not what happened. The double was murdered by Mickey "Muscles" Martinson, a former cop serving a life sentence for murdering three cops who decided to have consciences and report on one of Mickey's friends. Mickey agreed to off the Terry Stein double for a sentence reduction to just fifteen more years to go and more privileges, including visits from hookers. Biff and Terry go back a way. Biff visited Terry's private Caribbean island of statutory rape one known time.
Jeezus: When I see something I want to improve it. In your plastic surgery after you supposedly died, did my doctor employee do something about your Max Von Sydow jaw? It stands out as a recognizable feature, even if you're wearing a mask.
Stein: Mask schmask. I'm keeping my jaw and the way I set my lips when I'm not talking. No one's going to recognize me once the bandages come off.
Jeezus: When do they come off?
Stein: Doc said Saturday, but he's out of town, so Monday.
Jeezus: Does your face itch?
Stein: Don't remind me.
Jeezus: Have you ever wanted to go into outer space?
Stein: In that cock-shaped rocket of yours? You took those Austin Powers movies to heart, didn't
you.
Jeezus: Well?
Stein: Sixty-two miles above the ground is not outer space, Biff.
Jeezus: It is so! And if it isn't I'll get my Wikipedia man working on making it so.
Stein: A hundred miles up is outer space, I think. Build a rocket that goes that high and you can truthfully claim you send celebrities into outer space.
Jeezus: Truth? What's truth? I'm aiming for truth? That's been done, Terry! I make troof! Troof? Truth!
Stein: The most difficult part of having these bandages on my face it makes it less appealing for the girls to sit on my face.
Jeezus: You're well-stocked at that clinic?
Stein: With girls, great food, plenty of drugs, visits from dignitaries. Don came out yesterday.
Jeezus: I don't think Richman has much time left outside of a jail cell.
Stein: He'll be all right. Presidents don't go to jail.
Jeezus: Yet. Precedents happen, Terry.
Stein: I want to be part of the evacuation to Mars.
Jeezus: I'll bring it up with Dracula.
White House Press Room. Jennifer Psyop appears sleep-deprived.
Reporter: Feeling tired, Jen?
Psyop, Trevor, you may call me Jennifer or Secretary Psyop, not Jen.
Reporter: Very well, Jennifer. Is the world going to end before President's Lieden's second term?
Psyop: The world will not end, Trevor. Evil will be vanquished. Troy.
Reporter: Was it NATO expansion that provided the wood for this potential nuclear conflagration?
Psyop: Again, there is no reason to believe this could go nuclear. Responsible people are in charge here. Adults.
Reporter: Ed Gein was an adult.
Psyop: What are you talking about, Teddy?
Reporter: The possibility of someone in the administration having a twisted desire to blow us all to kingdom come has crossed all of our minds in this room. Is that hypothetical crazy person President Lieden?
Psyop: No. Tonette?
Reporter: The elections in Nicaragua were completely fair, election observers from around the world, including from America, found them to be fair and well done, yet the Lieden administration insists the elections there were fraudulent in favor of Señor Ortega. There is no evidence to back up the latter claim. Where does President Lieden stand on Nicaragua's recent elections? If he's insistent that Señor Ortega stole the election, let him produce evidence. He can give it to you if it's his nap time.
Psyop: Tonette, you can keep the dig at President Lieden's alleged old man behavior--
Reporter: He is old. He's six years older than me! Look at me! I'm old but I'm sharp, see? Unlike everybody else in this room I'm weary of the bullshit! President Lieden is senile, people! Put papers in front of him to sign he doesn't know what he's signing and he doesn't care. Give him his Strawberry Quik and a hair pelt to sniff and he's happy for hours while the world burns.
Psyop: Hank? Chopper? Will you please escort Tonette from the room and thence from the building and off the grounds. Walk with her for several blocks then come back. If she follows you, call the cops.
Reporter: Afraid, you're all afraid! America's going down the tubes and you're applying the grease!
Psyop: Where were we? Talc?
Reporter: I've been waiting for her to explode (laughter, everybody needs to unwind). I thought President Lieden's--
Psyop: No one speaks except for Talc and myself!!!
