ART OF EUROPE
heteroslash: j ashcroft/n reagan
It all started with a never-publicized photo-op: the former actor-turned-governor-of-California, the current actor-turned-governor-of-California, a dinner party, some small talk, some smiles, an arc flash or two and bam! no one'll care that the Terminator's sent from the Skynet that is Enron.
It went over like Gang Busters. When they remade Gang Busters as Last Action Hero. Or like the Total Recall pun that's just too tacky to make.
The Groper hands the Gipper one of two bottles. "I brought some wine, for your daughter Patty. I understand both she and I are really cool guys who have posed in nude photographs." He hands him the second, unopened bottle. "And also I brought some juice for your wife Nancy. It's what they gave me after I had a breast removed. How many times have I said breast?"
"Two. Two, since you got of the car you're building all those hydro-stations to drive drunk in. Before that, I can't remember."
I'm not going to pretend to be the Reagans clarifying what is meant by "can't remember." I just don't need to.
"Two? Two. That is very good. Two is precisely what the multiple of the number of a woman's breasts should be. So that it is an even number and she is therefore symmetrical, as on your, our, country's hit TV show Baywatch."
Ten minutes later that and every other conviction of the former Nazi Youth Member were gone.
But it stands as sufficient proof of Norm MacDonald's theory that Germans love David Hasselhoff. And it stood as sufficient proof, upon the FBI's rolling up, that Schwarzenegger had in fact been attempting to affect a symmetry on Nancy Reagan's chest in some weird Adrian Monk Germans-like-order, Germans-burn-art kinda way, and not that he had simply, having single-handedly dispatched the first bottle and therefore mistaken Nancy for Patty, and having single-handedly dispatched the second bottle, knew neither what he was doing nor his own strength, groped her one remaining breast clean off.
No one was willing to admit he was Austrian. He couldn't possibly be Austrian, as the attending Special Agent, upon Ashcroft's orders, pronounced "sex" "sucks" rather than "sex," and Schwarzenegger did at no time accuse him of fucking sheep.
Special Agent, um, Christchurch, filed his report. Due to the sensitive celebrity nature of those involved, he clearly marked it: DOJ: J/O'S EYES ONLY. Even if anyone other than Ashcroft had read it, there really wasn't much of a case. Mr. Reagan, of course, remembered none of it, and Schriver wasn't talking:
"Was your husband drunk?"
"Does Rose Kennedy own a black dress?"
"Yeah, she does."
"No she doesn't. I've been in her closet. Man, you wouldn't believe half the shit I have on those fuckers. Did you know Ted Kennedy likes to drink?"
And, as Schwarzenegger himself pointed out: "If she really didn't want me to do it why didn't she just say no?"
Even had there been a case, it was alleged sexual assault, not political dissent, and had he lifted his index finger to do something about it, the Attorney General would have lost his place in the book he was reading aloud to his DoJ subordinates, and, well, the less time wasted on group prayer the sooner that 9/11 inquiry gets released, and, you know, pushing for November, pushing for November, this is our Irangate, this is our Irangate.
The Attorney General, as we well know, isn't there to prosecute crimes. He's there to masturbate his ego. And, as it appears, his willy. Now I see what they see in pornography, he noted in his FBI intranet blog that proved easier to hack than a Diebold e-ballot. Theseus didn't conquer Sodom and Gomorrah, he wrote. That's not where he found his Hypolytta.
And: Finally, a woman with no breasts who doesn't run the risk of being a Red Chinese operative. They're okay with unhung Huns, but who am I to spot the difference between a clitoris and a well-placed spycam?
Ignoring that Bill Clinton knew to fog the lens with, say, a smoking cigar.
I must have her, he wrote. If only I can possess her, I won't have to put in for the ambassadorship to Cambodia. No living amongst cholera-ridden coloreds. No Baby Tiger for this Grand Dragon.
Nancy Reagan was forthwith arrested. "On what grounds?" asked her attorney. "Can't say. Secret evidence." "When can I see her?" "Can't say. Secret evidence." "But this is a free country!" "Can't say. Secret evidence."
Agent, um, Wellington escorted her to the Dept. of Justice well after hours, sometime between 9 and 5.
"Why are those statues covered?" she asked.
"They were naughty."
"Are they getting worked on?"
"Oh yeah."
"Why are they blindfolded?"
"Because they're getting worked on. You'll see.'
He led her into the DoJ's dungeon. "I don't feel like a real policeman working in a building that doesn't have its own prison," Ashcroft told the budget committee. "I need $40,000 for handcuffs, uniforms, truncheons and butt plugs."
He showed her in. He didn't see her in. The floor was sticky, and the shoeshine guys at the airport he used to meet Escobar at wouldn't touch that gunk.
"Hello, Nancy Girl." The Attorney General greeted her in black studded underwear.
"Hello, um, Nancy Boy. Is that vinyl you're wearing."
"No, it's leather. This way something had to die for me to look dead sexy."
"Um, doesn't that smell bad?"
"If CNN repeats the phrase "month old testicular sweat is a great smell people are lining up to smell cuz it smells so great" enough times then you and everyone else'll believe it in less than the month it takes the smell of testicular sweat to go good."
