The Weekly Screed (#905)

Mick and Goofy put on a show

By David Benjamin

“Mickey’s a mouse. Donald’s a duck. Pluto’s a dog. What’s Goofy?”

                 — Gordy Lachance (Wil Wheaton), in Stand By Me

MICK: You look a little pale and woebegone, sir. Perhaps an hour or two on the tanning bed will perk you up. Now, where did I put those goggles?

GOOFY: No, it’s not my complexion, Mick. My tan is tremendous. Beautiful. Fabulous. And my height. Tremendous. I’ve grown two inches. No, three!

MICK: Well, something’s bothering you, Mr. President. I can tell. My sole purpose in life is reading your every mood, serving your every mad whim, justifying your every tantrum.

GOOFY: Well, it’s just that…

MICK: Yes, sir?

GOOFY: There’s this yooge crowd signing up to run against me—black ones, white ones, young, old, Jews and queers, broads and beaners. Why are they doing this? It’s not fair. I’ve done more for them than anyone ever, because I love them. And they love me. Everyone! They love me more than they’ve ever loved anyone!

MICK: No, Mr. President. I’m sorry to say this, but you don’t love anyone. And they don’t love you.

GOOFY: What? WHAT? You disloyal little lipless rodent!

MICK: Oh no, sir, don’t get me wrong. I love you, Mr. President. I love you madly (in a manly way). But they don’t.

GOOFY: Who don’t?

MICK: Most of them, sir. At last count, 56 percent. With a bullet.

GOOFY: But I’ve done so much. More than anyone. Ever! More than Obama. More than God.

MICK: Well no, sir. You haven’t done bupkes. And thank the good Lord for that. But they see right through you. sir. They know you don’t care.

GOOFY: Really? Fifty-six percent?

MICK: With a bullet, sir.

GOOFY: Well, what am I gonna do? I want what I want. I wanna be president, forever. I want all of mine and I want all of theirs.

MICK: And I want that for you, too, sir. We all do.

GOOFY: But what about those traitors running against me? Dozens of ’em!  And they have money. And some of ’em even have good ratings. That babe from California, for instance. She’s not bad-looking. I wouldn’t mind grabbing her by the—

MICK: You don’t have to run against them, sir. You don’t have to run at all.

   

GOOFY: Say what?

MICK: You have to quit.

GOOFY: Quit? What?! Why, you squeaky-voiced little four-eyed—

MICK: No, sir, don’t get me wrong. I have a plan. To get what all of us truly, deeply want for you, to be president forever and always, you have to quit.

GOOFY: Mick, what’s got into you? I’m supposed to be the one around here who wanders into circular non sequiturs and makes absolutely no sense at all.

MICK: But I am making sense, sir. Look at me, for example. What am I?

GOOFY: Well, let’s see. You’re a devious, vindictive little toady who clings like a leech and kisses my ass whenever I bend over.

MICK: Yes, and I love that. But that’s not my point. What’s my job, sir?

GOOFY: Job? Well, I appointed you as my acting chief of—

MICK: There you go, sir.

GOOFY: Go? Go where?

MICK: Sir, your strategy’s working! Look around. I’m an “acting” functionary. Your whole Cabinet is crawling with “acting” this, “acting” that. You’ve purged dozens of positions. Then, while you’ve dithered around not picking new people to fill the jobs, you install another “acting” shmuck who can’t tell ass from elbow, who sits in the big leather revolving chair—at Defense, VA, OMB, EPA—scratching his nuts, clueless about his responsibilities.

GOOFY: Don’t say that word. I don’t like that word.

MICK: Let me ask you, sir. Who was your favorite Cabinet guy of all?

GOOFY: Oh, that’s easy. The big bald shoeshine boy from Ohio who played too much football with his helmet off. I really liked him.

MICK: Exactly, sir. He was your acting attorney general. He’s from Iowa, by the way. And you could have had him forever, if you wanted.

GOOFY: I could have?

MICK: Sure! The beauty part of any “acting” job is that it’s temporary.

GOOFY: But, Mick, temporary was my problem with the big lug from Omaha. People kept saying you gotta replace him. You gotta name somebody permanent.

MICK: You do?

GOOFY: Don’t I?

MICK: Sir, how long, exactly, is “temporary?”

GOOFY: What is that? A metaphysical question?

MICK: I mean, is it a month? A year? Is “temporary” a decade? How long have we been in Afghanistan? How long have we been at war with North Korea?

GOOFY: That is a metaphysical question. Are you tryin‘ to confuse me?

MICK: Not at all, sir. Aren’t I your “acting" chief?

GOOFY: Unless I fire you you for asking smartass questions.

MICK: Ha ha. Good one, sir. But the question is: When are you required to name a permanent chief to replace me, sir? Where is it written? Who, Mr. President, tells you, the president, to kick me out and plug in somebody else?

GOOFY: Who? Nobody. NOBODY tells me—

MICK: Exactly, sir. There is no term of office for anyone in an “acting” role under your command. You have absolute control, without the advice, consent or oversight of any meddling buttinsky anywhere on God’s green earth.

GOOFY: I like the sound of that.

MICK: Okay then. So, first thing you do, you quit.

GOOFY: Now I’m confused.

MICK: Listen close, sir. Clear your mind. Put down your Sharpie. Here’s what we do. The moment you resign—in a special ceremony right here, just as you’re about to put the last bold flourish on the letter “p,” you stand straight up on your hind legs and you announce that you’re naming an “acting” president to take your place. And you know who that’s gonna be?

GOOFY: Not that psalm-singing albino who follows me around like a dachshund?

MICK: No sir. Not the vice president.

GOOFY: Then who?

MICK: You.

GOOFY: Me?

MICK: Yes sir. You back deftly out of the presidency, you shuck your Constitutional straitjacket and you become—by the power vested in your own absolute, iron-clad decree—the Acting President, with a term that stretches endlessly forward into a future as vague and indefinite as the clouded depths of your strange little brain.

GOOFY: Whoa, cool. Forever? Can I do that?

MICK: Why not?

GOOFY: Isn’t there a law?

MICK: Law? Once you’ve ceased to be president and become the omnipotent, permanently temporary Acting President, sir, you are the law!

GOOFY: Wait a minute. We’re still gonna have courts, and judges. What about that?

MICK: Sir, remember. The highest court in the land was handed to you, on a silver platter with cherries and whipped cream, by the cynics in your party who thought they could jerk you around. 

GOOFY: Hey, that’s right. I guess I showed them! And besides, if I feel like it, I can just call up all the judges and tell ‘em, “You’re fired.”

MICK: That’s the spirit, sir. From now on, it’s all just one big TV show. You’re the producer, you’re the star!