Reporter: I thought his speech resonated with the populace. His rating went up a point from thirty-nine to forty, that may seem unimpressive to the uninformed, but forty percent, well, that's in the forties. President Lieden needs to push war, he must realize that. The populace is edging toward orgasm for war. The dam must burst. Is the Man in the Oval Office committed to constrained war with Russia? Acting through wretched proxy nations? Nations used, churned to bits, by major economic powers, all for profit and theft of natural resources?
Psyop: Is there a question in there, Talc?
Reporter: Is America the greatest nation or what?
Psyop: It is. Thumbs?
Reporter: Is Cassandra Blade going to challenge President Lieden for the Democratic nomination?
Psyop: Ask her.
Reporter: She said to ask you.
Psyop: I'll say Mrs. Blade has every right to seek the nomination. I wouldn't put it past her. Tammy?
Reporter: The arms business stands to make a hefty profit from this Ukraine war. Does President Lieden or any in his cabinet regret dumping so many weapons into Ukraine, an act of an administration determined to make the war last indefinitely, a European Syria.
Psyop: President Biden takes war seriously. His cabinet all care about the lives of innocent civilians. We do not target innocent civilians--
Reporter: American forces have killed thousands of innocent civilians since nine-eleven.
Psyop: The deliberate targeting of innocent civilians is a war crime per Geneva Convention Code 6633 Paragraph 9. I had it before me here but I can't find it. Moving on, Trailblazer?
Reporter: Former President Richman's romantic fragrance, Gol-Don, in the gold bottle, sells for 25 dollars a bottle. His inflated numbers aside, Gol-Don has sold, to date, 3,744 units. It's a failure. A dud, but Don Richman touts it as a success. Will Americans tout war in Ukraine provoked by NATO and especially by the U.S. as a success? Or will it smell like spilled Gol-Don?
Psyop: I'm lost in your colorful language. Mellifluously spoken, Trailblazer, you could do audiobooks.
Reporter: I just signed a contract to do an audiobook!
Psyop: That's...awesome! Now--
Reporter: I'll be reading The Joke by Milan Kundera! Anyone here read it?
Psyop: Sit down, Trailblazer. One more item...I'm closing with the most important part. We are living in very interesting times. Tread carefully times. Questioning the President's decisions, Hexagon decisions, decisions of security, will soon be forbidden, discouraged at first in a grace period of maybe ten days, it hasn't yet been decided on about the length of the grace period. I'm telling you this because I like you, and the boss cleared it for me to tell you, so you know not to get out of hand, for your country, and God bless America. Turn to the flag and salute it. Okay, I'm done.
Former President Bongo sitting on one of his leather couches in his Cape Cod mansion, sipping a gin and tonic with a twist of lime. He sings a little, thinking about date night with his wife, coming up Saturday and this is Thursday. Damn! A servant shows in Cassandra Blade. She sits on the couch opposite, drinks champagne.
Blade: Moe is losing it.
Bongo: I knew that three years ago.
Blade: Yet you gave it to him.
Bongo: I was one of some who gave it to him, Cassie.
Blade: Gave it to him good, made him a winner before he goes to the old folks home!
Bongo: Like an old athlete returning to his hometown where he scored his first TD.
Blade: Do the same for me, Mr. President, and I'll make you chief behind the scenes advisor in my administration.
Bongo: Your administration? Hold your horses, Cassie! You couldn't beat Richman. Who's the second worst presidential candidate ever? Don Richman. Who's the worst? Cassandra Hartliss Blade!
Blade: Mr. President! I'm aghast!
Bongo: Nobody likes you, Cassie. Why would anybody vote for you? I sure didn't.
Blade: You voted for Richman?
Bongo: I wrote myself in. I only vote for myself. Thus do I honor myself and show myself I have confidence in myself.
Blade: Can I expect your vote?
Bongo: Didn't you hear what I just said?
