Presidents' Day

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My fellow Americans,

Monday is "Presidents' Day."  I'm not sure I like the idea of having only one day stand for every president.  It seems it gives too much credit to those that are unworthy.  After all, one could argue that while some presidents deserve special recognition (like Teddy Roosevelt, or Rutherford B Hayes), others ought to have their graves exhumed and their bones ground into paste for use as a salve for shingles (I'm looking at you, Grover Cleveland!).

Why should I, the president who opened the door to China and faced down Leonid Brezhnev, share a day with some spoiled pretty boy whose greatest accomplishment was spouting off some grade-school German?  You didn't see me in South Vietnam saying something silly like "I am a Saigoner" in whatever bloop-bloop way those people have of speaking. I never could get the hand of that language like Henry did.  It was too hard on my Quaker tongue.  Now French, that's a Language for me.  Sure, it makes you feel a little fruity when speaking it, but it's a good language.  A clean language.  A republican language.

But no, the country loved that Rum-Running sonofabitch's kid. Even though I was the one who nailed that pinko Alger Hiss.  I was the one who went toe-to-toe with the Soviets.  I had to clean up the mess in Indochina.  I had to deal with that insane demagogue in Havana.  I had to put my foot down and keep those smelly hippies in line.  I did all the hard work, while that playboy got by on looks and that goddamn Harvard accent.  I didn't have daddy to clear my path through life.  I had to do it on my own - working in my father's grocery store in Yorba Linda.  You know ... an Orthogonian, like the rest of you ...

All I ask is while you're drinking your Gin & Tonics, to give a little thought to how much you're all missing.  After all, you don't have Nixon to kick around anymore.

 

Nixon is: Angry