Mistakes Were Made

By Ruby Messenger

A corrosive look at our corrosive politics. America's gun fixation and 45th president don't get a balanced view here, but they're treated just as fairly as they deserve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruby Messenger
• Release date: Aug 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386955252

Ruby Messenger

Ruby Messenger was born in Los Angeles, California in 1992 and has been both fascinated and repelled by politics since about that time. She currently lives in Aurora, Colorado.

Book preview

Preface

Every American’s political philosophy, as expressed in a formal proof:

1.  I am always right

2.  Therefore, anyone who disagrees with me is wrong

3.  To be wrong is to be stupid

Therefore, anyone who disagrees with me is stupid

Chapter 1

At one time or another , all of us have to stand naked. You. Me. The Pope. The president of the United States. Current US President Alexander J. Riddle knew this well and had no problem with it whatsoever.

While undressing in the Lincoln Bedroom, the president said to his secretary, Honey, get me that Right Direction guy on the phone. With a toothy grin he added, "and then get me."

The secretary, whose name he had long forgotten, called back, Of course, Mr.  President.

But before you do, Riddle said, now with a grin so wide it was crocodilian, put on that outfit I like.

He switched on the television while he waited, and the local news told of a ...tragic event in Annapolis, Maryland with what appears to be the murder-suicide of a thirty-nine-year-old man and his wife and two young children. There seems to be a pattern of...

Riddle changed the channel and was met with a car commercial.

He changed it again. Ten seconds of a football game, immediately followed by another car commercial.

He switched to FXBS, a cable news network that covered him so favorably Riddle had once told his eldest daughter, I could shove my cock down any one of their anchors’ throats and they’d say Thank you, Mr. President. I’ve been thirsty all day."

Riddle watched the last part of a Viagra ad, featuring a middle-aged couple driving a sharp convertible through a winding desert highway, before the screen cut back to the newsroom.

A rinsed-out blonde with a face full of Botox said, Welcome back, viewers. We continue our coverage of President Riddle’s State of the Union Address last night, in which he delivered a strong, forceful, full-throated defense of American values.

The president took off his jacket.

"Alex Riddle just exuded strength, didn’t he, Jean?"

Riddle slid his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt.

Oh, absolutely, said a somewhat younger (but equally rinsed-out) blonde who wore too much make-up. "In one night, he provided the leadership that Americans have been clamoring for for a couple of years now. He was just a...a pillar of strength."

Shirt, undershirt, and belt hit the floor in rapid succession.

By the time these women agreed that President Riddle was the most potent weapon in the American arsenal, Riddle was completely nude.

For a time, he simply stood stark naked in front of the television, admiring the highlights from last night’s speech. Occasionally, he’d repeat a line with the same abandon some have when singing along with a favorite song on their car radio:

The state of our Union is strong. The state of our Union will soon be infinitely stronger. I’m not done. Not even close.

Both TV Riddle and his in-the-flesh counterpart pounded the air with a hammy fist and continued, and the world will see us in this position of strength and know that we are not just ‘the shining city on a hill,’ but the shining city that is heavily armed.

Next: "I’d appreciate the cooperation of Congress. I don’t need the cooperation of Congress, but I’d like that. But, let me tell you: if you all can’t get it done, I will."

Should’ve paused more after ‘let me tell you,’ the president thought, maximize the drama. And remember to point more. And for longer. And at specific people. Also, try to watch those flecks of spit...or does that show passion? Hell, I don’t know. But overall, I’d say bullseye. Bulls. Eye.

Eventually, Riddle turned the volume down and meandered to the bed where his remarks about the latest bill he needed to hawk, the Restore Morality Act, were strewn across the sheets.

This is a time of incredible challenge for our nation, he said in as deep and statesmanlike a voice as he could muster. (His natural voice had too nasally a ring to it and was higher than he’d like. He sounded, come to think of it, like a mob boss from one of those 1930s gangster pictures).

But try as he might, Riddle found himself unable to give his bootlegger’s yammer the necessary lift, and his attempt at an orator’s roar fell flat.

In a voice that rather resembled John F. Kennedy’s (less of a stretch for Riddle) he repeated, A time of great challenge... and poked his finger into the air, a gesture he regarded as Kennedy-esque.

Again, though, not right. Shouting, maybe?

He flung his arms wide and yelled, A TIME OF- but just then he heard the bathroom door open. Riddle scrambled into his Roman general pose (so he called it) as his secretary walked out with not a shred of clothing.

