Richard Nixon On
Acid
by Con Chapman
Jefferson
Airplane singer Grace Slick was invited to the
White House as a former classmate of Tricia
Nixon.
She planned to spike Richard Nixon’s tea
with LSD, but was determined a security risk and
denied entry
Wall Street Journal
Good evening,
my fellow Americans. Tonight I want to talk to
you on a subject of concern to all Americans—the
war in Vietnam. Also, about the lights on that
camera over there, the red one and green one. Did
you ever read The Great Gatsby? Green light at
the end of dock. Heavy. Got a B on my paper.
Anyway,
Vietnam. There’s a North and a
South Vietnam, like the Dakotas and Carolinas. The
American people shouldn’t be asked to
support a war against North Dakota. Let them
secede into Canada—who cares? North
Carolina is where I went to law school--not going
to attack my alma mater.
Americans have
lost confidence in their Government over Vietnam.
You know, I never noticed the grains in the wood
of my desk; like waves on the San Clemente
beach—soothing, shiny.
Did you know
the best shoes for walking on the beach
aren’t flip-flops? Nope--wing-tips.
That way you never get sand between your toes.
Maybe you like sand there--I don’t.
It’s gritty, and it gets mixed up with toe
jam. Which is disgusting enough by itself.
Tonight, I
will answer questions on the minds of many
Americans. How do I know? Because I can see
your thoughts! Bet you didn’t know
that. It’s not hard. Haldeman—“Need
haircut.” Ehrlichman—“Modified
limited hangout!” Agnew—“Where’s
the money?”
Thoughts comes
in beautiful colors. I like colors. This
speech I’m reading is black-and-white—the
President of the United States ought to get a
speech in living color. Colors . . .
crawling towards me. Make them STOP!
Breathe--remember
to breathe. Gotta read this speech, then
call George Allen with a trick play. A flea-flicking,
dipsy-doodle. It’s got to have a code name,
so the Redskins can call an audible at the line
of scrimmage. How about “Dipsy Poodle
Flea”?
I have a plan
for peace, which I believe will succeed. If it
does, the critics won’t matter, and they
won’t have my little dog Checkers to kick
around anymore. Checkers has fleas, my dog
has fleas.
If it
doesn’t succeed, nothing I say will matter. Words
are just . . . colors inside our heads that we
taste. Floating on the breeze from my air
conditioner. Which is on even though
it’s May so I can have a fire--pretty.
America is the
most powerful nation in the world. More powerful
than a locomotive, like Superman. Lois Lane
hoped Clark Kent would be a man instead of the
milquetoast journalist that he was. Always
“Yes, sir” “No, sir” when
Perry White yelled at him. I hate the press. They’re
not silent—like you, the silent majority of
my fellow Americans.
And so, I ask
for your help.
I have the
munchies.
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