Secretary of Defense Holroyd with President Lieden in the Oval Office. Doughnuts and coffee on a platter belonging to Dolly Madison on the coffee table made by Thomas Jefferson. One chocolate doughnut is sawn in half by a white plastic bread knife. The Defense Secretary is a prim man.
Lieden: Swat em like flies, outta the sky! Rat-tat-tat! Our jets are better than their jets! Take on us, they think! We'll give it to em like I gave it to Mrs. Lieden last night. I let her have it. I yelled at her cuz she always make the same mistake, forgetting her glasses when she needs to read a menu! Gave it to her good! Oh yes I did.
Holroyd: Mr. President. I'm recommending we not have a no fly zone in Ukraine. The likelihood of a fatal close encounter between one of theirs and one of ours is farther than we want to go with this, if we don't want to hand off the planet to the cockroaches.
Lieden: Cockroaches will never amount to anything. They stopped evolving once they discovered apartment kitchens in East Coast cities. There's my bride, my little mistake maker. Come here and sit on my lap.
Mrs. Lieden: How are you, Mr. Secretary?
Holroyd: Happy to report our Armed Forces are in top top fighting shape, ready to defend freedom.
Lieden: Freedom.
Mrs. Lieden: Honey, you're nuzzling my neck a little too intently, and your groaning isn't appropriate given that we're not alone.
Holroyd: Mr. President, would you like me to absent myself?
Lieden: Stay. Watch your president go crazy with this.
Mrs. Lieden: Mr. Holroyd, please go.
Holroyd: Have a good day.
Mrs. Lieden: Moe! Let me up!
Lieden: This may be the last boner I ever get! Come back here!
Mrs. Lieden: I came to tell you that Mrs. Richman wants to meet with us to discuss implementing her discipline camps for kids idea.
Lieden: Is she in town?
Mrs. Lieden: Yes, staying at her husband's hotel.
Lieden: The Park Regency. I had dinner there in 1972 with Storm Pegasus, the controversial racist Senator from South Carolina. Great guy. Give you the shirt off his back, no joke. I wore that shirt every time I cast a vote favoring racism. Storm had conviction, a real character. I'd give my eye teeth to have dinner with that raconteur again. He knew Abraham Lincoln, he helped Samuel Morse invent the telegraph, Storm saw McKinley get shot, Storm was a bounty hunter specializing in tracking Black people--that would be a great TV show. He hated Black people, but he had a daughter by a Black woman. People are complicated, Susan.
Mrs. Lieden: Amanda. Honey, you need your medication. Let's go to the living quarters. You've had enough work for one day.
Lieden: Have someone bring the doughnuts.
Eddie Trailer, low budget independent filmmaker from Walla Walla, Washington.
Shot three films in eastern Washington, in Cheney, in Spokane, and in Othello. The spooky pale golden country, the brown hills, the dryness in the air, the wind, Mt. St. Helens ash piled high by the road. Green irrigated fields. Studying the character Loki in the movies, but mainly in the Thor comic books, Eddie wants to make a superhero movie, make it low budget, but tight, maybe sixty-two minutes, get a minor star to play the lead role, maybe Sub-Mariner, or Kraven the Hunter. He seeks financial help from Angie Crook's nephew, Chad Crook, a Democratic hopeful in an upcoming state senate race. Chad's the hope of the Party, he looks the part, could be President, the system is that corrupt. This turns into a scandal when found out. Chad getting funding for Eddie's movie Shellhead, an antagonist of Iron Man, comes from Democratic low sum donors, just ordinary people believing in a Democratic candidate with a pedigree, Angie Crook, my gosh, she's been reelected eighteen times, elected as Speaker thrice! Angie Crook is what's right with America!
Eddie Trailer became a fixture at Angie Crook's fundraisers. Angie Crook appreciated Eddie's charm, his "I don't give a shit" attitude, feigned or not. Eddie's admiration for Angie extended up to her millions. About her he cared not. Rumors started, consisting of you know what. Angie's taken a lover. Angie's happy with a young man. Angie has a glow. Angie's a dithering idiot she's so in love. Angie's exhibiting odd behavior in public. Angie has dementia. Angie must retire. No one brave enough to tell Angie she need to go. Everyone fears Angie, the money spigot of the Democratic Party, way to go, chums.
