Caddying for John Boehner – Where are the Fire Extinguishers!

Life is strange and tell Dave this as his plan seems far-fetched.  He wants to go to D.C. and tie himself to the White House gate and then light himself on fire to protest how he was waterboarded by his bank `cause he paid only six bucks on his half-million dollar mortgage which I know for a fact Dave paid with money he got from collecting bottles.  But Dave tells me he knows someone at a fancy country-club just outside the capital and I can probably caddy for John Boehner’s daily golf outing if I split gas money to D.C. with Dave.

So okay, I go.  No jobs where I am so a hundred bucks for spending the day with Boehner is fine.  I dress in jean overalls and a straw hat and big clown shoes which are really Nikes, just four sizes too big.

We park and I join Dave and we stare at the fence and then try to explain why we have a thick set of chains and a plastic gas can.  Nosy bastard Homeland Security.  I have to lie and say we are both magicians and will be tying the chain around the gas can and making it disappear, like Houdini.  The HS guys laughs and wishes us luck but not before asking for an autograph.

Meet Boehner and he’s right on time.  Not as tanned as advertised but something else is bizarre.  He sings the first two or three words of everything he says.  We shake hands and I tell him my name.  He says ♫Good to meet you♫.  Bill.  Oh man, this makes me queasy and I got eighteen holes to go.

Boehner can golf, for sure.  The weather’s nice and I’m feeling fit.  Two problems.  A weasel-looking prick has joined us.  Guy named Mitch who looks like an upright turtle.  He holds his hands in claw style, like Mister Burns from the Simpsons and when he talks his mouth is full of saliva so he sounds like wet sneakers.

Second problem.  I have succumbed to Boehner’s singing thing.  Like this:  (BOEHNER)  “♫Bill, give me the♫ sand wedge.”  (ME) ♫Ba-da-da, here you go. ♫  Crap.  I realize I am a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome thing where after you endure something really awful, you begin to really like all things Swedish.

We get to hole nine and all hell breaks loose.  A Secret Service guy tells Boehner that ♫Doodly-do♫  A guy has chained himself to the White House and is threatening to light himself on fire.  Boehner gives me two fifties as Mitch giggles in a swish of spit. 

We walk to Boehner’s limo and Boehner is cursing a storm.  Just as he’s about to climb in, he looks at me, all narrow eyes.  ♫Billy boy, Billy boy♫  Where are the fire-extinguishers?  Why can’t Obama provide enough fire-extinguishers?”

Then he’s gone and I’m left humming that fire-extinguisher song.