It's another day at the White House...in 1965. The country's still not used to Camelot being an empty nest...but they're getting there. One day, it'll be as if JFK was never president. It just...won't happen at the end of this decade.
A black fence runs around the White House. Here, tourists crowd at the fence. There's just something about the White House lawn that they can't resist.
The new President has got peasants working in the rose gardens. They're emaciated men, and wear little more than red, white, and blue miniskirts. (More blue than red.) Wherever their job demands it, they use hammers and sickles. Most of their tools are made of hammers and/or sickles of varying sizes. Their pruners sport little sickle blades.
The new Pres can't help himself. He's a Democrat...and thus, a jackass.
Speaking of what, actual jackasses now graze on the lawn. They're the same damn beasts of burden that lived here under Kennedy's rule. Kennedy's kids used to have dung fights with their dung. For this, crowds would gather at the fence to watch. Alas, the pasttime is a lot like seeing otters at the zoo. If you don't catch them at just the right time (morning, in zoo otters' case), the only thing you get is an empty tank of water, and otters who take long naps out of sight. (And when I say out-of-sight, I DON'T mean a hippie idiom; you'll find that those are a breeding blight in this day and age.)
Upstairs, the new Pres comes out, onto the front balcony. Below, some folks at the fence snap pictures.
Meet Lyndon Baines Johnson. Two years ago, he was rushed into his old boss's chair immediately following the latter's assassination in Dallas. And while the country didn't have to elect him full-time last year, they did. Now, LBJ's at the reins of a sleeping giant; one that will never sleep often enough for him...or any human, for that matter.
Just outside the entry, there are flower pots. Blue flowers grow from them. Like a bold man who deserves to be president, Johnson towers over the flower pot, with his back to the White House fence. He unzips his fly, and performs a little public urination.
At the fence, several visitors move on. Others stay and watch, VERY closely...
While urinating, Johnson picks his nose...and sneezes a few times, while doing so. Usually, he just does this during his speeches. But as long as there are cameras downstairs shooting his moon, who's he to give them an inadequate demonstration?
Still urinating, Johnson looks around, and up. Above him, there's a gargoyle. It looks like Andrew Jackson...not a day over thirty, and in the buff. He sits atop a perch, and looks down upon his most recent successor...with a somewhat critical look.
At this, Johnson scoffs. "Who are you to be critical, Old Hickory? We're both backcountry boys. We both know what this is like!"
From around back, Johnson slowly receives a visitor. Johnson's still got no idea why his chief of staff ever permits him entry. It's Barry Morris Goldwater. Last year, he lost the election...by fourteen million votes.
Despite that, his face is now on the $1000 bill. Or, is that just a rumor?
Like most Republicans, Goldwater seems repulsed, by Johnson's awkward public habits...especially this one. He stops, and makes a disgusted expression. Nonetheless, Goldwater must remain the pride of Arizona...if not the pride of the GOP. So, he straightens himself out, and marches right up to his...unfortunate commander-in-chief.
Soon, the flower pot is overflowing with its commander-in-chief's urine. So, Johnson moves over to the next flower pot, and lets it have some.
Johnson can't help it. He's a Texan; little umbrella-shaped senoritas and coconut oil-tanned margaritas in Corpus Christi are worth dying for...especially if you're the freaking PUS. And Johnson just can't seem to drink enough, while he's down there; margaritas OR senoritas. It's a complete mystery, as to how Lady Bird lets him get away with this.
But of course, being a Democrat has its advantages...
Goldwater makes another disgusted face, as he's compelled to walk in circles around the overflow of the first flower pot. Nonetheless, he stands on the other side of the President...and makes another revolted face, as he acknowledges both the excess of urine in the flower pot, and his commander-in-chief's hideous willie.
Wow, Goldwater thinks, if THAT'S what Lady Bird has to be in bed with every night, I've never been gladder to not be her...
Johnson looks down into the pots, and just ignores Goldwater. He knows Goldwater hates this; and that's exactly why he does it.
Goldwater clears his throat. "Mr. President? Your country needs you."
Johnson picks his nose...again revolting Goldwater. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"TOO much so, sir. But you see, sir... How do I put this? The hippies are revolting."
At long last, the Presiden't urethra runs dry. Johnson pockets his thingy, zips his fly, and FINALLY faces Goldwater.
"You know Goldwater, you really shouldn't be so critical of our youth. They're our future, you know. I know their behavior can seem strange at times, but... Are you truly so prone to memory loss, that you've forgotten how critical your parents were of you when you were their age?"
Goldwater heaves a sigh. "That's not what I meant, sir."
"O, pish-posh!" Johnson goes back inside. Goldwater follows him in...like a heffalump that can't keep his trunk out of other people's pants. At least it won't dip into Johnson's. He HATES what's in Johnson's... "They're teenagers, Goldwater! Only their souls are developed. What's even better, they're going to lose some of that as they grow up. The only governments they're capable of overthrowing are in their own dreams. But that's just pathetic, because they're freaking hippies! There ARE no governments in their dreams!"
"They have so much influence, sir. As much as I hate to admit it, they might have more influence than we do. If we don't at least start getting our national guards onto their case..."
"Sorry, Goldwater. If you're asking for military support, I can't. The war in Vietnam is getting worse, and I need to keep our troops ready in case the volunteers already over there can't hold their ground. Look, your parents kept you and all of your rowdy friends on a leash when you were a billy-lid. Just do the same thing with your constituency's youth!"
Goldwater sighs. "You make that sound so easy."
"It is!" Johnson puts a hand on Goldwater's shoulder. Again, Goldwater is revolted; Johnson has not yet washed his hands since going back into the White House. "Focus on what you CAN do, Goldwater. Don't worry about what you can't. If you waste your time obsessing over what's impossible, you'll miss out on what's possible. I don't know who the hell forgot to teach you that in politicians' school, but if they were here, I'd execute them via firing squad, for forgetting to teach you that!"
Goldwater only sighs, and shakes his head. "You're an impossible leader, Mr. President. God-forbid if you win the '68 election." With that, Goldwater takes his leave. On his way out, he deviously raids the master bathroom...to take a bath.
Johnson only scoffs, and picks his nose again. "If he thinks I'm going to run again in '68," he mutters, "he REALLY needs more accountability against his Republican's power-mongering factor..."