History Department, Please

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, with nothing better to do last Friday, Jan. 9, I thought I’d check out what purports to be news these days and discovered that disgraced and potty-mouthed former President Richard M. Nixon “would’ve been” 102 years old that very day, what the fock.

I put quotes around “would’ve been” ’cause I’m telling you, if some True Believer would ever get around to pulling the stake out of ol’ Dick’s heart, the news would’ve said that “Richard Nixon is celebrating his 102nd birthday today,” I kid you not.

I would imagine that there are those who have tried to remove the Nixon heart stake, but with a heart that infinitesimal, how the hell do you locate the stake? Not everybody has access to that Hubble whatchamacallit periscope, I’m guessing.

Anyways, you history buffs know that the Watergate-tape mystery of the missing 18 1/2 minutes from a recording of a conversation on June 20, 1972 between Milhous and his chief of staff, H.R. “Bob” Haldeman, has never been solved.

But what you don’t know is that I possess a partial transcript of that conversation, thanks to a secret source from years ago. So without further ado, direct from the Old Executive Office Building in our nation’s capital, please give it up, America, for the conversational stylings of an ex-president and his top toady:

Dick: Yeah, Bob, I will. And a little less goddamn water this time, goddamn it. Are you sure you showed Rose Mary which button to push to stop this tape machine?

H.R. “Bob”: Yes, Mr. President.

Dick: Cut the “Mr. President” crap for christ sakes, Bob. How many times do you have to see me naked before you’ll allow “Dick” to pass from your lips?

H.R. “Bob”: Yes sir. Here’s your cocktail.

Dick: Thank you, Bob. Tall and frosty—just the way I like my men. Oh yeah, that’s good. Hey, Liddy told me a good one the other day. Here: An Italian guy, a Spanish guy and a black guy—do we call them “blacks” now, Bob?

H.R. “Bob”: Sometimes, sir.

Dick: Jesus Christ. So anyways, an Italian guy, a Spanish guy and a black guy are riding in a car. Who’s driving?

H.R. “Bob”: I don’t have enough information to make a judgment, sir.

Dick: The cop, Bob. The focking cop’s driving. Get it? Goddamn it, and people say I don’t have a sense of humor. I’ll show them. Next time I got to give a crime speech, tell Safire to put that one in there, would you?

H.R. “Bob”: I’ll make a note of it, sir.

Dick: People don’t realize how I’ve softened since I’ve been in office—’nother cocktail, Bob. Take this Watergate thing, breaking into the Democratic headquarters just to see if they had some secret plan to push a draft for Teddy at the convention ’cause they and I both know this McGovern homo is a focking loser. And so if they were going to draft Kennedy, I was going to have the boys pull a couple, three dirty tricks on him, maybe somehow get him caught shacking up with some 16-year-old prostitute, like what’s-her-name.

H.R. “Bob”: Trudy, sir.

Dick: Yeah, Trudy. Never did catch her name. Goddamn it, Bob, my glass is empty again. I’ve mellowed, Bob, but nobody cares. So this time I plan to get a Kennedy out of the way by spreading a little dirt on him instead of having the dirt spread over him and now look at the deep shit I’m in. What was his name again?

H.R. “Bob”: Who, sir?

Dick: That little camel jockey Gordon hired for us in ’68.

H.R. “Bob”: Sirhan Sirhan, sir.

Dick: Jesus H. Christ, what the hell kind of name is that. What’s wrong with those people.

So, I continued my half-hearted perusal of the news last Friday, and here at the start of a new year, I got to say that, betweenst you and me, if not for the bullshit that organized religion and its goddamn followers spew out all the time like crap through a goose—you betcha we could have “peace on Earth” sooner rather than later.

On this topic (and speaking of iconic figures) allow me to quote crooner-as-god Mr. Frank Sinatra (The Chairman of the Board, or depending on your gender, “Chairman of the Broad”) from a 1963 Playboy interview—words, if taken to heart, that just might calm down the hullabaloo in the Middle East for starters: “I’ve always had a theory that whenever guys and gals start swinging, they begin to lose interest in conquering the world. They just want a comfortable pad and stereo and wheels, and their thoughts turn to the good things of life—not to war. They loosen up, they live and they’re more apt to let live. Dig?”

“Dig” I do, Ol’ Blue Eyes, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.