Trailer: You look splendid, Angie!
Crook: Eddie, you magnificent darling, move over, let Angie massage your temples.
Trailer: Massage me everywhere my queen, my goddess, my hypernova.
Crook: You're going to make me look good in the movie. I want the scene where I confront Shellhead with the consequences of his destructive actions.
Trailer: Are you drunk?
Crook: Ice cream. Laced with booze. I get it special from Saudi Arabia or someplace.
Trailer: No filming of you tonight.
Crook: Oh come on, I'm ready.
Trailer: Can you walk a straight line, Angie?
Crook: No, but I can give you a good time, Eddie dear.
Trailer: Back off. I'm not in the mood.
Crook: Is it because I'm eighty-nine and you're twenty-six?
Trailer: Those numbers tell a story.
Crook: Okay, if you want more money for your movie you're going to watch me use a vibrator on myself.
Trailer: I want full control over the film. Final cut.
Crook: Final cunt! Did I say cunt? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ahaahshahaha...cunt! I no longer fear the word cunt!
Trailer: It's a word.
Crook: If there were a de-aging potion I'd drink it, I'd regain my beautiful skin of youth, summer would blow through my loins, I'd run everywhere, flowers in my hair, go to a party thrown by Jefferson Airplane, eat an apple filled with acid. Knowing what I now know, my young self would be president by now.
Trailer: Angie, I'm leaving. I'll find money for Shellhead from someone else. I have a few ideas about possible benefactors.
Crook: I own fifty-one percent of Shellhead. I say you stay, watch me do myself, get to work on Shellhead. You can have creative control, just give me a film to promote and distribute--let's make some mon-aaaaayyyyy.
Trailer: I'm wary of you. You're one of the witches in Macbeth. Privy to information kept secret from the people. My film will be about people, and New Jersey.
Crook: You're shooting it in New Jersey?
Trailer: Urban and rural locations, beach locations, woods, blight, views of Manhattan, views of Atlantic City and Camden. Real places, real images, and Shellhead and Iron Man.
Crook: I love Robert Downey, Jr.!
Trailer: This will be Caesar Fullback as Tony Stark and Francis Rylance as Shellhead.
Crook: Sounds good, darling. Er, do you have knowledge of the next visit from aliens?
Trailer: Angie, let me help you to bed.
Crook: I don't want to be probed.
Trailer: To bed with you.
Tucks her in, leaves in a hurry. Shellhead on his mind, Eddie Trailer gets hit by an Uber driver in a
Dodge Ram. Six months hospital. No motivation to resume Shellhead, but Angie Crook threatens a lawsuit if he doesn't make the film.
Shellhead has its premiere at the Circus Maximus, Washington D.C.'s largest outdoor movie theater. The place doubles as an Olympic stadium, parade ground, drill ground, execution ground, circus ground and racing ground.
Eddie goes against the Iron Man color palette, makes the suit green and black instead of red and yellow. Shellhead wears a wooden helmet with seashells glued to it. Like a tribesman of 3,500 B.C.
Shellhead wears a black bearskin, but he can shoot yellow bolts from his eight fingers.
the actor is missing his right middle and left pinky fingers. Shellhead goes berserk without warning, smashing furniture, trashing rooms, throwing things and people off balconies. His speech drips venom, always insulting whomever he's with. His reputation: terrible.
Iron Man doesn't like going against such an unpredictable villain. Iron Man and Shellhead agree to meet in a neutral spot, New York Public Library, in the Philosophy section.
Shellhead: Tony Stark. So clever with your suit. I was one of those who pooh-poohed your suit idea. I admit I was wrong. The colors, though...you seem to dwell on drab with such choices.
Iron Man: Green represents the earth from which I sprang to work with metals derived from that same earth. Black represents the unforgiving heat of my survival weapons, my offensive gizzard-straightener, and the always useful corkscrew cloud.
Shellhead: Red and yellow, those are your colors. Ketchup, representing blood, and mustard, representing life's ever-present spice.