To the secretary, the pose the aging, out-of-shape Riddle struck (legs planted far apart, each fist on a flabby hip, and face contorted into a stony expression, complete with furrowed brows and bulging lip), had more in common with Benito Mussolini than a Caesar. The fact that the president was currently naked did not add any gravitas, either. But what did it matter? He was, after all, the president, and White House staff served at the president’s pleasure.

She strode toward him slowly, giving him time to take in every inch of her young body (she was a third his age) and, leaning into his ear, said in a soft, falsetto little stage-whisper, Reverend Phillips is on line one, Mr. President.

Reverend Robert Phillips was the head of Right Direction, an ultra-conservative, fanatically religious organization that played a key role in making Alexander Riddle President of the United States.

The support of Right Direction lent the Riddle campaign religious credibility and encouraged the values voters to overlook Riddle’s less-than-stellar record of marital fidelity, one which the TV star/casino kingpin flaunted before he knew he would run for president.

Women love me, the pre-political Riddle once brayed on a late-night talk show. "It’s a magnetism thing. What can I say? Some beautiful girl comes up to me, what am I gonna do, disappoint her? People say, ‘Well what about your marriage vows?’ and I tell ’em ‘they were still less phony than my second wife’s rack, okay?!’"

At a campaign rally, Phillips had gone so far as to call thrice-married Riddle the new King David.

Alexander Riddle was a sinner who found God, who found the light, who allowed God into his heart, said Phillips, over much applause and even a few tears. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

Riddle had never been particularly fond of the sanctimonious prick, but if he could make something work to his advantage, why wouldn’t he?

With one arm around his secretary’s waist, the president looked up and down every corner of the room in a needless effort to ensure they were alone. Then, with a low chuckle, he flopped onto the bed and picked up the phone.

With his right hand stroking his secretary’s hair and his left cupping her breast, he cradled the phone between shoulder and ear. Riddle barked, Reverend Phillips?

Yes, sir! said Phillips with the fiery, warbling tone only Southern preachers seem able to achieve. (The president privately admired this voice and made a note to himself to try and emulate it in the future).

For a second or two, Riddle hesitated, knowing what he wanted to do was foolish. But unable to help himself, the president shoved his secretary over the edge of the bed and down on her knees, then got her lips around what he often referred to as Air Force One.

Well... a long pause, some loud breathing; then, I appreciate your joining me this afternoon, Reverend.

The pastor replied, Always a pleasure, Mr. Pres-

As you know, this is a time of great challenge for our nation, said Riddle. He had learned his lines by heart...good thing, too: the rocking of the bed had knocked the papers to the floor.

Riddle was soon panting, but managed to gasp, "One of the reasons... for this... is the assault! –here, he exhaled sharply- Uh...The assault many take on our...our religious freedoms...and...and...and I intend to rectify this."

Absolutely! said Reverend Phillips. The perversion of our society started when too many began to deny that the United States of America is a Christian nation. Furthermore- 

The reverend continued his sermon, but the president heard none of it; his breathing was too hard, his pleasure too dizzying, to care at all about Phillips or Jesus or anyone else.

"And let us never forget that freedom of religion has never meant freedom from religion," Phillips declared.

Uh...yeah, the president said dazedly. Honey began to move a bit faster, and President Riddle grew even more distracted, but managed to wheeze, "The morals of our society are rotting from within. Our homes...and families are, are...disintegrating."  

There was a lengthy, awkward pause as the president simultaneously groped for both Honey’s left buttock and something to say.

Come on. Think, think, think, Riddle said to himself.

Talking about my faith just gets me so emotional, he eventually blurted out.

I understand, sir, warbled Phillips. I understand.

The president continued, at a machine-gun clip: I said to my own wife, I was talking to her just this morning, and I said, ‘we have to do something about this before it’s too late.’ This whole situation is just unbelievable. It’s unbelievable and it has to be dealt with immediately.

(Naturally, this was wholly untrue- but who needed to know that?)

Riddle’s voice began fluctuating madly as he tried to suppress moan after moan after climax after moan:

In as close to an authoritative, professorial tone as he could get, he declared, That’s why I’m introducing the Restore Morality Act. No longer will the government be able to interfere, be able to tell people of faith how to run their businesses! No longer will the government condone- but here his voice sprang into something resembling a cartoon weasel huffing a mixture of Benzedrine and helium- "the slaughter of babies! We must all realize the difference between a choice and a child. We will take measures to protect unborn children and those who fail to do so will face... swift and...and... decisive action."