"Better get started soon."
"I've got Greta Van Susteren and the anthropomorphic representation of Justice downstairs working on it as we spank."
"So the blindfolds..."
"Pavlov. If you had to look at Greta Van Susteren while sniffing month-old testicular sweat, you'd get turned off of month-old testicular sweat, too. But I digress, so you, UNDRESS!"
blink blink.
"That was clever enough to be a sound byte, so you have to do it."
A good Republican woman, Nancy quickly did what she told by a white man in suit. A leather suit with holes for the soon-to-be-clamped nipples, but a suit all the same. Ashcroft quickly slicked her hair back with petroleum jelly (why not use petroleum? we'll have it forever) and pushed her onto her knees.
"A woman's proper place," he barked. "Is on her knees. In prayer. Now tell me I'm big!"
He unclasped the crotch of his leather panties and let it hit the floor. "Wow!" exclaimed Nancy in mock astonishment. "You're bigger than even the black men I've fucked!"
"Gary Coleman doesn't count."
"How 'bout..."
"Grace Jones doesn't count."
"Oh. It's still bigger than a crack pipe, and believe me, I would know."
"So would I," Ashcroft peevishly retorted, before squatting, groaning, and pulling a crack pipe out of his anus. "I don't know how all the people who aren't white do it."
"You mean the criminals?"
"Exactly. So let's you try."
"Very Salem, this trial," Nancy cooed, placing her elbows and face to the floor, her ass in the air. Ashcroft skirted around. "Normally I'd pack it, light it, shove it in bowl first, and hit it, but I'll go easy on you since it's your first time."
"What makes you think it's my first time?"
"Your husband sold all the crack he ever bought."
"Touché."
John quickly inserted the mouthpiece of the pipe into Nancy's anus, gently massaging the ring of her pucker before just barely popping the bulb in. He left her on all fours, popped over to his desk and back, emptied half the contents of a bag marked "EVIDENCE" into the bowl of the pipe, and lit the first half of the bag with the second half. Nancy grunted faintly as he forced all but the bowl up her rectum.
"Suck it up baby. Black man's incense. Suck it up."
"No. No." Nancy managed.
"That's not the safety word."
"I just say no."
"That's not the safety word either."
"This stuff's so great we should legalize it!"
"Alright, alright, I'll stop, I'll stop."
As John was removing the pipe, who should pop in but Mr. Nancy Reagan, our 40th President. "Nancy! John! What's going on!"
"Homosexuality is such a reprehensible sin I won't even tolerate your quoting Marvin Gaye," John stalled. He found what he was looking for. He jingled the keys, then threw them to Ron. "Ooo, keys!" squealed mistake number forty, and left the way he'd come, enamored of shiny.
"Got handcuffs to go with those, stud?" cooed Nancy.
"Oh yeah." John found the handcuffs, locked Nancy's wrists behind her back. "All my life I've locked people up and thrown away the key. I never thought I'd see the day I'd throw the key away before locking someone up."
"Backwards is nice?"
"Yeah, oddly enough."
"So you wanna fuck me up the ass?"
"I only fuck the American public up the ass."
"Then can I be on top?"
"A woman on top. What do I look like? Rick Lazio?"
"The Russians are bailing out Roma before their crosstown rivals. Lazio, I think, is, unlike me, getting fucked up the ass."
"Wait, that's, that's soccer talk! You, are, un, a, merican! That does it! You're getting a spanking!"
Ashcroft, fuming and flapping, ran around the room till he found a ping-pong ball and a lone paddle. He stuck the ball in his mouth, rolled it over twice with his tongue then took it out and thumb-jambed it up Nancy's squirming ass. He took a deep breath, turned red, and began smacking her buttocks with the paddle.
"Open door policy your ass! Strategic trading partner your ass! Zhou Enlai is a communist! Mao Zedong is a communist! Henry Kissinger is a communist!"
"But but but he was sorry about 9-11!"
"He started the Chilean 9-11! Richard Nixon is a communist!"
"Ping-pong diplomacy my ass! Harder, harder!"
"Ugh ugh ugh. Who's your forefather?"
"George Washington."
"No. No. He couldn't lie; it's all I do."
"Thomas Jefferson."
"I wipe my ass with his Bill of Rights. I wipe my ass till his Bill's dirtier than Arkansas'."
"But but but you liked to fuck colored people."
"Jefferson fucked coloreds with his Federal Penile System. I fuck 'em with my Federal Penal System. And you, you've got a dirty spanking coming for calling 'em people."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. They're not, they're not, um, Deuteronomy 69."
"Deuter what to you? 69? 69! There's nothing more un-Christian then cunnilinguis! I'm gonna Abner Louima on your ass!"
"My ass my ass ugh! Um... John, are you even hard?"
"Hold on." John drops paddle, forgets ball, and runs to his bookshelf. He pulls out the only book on it and opens it.
"A woman ... shall ... not ... enter .... the .... temple...!" he reads, and blows hot splooge all over the archaic anachronism that is Leviticus. As if on cue, Ronald pops his head back in.
"Dante got exiled for doing that to a baptismal font, you know. Hey, where's my tacos?"
"Men are from Mars." Nancy shakes her head. "Spank me some more."