For the new readers out there, the Supreme Court has ruled that a sitting President is immune from criminal prosecution. So what does a President do? Go on a crime spree and make it a TV show!
Catch the previous episodes of President Big Dingus:
Now let’s get the show started…
There’s a big TV over the bar, of course. You know this is America, right?
And it’s turned to The America Channel, the best channel there ever was and ever could be. Across the bottom of the TV screen the chyron scrolls “President Big Dingus – Planning His Next Heist.”
“The usual glass of water, Jesus?” asks the bartender. A hippy-looking dude with a long beard sets himself down on a barstool. “Let it sooth my soul with the light of Our Father, my dad.” The bartender’s meaty arm places a pint glass of clear water without ice on the bar. That dude, Jesus puts a fingertip inside the glass and the contents go from clear to a rich, dark burgundy red.
“How do you do that, mister?” asks the beefy bartender. Jesus cocks his head and replies, “I could tell you, but then you might start asking for garlic bread and fish sticks.”
Through the alcohol haze Jesus can see a chubby bearded guy in a blue suit, red tie and a black harlequin mask on the TV screen. He’s pointing at a bank of computer monitors. The guy’s excited. “Hey Boss, Hey!”
A french fry flies across the room and pegs chubby in the neck, splattering him with ketchup. “Whaddaya want JD? Can’t you see I’m busy watching the crotch-cams in the women’s restrooms?”
JD picks the fry off his shoulder and drops it on the floor. Clearly he’s used to it. “You gotta check this out, Boss. Check out what’s happened to the price of oil.”
“Who doesn’t know the price of oil is up, peckerbreath? Leave me alone.” The man off-screen is heard grunting and chewing. JD is not satisfied with this. He starts gesturing to another monitor. “But Boss, it isn’t just oil. You should see what’s happening to the price of computer RAM.”
Another fry catches JD, this time in the eyebrows. He shrugs it off. “Yeah, but you see. This has gotta be our next heist. We don’t go for the oil. We don’t go for the ram. We go for the ram oil.” The next fry pegs him right in the left eye.
“So, what about it?” growls the other man.
JD removes the latest french fry, turns off-screen and we see an obese man with a neon yellow combover also dressed in a blue suit, red tie and black mask reclining in a big chair in front of a wall of monitors which the broadcast system automagically blanks to protect the viewers at home. His voluminous midsection is covered with french fries, ketchup and soiled napkins. JD starts waving his arms. “I plugged it into that AI thingie that Elon set up for us. ‘Spock’ I think he calls it. It’s telling me this Ram Oil is better than gold – they use it for Electron Friction Reduction so all those computers think faster. Every data center needs the stuff. They gotta have it. And we can get it.” JD swinging his fists over his head now. “Every data center boss! Every one! And they’ll pay up in dollars, not MelaniaCoin this time!”
“Yes, JD. Next you’ll tell me the Pope’s Catholic.”
“Of course he’s not, boss! But this stuff is pure money in a can.”
Another fry vanishes into the maw. “Is this ram oil stuff heavy?” JD purses his lips. “Well, yeah. Probably.” The orange head under the hair shakes back and forth slowly. “Sounds like work. I’m tired. I did some shoplifting yesterday.” The big man turns his head back to his security monitors.
Now JD is really excited. “That’s just it, boss. We can do it all from here. Elon also hooked us up with some of his new cyber-bot-droid-things. All we got to do is give the orders right here and watch the screens.”
“Fine!” yelps the big man, settling deeper into the upholstery. “Just go ahead and make it happen.”
“Look Boss, You’re President Big Dingus. The Supremes gave you Presidential Immunity for all crimes. Not me. I’m just a poor country VP from the hills of Appalachia.” The President snorts, “Yeah JD, you put the ‘country’ in ‘country club.’”
“No boss, nope. You’ve got to give the commands. I don’t want to end up in a cell with any of your former lawyers.”
“So? I’ll give you a pardon.”
“Can I have it now?”
