This book is a good example of what comes from mixing politics and beer. It resulted from a night of camaraderie and debauchery with my brothers. Sometime during the festivities, one of us thought up the idea of what might happen should a real, though intelligent, Redneck ever get to the White House. We all laughed like crazy at the prospect and had great fun discussing various scenarios and situations. Perhaps we also vented some of our frustration at the labyrinthine entanglements of our present political process and how it works or doesn't work. At any rate, once I sobered up, I thought the idea might make a good book.
Eventually I did write the novel, and during the process tried to stay relatively true to how I think good ol unreformed Joe Sixpack might react to suddenly becoming president of these United States. I sincerely hope that in doing so I have not offended any of my readers. Trust me when I say that this was written purely for fun and not intended to cast aspersions on any person's sex, age, race, sexual orientation, political affiliation, color, ethnicity or any other characteristic I may not have listed here. I also sincerely hope you can laugh with me as you read. Sometimes that's the only way to keep from crying.
One more note: I have no political affiliation and belong to no political party. Bill Clinton got parodied simply because he was in office at the time this book was written, and because however great or not great he may have been as president, he was and is a wonderful public figure for poking fun at. If he and Hilary ever read this, I hope it gives him a chuckle or two, and I hope they remember the lawyer's old axiom: never sue a poor person.
CHAPTER ONE
Every fool in America has probably wanted to be president at one time or another, or at least thought they did. I can tell you for a fact, his job ain't that easy. I know, because I spent some time there and I wouldn't do it again for all the Coors in Colorado.
Don't ask me how I got there, because I don't know. One minute I was laid back in my recliner on a Sunday afternoon working on my third or fourth beer, watching the Cowboys beat up on the Redskins, and the next instant there I was in the white house, in the president's body instead of my own. I remember it plainly, because pro football was starting in early August for the first time. The discarded Sunday paper was laying scattered on the carpet, while in the background Linda was rattling some dishes or maybe the kids? teeth for all I know, and there was a shout from one of the Dallas cheerleaders showing a lot of belly button just before the commercial, and I was wishing Linda still looked like that when wham! The old easy-boy recliner suddenly changed into some kind of fancy executive nabob seat that didn't have good arm rests or nothing, and my beer was gone and there wasn't even an ash tray on the desk I was suddenly sitting by the side of. There wouldn't have been room for one anyway, because the desk was all covered with official looking papers with the presidential seal at the top of them and a bunch of other papers and notes and books and all.
I knew it must still be the same Sunday, because I wasn't wearing a tie like the president always does unless he's out jogging in those wimpy shorts and tee shirt you always see him wear when he's out trying to run off some of them Big Macs he's always eating. Also, the Cowboys was still kicking ass in Washington so that pinned it down good. There wasn't nobody else around just then. I guess it's a good thing, because it took me a while to figure out what had happened.
Let me explain something here right now, so there won't be no questions later about how I gradually worked into the job, taking the president's advice and listening to him tell me how I should run the country and all that. That's not how it happened. My mind was suddenly in the president's body, and don't ask me how that happened because I don't know, but it wasn't like he had any control or was even there as a personality for that matter. All that was left of him was his memories and knowledge which I could tap into any time I wanted but it was me who ran things from then on. I do have to admit that when it came to facts and knowledge, that wimpy motor-mouthing draft dodger did know a lot of things and I couldn't have done half as good if I hadn't of had his memories to draw on. In fact, without his memories to use I probably would of got locked up in a nuthouse, not knowing how to act presidential and all, or even being able to fool his friends and family into thinking it was still him there being president instead of me. In fact, I almost did get sent to the nuthouse at one time, but I'll tell about that later.
Like I said, he did have a lot of facts in his head, but he was just dead fucking wrong on how he tried to use all that book learning. It was me who made all the decisions from then on and he didn't have nothing to say about it.
Also like I said, it took a while to make myself believe what had happened. My mind was whirling like a cat chasing its tail while I stood up and looked around that office.
There was a big window with the curtains pulled open and off in the distance I could see a couple of the monuments and stuff tourists always go to see when they visit Washington. There was a green carpet on the floor that must of been an inch thick and across the room a big screen TV had the cowboys and Indians still playing their game. What I really looked at though, was my image staring back at me from a full length mirror attached to the inside of the door. There was no doubt I was staring at the president, not with that wavy gray hair and bulby nose the political cartoonists had so much fun with. And if that weren't enough, there was a framed picture of him and Heather on the desk acting all lovey just like he ain't been cheating on her from day one, but never mind that. What I'm getting at is that I knowed where I was right off, especially because I would never of had a picture of that Wimp in my house.
I fumbled for a cigarette, but of course there weren't none in my shirt pocket, just a couple of mints like the president was always sucking on. That's when I really started to believe I was in the president's body instead of my own. I ain't been without a pack of cigarettes in my pocket since I was a teenager except one time when I was in jail overnight after a fight in a bar with some dickhead that was insulting Texas. It turned out he was from New York and the police dropped the charges against me and gave him ten days in the slammer. That's getting off the subject, though.
I sat back down in that odd shaped chair, still patting my shirt pockets and coming up empty so far as a smoke went.
I was really wanting one by then and was missing my Coors besides. That's when I first tapped into the president's memories and could see that I could order damn near anything I wanted to eat or drink and it would be brought to me right quick like. That startled me for a minute, but I didn't know what else to do so I tried it again. Sure enough, his memories boiled up in my mind like coffee in an old percolator, there for me to use like opening a book. I still didn't have no idea how I had got to be in the president's body, but knowing I could use his memories like they was my own eased my mind considerable. If I was careful, no one would ever know the difference!
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From best selling author Darrell Bain, this satirical look at Bill Clinton may politically offend but it's hilariously funny at the same time... This book is a good example of what comes from mixing politics and beer. It resulted from a night of camaraderie and debauchery with my brothers. Sometime during the festivities, one of us thought up the idea of what might happen should a real, though intelligent, Redneck ever get to the White House. We all laughed like crazy at the prospect and had great fun discussing various scenarios and situations. Perhaps we also vented some of our frustration at the labyrinthine entanglements of our present political process and how it works or doesn't work. At any rate, once I sobered up, I thought the idea might make a good book.