In truth, Riddle did not particularly care one way or the other about gay rights- which were, of course, what the Restore Morality Act was really an attack on. Furthermore, abortion had gotten Alexander J. Riddle out of more than one awkward position.

But who needed to know that? In fact, as far as his supporters were concerned, who even wanted too?

Heart racing, sweat dripping, and gasping for breath, the president feared for a moment that the reverend was on to him. In fact, how could he not be? Who in their right mind could possibly fall for this insane, ridiculous charade?

But then again, Riddle had offered up far more asinine things than this to the entire country...and millions had gobbled it up and asked for more. He’d lobbed one outrageous lie after another as if he were tossing peanuts to circus elephants- if Alexander J. Riddle was able to convince a nation he could build a magic wall and conjure the pesos to pay for it, why couldn’t he could get one preacher to mistake sexual favor for religious fervor?

Riddle took a moment to catch his breath and then- despite all distractions- began to hit his stride. With one hand on the back of Honey’s head and the other held aloft in the JFK position, Riddle proclaimed, A few years ago, five unelected lawyers thought they could redefine the hallowed meaning of marriage. Let me tell you, we’re going to fix that.

Thank God and thank you, President Riddle! bellowed the preacher.

"God DAMN!" he shouted, quite accidentally. (For you see, Honey had started twisting her tongue about and jerking her head back and forth in a move so deliciously shattering her employer called it ‘the Second Coming’).

Riddle winced- he knew this outcry was one blasphemy Phillips would not overlook (and of all things, ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain’ was what would ruin his standing with this Bible-thumping prick! Not decades of debauchery and cheating- financial and otherwise- but a simple ‘goddamn!’ Jesus Fucking Christ!)

But, fast as God made the fox, Riddle thought of a way out. Through deep breaths, he exclaimed, God damn... those who would pervert our nation’s integrity!

The president mentally congratulated himself: that was fucking brilliant!

Riddle was close now, and seconds later he threw his head back and roared, THANK YOU AND GOD BLESS AMERICA!

He slammed the phone down and leaned forward to give his secretary’s crotch a quick squeeze.

Swallow, there’s starving people in India, cackled the president as Honey rose to get dressed. And then tell my wife I want to take her to lunch.

Mr. President, you have a press conference in twenty minutes, said Honey.

"I do? asked an irritated Riddle. For fuck’s sake, why am I the last one to know these things?"

Also, there was an earthquake in San Marcos that was pretty devastating. You should probably release a statement. Her voice became less seductive with each article of clothing she put back on.

Where the hell is San Marcos? California or what? asked Riddle.

It’s in Guatemala, Mr. President.

The president threw up his hands in frustration. "What do they need me for? Tell Ollie Owens, ‘thoughts and prayers’! Thoughts. And. Prayers. Say that and be done with it. What’s so goddamn hard about it?"

Riddle stood up and waddled, penguin-like, to his private bathroom. The president took longer than most to get ready as he was very particular about what was left of his hair, taking great pains to keep its appearance sleek and youthful- at least, that’s what he thought.

First, Riddle poured massive quantities of Hot Head, a hair tonic meant for teenage boys, onto his scalp. While massaging the oily slime through his hair, he looked right into the mirror- head cocked to one side, eyes steely and narrowed, lips pursed- and said:

"You’re the president. You’re the president. You’re the president. You’re the fucking president."

This chanting was accompanied by a great deal of heavy, masculine grunting and the occasional satisfied sigh. Moreover, it took about as long to get through as any prima donna’s hair and makeup routine before the curtain rose at the opera.

For someone as fussy about his appearance as this man was, Riddle was not pleasant to look at: his mouth, which was far too big for the rest of his craggy face, always seemed to hang open, so that it resembled a drainage pipe jutting out of a jagged rock.

Moreover, the face itself seemed forever frozen into a contemptuous sneer, and was oddly mottled with splotches of orange, growing like some sort of radioactive mold.

If you were to look closely at our Dear Leader, really closely, you’d probably get the same disquieting, seasick feeling you would if you ordered a banana split and the waiter brought you a whole, uncooked fish just splayed out in a pool of its own stinking blood, one black-hole eye staring up at you.

An icy uneasiness gnaws at your spine as you stare at this enormous dead fish and the massive, greying, rubbery corpse-lips stretched along its gaping mouth.

Then, jerking your head away, revulsion creeping from stomach to throat, you hear a strange, wet slap. You look down. It isn’t dead.

Alexander Riddle had -had- one