Iron Man: You're a poet and you don't know it.
Shellhead: In another life I published five books of poetry.
Iron Man: I've published nine technical manuals and 3,914 articles and one cartoon in fifty-nine different periodicals.
Shellhead: I'm double-jointed in the elbows.
Iron Man: You got me there.
Lieden: Have you seen that Shellhead? I met the director, Eddie Something. Honey, what's the name of that director? Shellhead. '
Mrs. Lieden: Eddie Trailer.
Lieden: Right, Eddie....
Mrs. Lieden: Trailer.
Lieden: Trailer. Eddie Trailer! He made a short movie, it's only an hour long. Who makes a movie that's only an hour long?
Sec of State: This Trailer has been making films for twenty-one years, we're just now hearing of him. Background check reveals nothing suspicious. He's a thinker, though. Has freewheeling ideas about things we don't like to discuss in public. He's smart. The film, though insipid, gets brash about supporting the government, trusting the upper echelons.
Lieden: That's where I take off my boots. The upper bunk beds. I always volunteered for the upper bunk. I like looking down at others. Look at my wife. She's five inches shorter than. me.
Mrs. Lieden: Seven inches. I'd like to be five foot eight!
Lieden: Even five eight is short, for a man, but it's a good height for my nose. When I inhale the perfume, the shampoo, the perfumey shampoo smell of smooth lustrous hair on a girl or woman, I go crazy like my little thing there is tryin tuh...tryin tuh pop out of my pants and I know that would look bad in front of people, photographers takin pictures of my thing, where would we be then? I'd have to invade somewhere, drop some bombs, tell some lies about the state of the economy. I want to be let near women and girls again, honey. Please?
Mrs. Lieden: We'll make it happen for you. In the meantime, come to bed. You should have taken your medications two hours ago.
Lieden: Is my true personality showing?
Mrs. Lieden: Yes. One step in front of the last. That's it, almost out.
Lieden: Will you let me...
Mrs. Lieden: Yes.
Billy Boy Blade's office in Harlem. He owns a five story building in Harlem, home community of Blade's Promise, a philanthropic organization dedicated to healing the wretched in Africa and South America. Zipping up from his lunchtime blowjob, Billy Boy asked Alexa for Pink Floyd.
Blade: Sixty-five million, you can afford it.
Wearing a headset, he shoos away the woman, a regular lunchtime companion. Delivers the lunch, blows the great man, leaves with a just adequate tip.
Blade: United States dollars. I'm putting in three of my own millions. Three dollars. Ha Ha Ha Ha.
Man of Destiny: (leader of a bloc of Middle East nations, himself Eldest Prince of the Soum Dynasty).
Sixty-five, no. Sixty for the fighters and throw in two trainer planes, I want to give one to my daughter. She's going into the Air Force when she turns eighteen.
Blade: You're doing a great job destroying the southern part of your peninsula. The whole thing is yours by right. Take it. We'll help you with satellite intel, all the way from space. Marjorie? Did you pick up my dry cleaning? Well go do it, girl! Women, Man of Destiny, can't live with em.
Man of Destiny: (from his robes he takes out a DVD case) I return your Capricorn One. Your Moon program was real or fake?
Blade: Real American knowhow with some Nazi scientists offering helpful hints.
Man of Destiny: I would like to visit your Moon.
Blade: It ain't mine yet.
White House Press Room, President Lieden addresses the room.
Lieden: You all look so chipper this morning. Let's see it's...7:41, in the a.m. Where would I rather be? In a bathtub with mimosas and my darling bride, Dr. Lieden. Where is she? Come out here, honey! Isn't she something? I don't know what I'd do without her. What is it? Time to walk in a dress? Oh, press! Yeah, yeah, I need to do my job, honey. Go over there. Wait in the wings, my dove!
I am here to assure you these United States of America stand true to her allies, we are not anesthetized to the situation in Ukrainia. Someone showed me a Dovzhenko film, Earth. Ukrainia. Man, is that place flat! Great place for a tank war. We're working on a deal to sell Abrams tanks, otherwise gathering dust on a field in Virginia, to the Nazis. I'll take questions. Ambien?