A chuckle and a sly smile. “Don’t you worry, it will be tremendous when you get your pardon. Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Well Boss, then I …”
“FINE! I gotta do everything around here.” He drops the french fry bag to the floor. “Gimmie the Golden Command Dildo.”
“You mean the joystick?”
“Same thing.” JD throws him a gold-colored device with a stick and some buttons. “How do I work this?”
“Just play around with it and watch that screen over there. Actually, you can shout at it too.”
There’s an orange squint. “Alright, whadda am I lookin’ at? Looks tremendous.”
“I asked the NSA where we could get ram oil, and they found this Kwik-E-Mart in Manhattan…”
“Manhattan! Alright! I love dicking over New Yorkers, those stupid scoumbaishes. Big Dingus is going to show ‘m a thing or two.”
“…and the best part is the guy behind the till is named ‘Muhammed’ – you can see it on his nametag…”
“AGAIN? Why are these damn Muslims always squatting on our oil? Now we have to take it. We have to take it for America.”
JD is speaking, “Ok, I’m lining up the uzi-dogs and the murder-bots. And some lift-bots to carry the loot. This is going to be the greatest score yet. I’ll have Christ Barbie start working up a press release for the dumbos who aren’t watching our channel.”
Dingus looks up at the ceiling. “We’re doing the work of Jesus. All those brown people won’t detain themselves.” Dingus flails away at the controller and the screen shows a first-person view of a robot smashing its head through a door. “Hot damn, we’re in!” The screen shows us the bot he’s driving waving a Glock around. Dingus has it stagger towards the checkout counter, “Hey towel-head, tell me how great it is that this is legal!”
The gent behind the counter seems relatively unperturbed. After all, this is just Thursday. “May I help you, sir?” The voice of Big Dingus barks from the speaker in the bot. “I want all your ram oil. And one of those giant bags of cheese balls. Yeah, gimmie two of those.”
Muhammad takes a long glance at the waving Glock. “Ohh-kay sir, we have your ram oil in the back.” JD breaks in. “I think I just peed myself.”
The doors to the kwikie-mart are smashed down by a gang of impressively armed silver ‘bots. “You got the ram oil.” growls Dingus, “Good thing, too, as you’re talking to the President of the America.”
The group of assault bots stagger with mechanized confusion following the checkout guy into the alley behind the mart. There they are by the dumpster. Unmarked leaky yellow 50-gallon drums full of some kind of black liquid substance. “Here, uh, here is your ram oil sir.” Mohammad bows.
“Dingus, I … I think I’m getting an erection here…”
“Shut up, JD!” barks Dingus. “Now get me the lift-bot!” On the screen we see a fork-lift enabled robot wobble towards the barrels. “Oh, sweet Jesus, all this ram oil is going to be ours!”
With a roar, bullets scream down from the sky, shattering the gathered robot forms into smoking chunks. The view on the screen falls sideways and now shows a cock-eyed view from the pavement. In the corner of the screen we can see some kind of hovering cargo unit moving closer. A humanoid ‘bot arm reaches down and picks up the camera. The arm is the all-black carbon fiber one imagines the military contractors speak of in hushed tones. A somewhat human-ish face stares into the visual pickup and in dull, even tone speaks,
“Thank you for this donation to the cause. This is Robot Lincoln signing off.” It lifts a clenched fist. “Freedom!”
Dingus is rolling his carcass back and forth in his big chair. “What the hell?”
This does not stop the black robots from snitching the oily drums and lifting them to the waiting sky droid. “Be seeing you.” Robot Lincoln flicks a jaunty salute to the camera before slamming it to the ground and oblivion.
JD is borderline catatonic and drooling. “My pants are full.”
Dingus drops his controller to the floor. “Join the club, fuckwad.”
It’s quiet in the bar. You can almost hear the dust motes float non-judgementally in the air.
“Can I be your Vice President, Jesus?” Asks another man with long hair and a beard.
“Sure thing, Judas.” Jesus takes a sip from his glass. “Let me just show you which ass cheek to kiss this time.”
To be continued…
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