May I Kiss You, Mr. President?
I wish to press my lips against yours as I am overcome with gratitude for all you have done for me,
Mr. President, sir, may I kiss you?
Just a peck, sir. Not open mouth. A chaste kiss, like ... sir, did you ever have a grandmother? Did you chastely kiss her when she came over for Christmas? It would be like that.
Well sir, it’s because I’m so grateful to you. Your tariffs saved my steel plant. It was done. It was kaput. We were running one shift a week. And that shift was only one hour long. And that hour included a 30-minute break for lunch. We were weeks away from shutting down this 40-year-old family business. It was that bad.
But then you came along with your tariffs. And suddenly the Chinese weren’t eating our lunch anymore. We were eating their lunch. We weren’t just eating it. We were shoving it in our faces as fast as we could scoop it up with forks instead of chopsticks, the way food is supposed to be eaten in America.
And just as you accurately told reporters Friday, mine is but one of the countless factories in Georgia, “all up and down the highway,” that were on the brink of closing, but were almost magically revived by your tariffs! Like you, I choose to completely ignore the evidence that Georgia’s manufacturing growth resulted from Joe Biden’s investments in clean energy, which you’ve so wisely slashed.
None of that airy-fairy EV battery nonsense at my factory, Sir! See, we make tire racks here. You ever go into a Firestone and see the racks of tires for sale, all lined up along the walls and whatnot? Have you ever looked at those tires and thought, “That’s a fine-looking steel rack those tires are sitting on. I wonder who made it.”
Well, not you, sir, but whoever is in charge of buying new tires for your limo. The answer is us, this steel company my dad built from the ground up. We make those racks.
But we weren’t making them. Then your tariffs came along. Just like that, we were getting orders for tire racks. So many orders. And we could make them for less than it cost companies to import them from China. Now, the factory is running three shifts a day, we’ve purchased all sorts of new equipment like this spiffy crane – see, it’s yellow! – my employees could all quit their second jobs, and I could buy my wife that new Hyundai Santa Fe she’d been nagging me to get.
So, Mr. President, to show my gratitude, I would love to kiss you.
I want to kiss you so badly. I’d love to kiss you so hard. You are my hero, sir. My inspiration. You deserve a kiss.
Sir, sir! Please do not recoil so. It’s just a kiss. It means nothing to anyone else. But it would mean a lot to me.
No sir, I’m not gay. Never been gay. Not even in college. When I was in college, it wasn’t like it is today, with all the boys turning homo and wearing dresses and stuff. I don’t even know why we have fraternities and sororities anymore. Which one is one of those nonbinary people supposed to join? I have no idea! I’d like to ask my daughter, her roommate’s nonbinary. But she’s not talking to me ever since I told her you were going to visit my plant.
Yes sir, she’s in that minority of college students that didn’t vote for you. What can I say? You try to raise them as best you can, and then they go off to Bowdoin to study English literature or some such useless thing while rooming with Carla the nonbinary. You know she spells it Car-La? With a hyphen? For no reason, either!
Excuse me, sir, they spell it Car-La. I forgot about the pronouns. My daughter always gets mad at me. I keep telling her, don’t yell at me, just tell Car-La to pick one and stick with it.
Watch yourself, Mr. President. That’s a long tie, I don’t want you to get it stuck in that industrial press.
Anyway, I said to my daughter, “Young lady, that steel plant pays for your college. It paid for your used Corolla. If it wasn’t for that plant, you’d be living at home, taking business classes at North Georgia Community College like some sort of normal person, not in fancy-dancy Maine, writing papers about Emily Bronte’s use of imagery and listening to drum circles on the quad. So don’t yell at me that our great president wants to visit the plant. You should be thanking him, not rolling your eyes!”
My daughter would never kiss you, sir. She’s too ungrateful. But not me! I’m very grateful. Grateful enough to bestow upon you that most human of intimate physical gestures that can convey so deeply one’s love for another, the lingering kiss.
Did I say lingering? Ha ha, I meant a peck. Just a peck, sir! It doesn’t have to be on the lips. I could peck your cheek, like a little bird. Just a quick dart of the head and ...
Whoa, you Secret Service guys sure move fast, don’t you? Hey fellas, can you let me up? My new pants are getting dirty.
Thanks. Yes sir, I’ve learned my lesson! No going in for a kiss without consent. I apologize for my forwardness. Is my nose swelling from where the agents shoved it into the ground? Hoo boy, does that sting.
I understand, sir. I will try to be satisfied with just getting to be close to you.
But it would have been a beautiful kiss.
[BlueSky]
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I ran out and bought myself a turkey sub, on the way back into my building the lights in the lobby were off and maintenance dude was working on them. I go to my place, sit down to eat and all the power shuts off.
I guessed the two things were connected.
Not the sandwich though.
Grum's subs are yummy but they just raised their prices by a buck. Still worth it, 7" sub for $9. That's two sandwiches for me.
And yay the power is back!
How happy will you guys be when the movie post goes up and the top image is of Kevin Kline as the president?