THE ROOSEVELT YEARS

FDR and his brain trust are on the bed. Young bodies of both sexes clipped from Health Digest are affixed to their old gray heads like horrible collages. They are making it, jabbing young cocks into virginal caves and staring blankly at one another as if from the front page New York Times. They have been taking a lot of dope and the scene is cloudy and vast. A small vase of bachelor buttons rest beautifully on the night stand. A breeze shakes the curtains.

"Mr. Roosevelt moved spread eagle over upside-down cakeroll in Marx Bros. harptrunk on old movie set down dusty road camera set action roll them Mr. Dale," said the narrator to the Fire Side Chat audience glued like Xmas ornaments to their RCA's.

"I'm all messed up, I'm all messed up!" calls one of the paper fuckers on the bed.

"Try this," says the President jabbing elephant hypo in the man's thigh and then in an aside to radio audience, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself!"

"Yes," moans announcer choking in his unsanforized shirt as everyone is eating Underwood Deviled Ham and reading the Philadelphia Enquirer, "and now...and now a word from the sponsor of this here Fire Side Chat."

"Do you suffer from the idea of a nation getting there all over the place at once? Of Imperialism? Of Yankee dog? Take Smith 108 Super Brainwash! It has ingredients other brainwashes don't. See, most of your brainwashes are flicky; they leave you in doubt; leave you with the question, 'Well, maybe there is another way. Maybe this is not the truth; maybe there really is something wrong with America.' Take this shit and you'll never question our leaders again. Think of the worry that will escape you at last! Blissful sleep yours! The bombs will break over Europe and Asia but you'll be home working at your favorite hobby while others pace the floor and kill themselves and worry about bringing up kids in this kind of country. Smith 108 comes in several sizes. See your druggist today. Oh, and when you do, tell them Jimmy sent you, O.K.?"

Bombs are falling and millions are walking off their jobs. FDR and his brain trust are in a room with leather chairs and mahogany paneled walls. They are concentrating as lights jangle and plaster falls from the ceiling.

"We're under attack!"

"Who is it this time?" says a weary FDR.

"The Bolivians."

The Pres. scrawls out a law and a secretary with French maid scanty panty outfit comes out with giant rubber stamp. She O. K. it and it goes over to House.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat....

It's an assassin just jumped in the window. Wonderful little hearts of love shoot from his gun. He's dressed in pressed gangster clothes and shoots the candy hearts at the President and Brain Trust. They scoff and brush the hearts off their shoulders and signal for the Secret Service to torture man on the spot. They rip his arms and legs off & toss mess in pickle barrel.

"Send it to the Japs," says one of the men.

A bomb lands on White House lawn and a mess of flowers and grass smash against the window.

"Holy Moley!" exclaim FDR.

"I tell you it's the Bolivians!"

"Bolivia, Bolivia," recalls FDR fondly. "I think I have a sister living in Bolivia."

"Bolivian women loose their shape very fast," said one of the men.

"Yes, I've noticed your wife."

"My wife is Swedish!"

"So's your old man!"

They laugh and pound each other on the back with thick reports on the TVA and WPA. They whistle and hoot. One of the men has a joy buzzer in his palm and goes around shaking hands with political brothers. Their bow ties fly away from throats and eyes pop out and ears smoke, their feet fly away like terrible lizard tongues fall back with oily click.

"Geronimo!" calls another man with a giant medicine ball in his hands. He's standing above colleague and lets the thing go.

"Now let's wait a minute, let us wait a minute. This is a country we're dealing with!" shouts FDR who's dressed like little ballerina now. "We got America to deal with. Why if the taxpayers were to see what's going on now they'd...they'd make us eat some goldfish."

Goldfish, goldfish the men all shout & FDR rings for his special assistant who brings a silver tray of wiggling goldfish into room. The men all swallow the fish with their college sweaters on and climb into some rumble seat to nowhere.

"Remember, I'm up for re-election again!"

Da, da-da-da-da-da-da-da....

Sound of screaming trumpet and doors open and six grade class come little tike is king with huge ermine robe and crown & followed by retinue of jokers, squires, royal court in general.

"We have a pie for President of the U. S."

Splat! !

Everyone roars as FDR slowly wipes away cream pie from face and music starts again and everyone dances & the floor of the room is shaking. Bombs are dropping. Untold millions are starving outside with no hot dogs or apples.

FDR does a fine imitation of James Cagney and calls for a bowl of soup.