Reporter: Your war stance has distracted the citizenry from Covid concerns. Would you say the pandemic is over?
Lieden: The state of emergency on that topic is like a rubber band and now it's relaxed a little, but it will tauten if the need arises, like when people get bored with the war in Ukraine. A reality show about a Nazi paramilitary unit was in the works at NBC but the Nazis stole the equipment, they're making their own news programs. Pretty good. Pretty slick stuff. If I were a young man I'd join. Arlene? Hey, you're looking mighty fine, I like that pale green barrette in your lovely hair, that reddish gold hair, you sport a magnificent shrub of hair. What is your question, Arlene?
Reporter: We're giving up using Baikonur? What do the Kazakh's say?
Lieden: I spoke via telephonic link with Supreme Leader Baikanvelvonkam Nishrurbanikam. He wants payment for use of Baikonur. We'll pay him all right. In sanctions. Argyle?
Reporter: What about the men in the ISS? They're stuck. They have only enough supplies to survive thirty days at the most.
Lieden: Luck of the draw.
President Lieden winces, unbuckles his pants, drops trousers and boxers, shits on the stage.
Lieden (pushing out the last turd): Algernon?
Reporter: You've promised Student Debt Relief--
Lieden: Relief!
Wipes his ass with his notes, stands, falls while pulling up his pants. No one helps him. He gets up and hopping about manages to get his pants up and buckled. Pictures of all this are taken, sd cards and cameras confiscated, never returned.
Lieden: Someone clean up this mess!
Aides hurry out to gather and take away the president's shit-smeared notes, a gardener called in on the emergency frequency enters with a shovel, scoops the turds, bows at the reporters. The First Lady approaches cautiously, nervous smile plastered on her face.
Lieden: As the man says, it takes more than a stone to build a castle, and it takes willpower to build that castle. Arby.
Reporter: Do you plan on calling Mr. Putout? Care to try for diplomacy?
Lieden: Listen young man, I've been doing diplomacy longer than you've been alive. How old are you?
Reporter: Fifty-nine.
Lieden: You've been alive longer than I've been doing diplomacy but I've been doing diplomacy for a long time. Abraham Lincoln?
Reporter: Have the Cossack hordes of Russia been as unsuccessful against the Ukrainian military levies as your broadcast TV would have us accept as unvarnished fact?
Lieden: Let me tell you something, Abraham. Ukraine has the second best military in the world. We trained em, like the Contras.
Mrs. Lieden comes forward, whispers something in his ear.
Lieden: Forget I said that. I sure like ice cream. Where was I? Hair. I'm going to tell you a story from my boyhood. "The Boy Who Found Hair," by Morris Garroway Lieden.
Mrs. Lieden: Moe, not that one! Answer another question. Questions anyone? Yes, Aiden?
Reporter: When are we going to invade Ukraine?
Lieden: We're not going to invade. This is a proxy war. You understand it's an excuse to sell weapons to Ukraine, send aid packages, weapons, special trainers, compasses, portapotties, jeeps, tanks, spam, the meat, not the computer spam. I eat it every morning for my blood pressure.
Reporter: Will the war thus continue indefinitely, fed by weapons from the U.S. and the rest of NATO?
Lieden: You're smart enough to figure it out. Amy? Oh you look beautiful, that green dress suits the color of your Scottish Highland lass red hair. I can see you prancing in a meadow, yellow and white wildflowers in me gal's hair! Prancing, bouncing, soft parts bouncing--
Mrs. Lieden: Mr. President, let her ask a question.
Reporter: Our airstrikes kill civilians. Why are you offended when you hear of Russia doing the same. Why is your outrage going only in one way?
Lieden: Flame out! Ditch canopy! Eject, pull rip cord, land, stow parachute or cut it loose who cares. A parachute drifting in and out of the shot, great way to end a movie.
Reporter: When can we expect the next public defecation?
Lieden: I'll vomit for you next time.
Reporter: How are you feeling?
Lieden: Like an old man they won't let retire.
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