Richard Nixon on Acid

              Jefferson Airplane singer Grace Slick was invited to a tea party at the White House

as a fellow alumna of Tricia Nixon’s finishing school.  She planned to spike Richard

Nixon’s tea with LSD, but was denied entry because she had been determined to be a

security risk.
                                                                              

The Wall Street Journal

          Good evening, my fellow Americans.  Tonight I want to talk to you on a subject of deep concern to all Americans and to people around the world—the war in Vietnam.  Also, about the lights on that camera over there.  There was a red one, but it went out.  Now there’s a green one.  Like Great Gatsby—did you ever read that book?  Had a green light at the end of the dock.  It was--heavy.  The book wasn’t heavy but the story, so many, so much in it.  Got a B on my paper.

          Where was I?  Right, Vietnam.  Did you know there’s both a North and a South Vietnam, just like the Dakotas and the Carolinas.  The American people cannot and should not be asked to support a war against North Dakota.  Let them secede into Canada—who cares?  And North Carolina is where I went to law school, at Duke.  I’m not going to attack my alma mater.  

          Vietnam is the only one left, but many Americans have lost confidence in what their Government has told them about our policy there.  The North one, not the South one.  You know, I never noticed the grains in the wood of my desk.  They’re like the ripples of waves at the beach in San Clemente—soothing, slippery, shiny, slidy.

          Do you know what the best shoes for walking on the beach are?  You’d be surprised to know it’s not flip-flops.  No sirree.  You want to wear a good quality black wing-tip.  That way you never get sand between your toes—assuming you wear socks.  Maybe you like sand there, but I don’t.  It’s gritty, and it gets mixed up with your toe jam.  Which is disgusting enough as it is.

          Tonight, I would like to answer some questions I know are on the minds of many Americans.  How do I know?  Because I can see your thoughts!   Bet you didn’t know that.  Actually, it’s not too hard.  Haldeman—“Gotta getta haircut.”  Ehrlichman—“Modified limited hangout!”  Agnew—“Where’s the money?”

          It’s funny, each thought comes in beautiful colors.  I like colors.  This speech I’m reading is a black-and-white one—I think the President of the United States ought to get a speech in living, breathing colors . . . crawling towards me.  Make them stop—please make them STOP!

          Breathe, remember to breathe.  Exhale, that’s better.  Anyway, gotta read this thing, this speech here.  Then call George Allen with a trick football play.  A flea-flicking, dipsy-doodle.  It’s got to have a code name though, so the Redskins can call an audible at the line of scrimmage.  How about “Dipsy Poodle Flea”?  That’s a good one!

          I have chosen a plan for peace.  I believe it will succeed.  If it does, what the critics say now won’t matter, and they won’t have my little dog Checkers to kick around anymore.  Checkers has fleas, my dog has fleas.

          If my plan does not succeed, anything I say won’t matter.  No words matter, they’re just . . . colors from inside our heads that are sweet or sour when we taste them on our tongues.  Floating on the breeze from my air conditioner.  Which I have turned on even though it’s May so I can have a fire.  Pretty flames—flickering flames.

          You know, America is the most powerful nation in the world.  More powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, like Superman.  We are the hope of the world, just like Lois Lane hoped Clark Kent would act like a man instead of the milquetoast journalist that he was.  Always “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” when Perry White yelled at him.  That’s why I hate the press.   They’re not silent—like you, the great silent majority of my fellow Americans.

          And so tonight, my fellow Americans, I ask for your help.

          I have the munchies.

I am a Boston-area writer, author of fifty books of humor. My humor has appeared in The Atlantic, The Christian Science Monitor, The American Bystander and various other magazines.

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