PRESIDENT MOFO LIVES DOWNTOWN—of course—in post-apocalyptic Manhattan. Which is actually sweet because it resembles the gritty, grimy New York of the 1970s. The apocalypse wasn’t from nuclear war. America, Asia, and the European Union just went broke. From that sorry-assed condition, civilization staggered onward. Rich New Yorkers and Eurotrash fled with their cryptocurrency and gold, sort of like Detroit in the late sixties. The President said, “Screw Washington DC. I want to live in a SoHo loft with steam pipe heating.”
His first executive order brought CBGB back to the Bowery. This involved a precision-guided drone missile strike on the Newark Airport restaurant that bought the iconic rock club’s name. After hours, obviously, with zero casualties. His second order reopened the Chelsea Hotel. Marble statues were installed in the lobby, of Dylan Thomas—who died in Room 205 at age thirty-nine—of Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, and Dee Dee Ramone, who sold weed upstairs in the nineties. No statues for Sid and Nancy. Things change.
Advisors acted puzzled when he appointed Morrissey as Ambassador to Mexico.
Though he is white, many call him, “The Second Black President,” which makes no sense. If Bill Clinton was considered the first black president, and Barack Obama was the second (and literally the first), then wouldn’t our guy be number three? Further proof that America has major problems with basic math. The Prez gives podcasts about his favorite books. Sometimes he sends texts out on the emergency band to wake you up by screeching on your smart phone at all hours. He loves to mess with us that way.
President Maximum Utmost is bringing back vinyl. “It’s not just for hipsters and audiophiles,” he insists. “Has no one heard the amazing Japanese pressings of The Beatles’ albums?”
He intends to make free jazz the official American language. His plan is to tear down Confederate statues and replace them with legendary jazz musicians. Talk radio hosts say this would amount to reverse racism. President Mellow laughs at their heart-attack hysteria. Dave Brubeck, Anita O’Day, Roswell Rudd, and Dave Holland would be honored right along with Coltrane, Miles, Thelonious Monk, Billie Holiday, and so many other African American artists. Moreover, every figure would be created equal by being cast in bronze.
President Badass holds monthly televised press conferences. Sometimes he just performs a mime act or speaks in Esperanto. But when he’s really feeling it, he reads beat poetry after midnight over the bongo drum rhythm laid down by the Minister of Groove. How did we ever survive without this dude?
Our Prez is around fifty-five years old. No one’s really certain. When you Google his name, a single image of him giving you the finger appears. He’s so powerful and righteous, he can fuck with Google.
President Glam wants to live in a penthouse on top of Chase Manhattan, because he heard that in David Bowie’s “Diamond Dogs.” His musical taste is impeccable, exquisite, and just a tad retro. No one understands the platform shoes deal. He admitted trying most every drug—beyond using needles. The President smoked opium once while listening to the first Velvet Underground album and felt that was far enough, thank you.
The Oval Office is actually a giant rectangular room, where our Ecstatic Leader does Action painting on the hardwood floor.
He’s like Jackson Pollock, except with more hair and less street cred at major museums. During the campaign, the Prez claimed he intended to reunify North and South Korea into one gorgeous peninsula bonded by kimchi dreams. Not even his most committed followers believed that, but they admire his enthusiasm for the impossible.
He recently said, “Being a vegetarian is cool, and reducing meat consumption is beneficial, but vegans should chill the hell out with their annoying lectures.”
President Badass is an ACLU liberal who believes in free speech. Both the far right, religious extremists and PC university students hate that, but everyone else is cool with it. Nobody wants to impeach him, because they remember his predecessor. Oh, God, can we blot out those years? Even arch conservatives think it best to wait him out, to regroup, recharge.
President Unmarried dates women. Not a power trip though. Doesn’t harass; doesn’t play grab-ass. They have to make the first move. And sometimes he prefers to sleep next to his dates. This confuses the shit out of them, and the populace. He explained to People Magazine, “It’s not all about the penis inside the vagina. Sometimes we just need to brain-fuck each other softly through the night.” He strolls hand-in-hand with male friends in public so the nation can finally get over its chest-thumping, macho bullshit. Once a week, he wears a skirt. Says it airs out his grievances.
People call him “the Mel Brooks president” because he says something to offend everyone, but he arrives swathed in laughter not military parades.
President Badass likes to mingle amongst the citizens. He evades the Secret Service detail whenever possible. Because of the skirt thing, the agents bellow his code name into their headsets: “Hoochie Mama has gone rogue. Hoochie Mama is walking Bleeker Street.”
On occasion, El Presidente dresses in robes, a long hair wig, and sandals while carrying a wooden staff. Totally Jesus-like except for the realistic Nicholas Cage mask that cost five hundred on eBay. Nobody imagines he could be the leader of the free world. Pedestrians laugh, point, and then leave him the hell alone so he can take the L train to Brooklyn and attend Ukrainian folk concerts without undue hassle.
One of his priorities is to reopen the downtown Greek coffee shops that offered bargain breakfast specials before noon. “Am I the only cat who remembers the 1990s? We don’t need any more Duane Reade, Chase Bank or CVS locations.”
We send fan mail and love letters—which he stores in a huge room and never reads. When our Prez suffers bouts of depression, he plunges into the mass of accumulated paper to groove on their beautiful, positive vibes. Lets them flow through him as he pantomimes swimming.
How can we not adore this gonzo fucker?
Max Talley was born in New York City and currently resides in Southern California. His fiction and essays have appeared in numerous journals, including Del Sol Review, Fiction Southeast, Hofstra University – Windmill, Gold Man Review, The Opiate, and Gravel Magazine. Talley’s novel, Yesterday We Forget Tomorrow, was published in 2014. A short story collection, Delirium Corridor, is forthcoming in late 2018.
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