Got a call from the President of the United States, today, and that could have been a total !@#$ing disaster.
Why? Well, son, as you !@#$ing well know I'm under house arrest. And one of the conditions of my incarceration is that I'm not !@#$ing allowed to drink more than my weight in alcohol per day. Something about how it makes me make bad !@#$ing decisions, though that's total bull!@#$, as you well know.
(I'm also not allowed to have more than three !@#$ing guns at any given time, or engage in direct contact with any past or current members of the COMPANY. They even took away my !@#$ tjbang sticks, the !@#$ers.)
So I'm !@#$ing sober, at 9 in the !@#$ AM, and haven't even been able to get myself some of that nasty, black heroin I'm drinking to pretend I'm the sort of person who gets up that !@#$ early, and suddenly the !@#$ President is on the horn, asking for me.
(Oh, yeah, and I'm !@#$ing naked, though that's nothing he hasn't !@#$ing seen before.)
What does he want? The !@#$ing usual. He wants to know how I am, how things are, how I'm adjusting.
"Adjusting." !@#$ of a !@#$ing word for this kind of situation. I'm essentially going on trial for doing my !@#$ing job because a bunch of bean-counters and ant-!@#$ers don't agree with all the decisions I made.
(Not that I don't agree some mistakes happened along the way, of course. But Jesus !@#$ing Christ, let's keep things in perspective.)
So of course I have to !@#$ing push it. I ask him how he's !@#$ing "adjusting," since he kind of had the office !@#$ing shoved onto him after its previous owner vacated, a couple weeks ago, after some really bad !@#$ went down.
And he says "oh, that's not fair." And I say "well, that's life, and maybe you should have thought about that before you agreed to be his !@#$ing veep."
And Mr. USA sighs and says a bunch of !@#$ that I'm not really all that !@#$ing interested in, because it all comes back down to one thing. It's him waving and !@#$ing drowning because, for all his powers and experience, he has no !@#$ing idea how to handle a country that's in the kind of !@#$ing shape America's in right now.
We have nothing beyond the state level, right now, son. We have no!@#$ing federal infrastructure, anymore. No military, no disaster relief, no money.
Which would have been okay if we'd been able to keep the Imago's technology, and let the states get back on their feet using it. But it turns out when we pulled the !@#$ plug on it, the whole !@#$ thing fell down and did not get back up again.
(Plus, after their trial, which I was !@#$ proud to help with, whatever wasn't down on the ground got put away for perpetuity. So there goes that idea.)
So there's your big !@#$ irony for you, son. The federal government is finally small enough to drown in a !@#$ing
bathtub, and all the people who wanted to do it are either dead, insane,
or wishing it would come back to life and save their !@#$es.
And as for the Presidency? To mangle John Nance Garner, the position is now not worth a bucket of warm !@#$. Especially since the TU wants to "help" us with our Federal Problem by swooping in and doing it for us.
And, at this !@#$ moment, that's not my problem.
Of course, if the President of the United States of America wants to put a good word in for me with the President of the TU, I'd be happy to suit the !@#$ up and come back to work. But he can't do that, and I know he won't ask.
So he ends the call, somewhat red-faced, and goes back to trying to manage a herd of cats in the dark. And I go back to grousing and grumbling and wanting a real !@#$ing drink, and settling for brewing up some !@#$ing coffee and drinking it right out of the !@#$ pot.
Mr. USA. We were allies, then rivals, then enemies, then allies, and then friends again, after all the !@#$ we went through at the end, there. And now I'm feeling like busting out of here, going to the White House, and kicking his head through his !@#$hole until he gets his !@#$ testicles back.
Still, I can't totally blame him. He's as much a creature of duty as I am. It's just that he takes orders from people, and I take them from me.
Which probably explains why I'm !@#$ing here, now, doesn't it?
Ah well, enough of that !@#$. My lovely man is up and moving, and there's a full day of !@#$ on television. And if I'm really !@#$ing nice, he might just make me some more of that wonderful baked french toast he made, yesterday.
(Lucky me, my man spent all his time on Deep-Ten wishing he could actually !@#$ing cook in a real kitchen, for people in his own pay grade, and saved up decades worth of recipes, techniques, and ideas. Now we get to do it for real, amongst other things...)
So there's that to look forward to, at least. And while it doesn't really help with the lack of booze, it's a start.
And I'm never going to turn down a good !@#$ start.
(SPYGOD is listening to Some People (Belouis Some) and having a !@#$ton of coffee)