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The President – Episode 303

Posted in erbooker by erbooker on 03/31/2011

Through a series of unfortunate tragedies, 27-year-old Deputy Secretary of Transportation Holden Jackson became the youngest President in the history of the United States. Now he’s at war with Canada..

Episode 303 – Lessons Learned

Jackson: Man, look’t how fat Dog has gotten. You disgust me, Dog.

Dog: Ruff!

Chamberlain: Mr. President, I believe your dog–

Jackson: Your dog.

Chamberlain: My dog is pregnant.

Jackson: What? Pregnant? Like, with babies? Oh Dog, you hussy!

(Holden glares down at Dog who lowers her head, whimpering..)

Jackson: I didn’t even know it was a girl.

Chamberlain: I wouldn’t expect you to, sir. Shall we get General Reynolds on the mobile uplink to get an update on Chicago?

Jackson: Rusty!

Chamberlain: He’s not there yet, sir. I have to dial.

Jackson: Rusty, you there buddy?

Chamberlain: Sir, I just have to triangulate.

Jackson: (shaking the uplink)  RUSTY!

Chamberlain: Holden, this is a delicate device. Please don’t shake it.

Jackson: (slumps back into his chair behind the Resolute Desk)  My God, they killed Rusty. They killed my Rusty. Damn you, Canada!

(Gen. Reynolds’ face pops up on the uplink as scattered gunfire goes off behind him..)

Jackson: (leaping up out of his chair)  Rusty!

Reynolds: How ya doin’, Mr. President?

Jackson: Oh, I’m alright. The dog’s knocked up.

Reynolds: Mazel tov!

Jackson: How’s the battle going?

Reynolds: Not good, sir. The Canadians are pretty heavily-entrenched. This is gonna be a multi-day fight. I think we’ll be able to wear ’em down by day three or four.

Chamberlain: That’s great news, General. Our thoughts will be with you.

Reynolds: Thank you, son. Now if you boys don’t mind, I’m gonna go whip some hockey-lovin’, mullet-wearin’, Tim Horton’s-eatin’ Canuck tail.

Jackson: Hey, Rusty. Before you go, do you know any good dog abortionists?

Reynolds: (glaring through the uplink)  How dare you, sir. I’m a Catholic.

Jackson: Ooh sorry, Rusty.


(At Langevin Block, Prime Minister Clark Clarke is plotting with his secretary Margaret on how best to inspire the Canadian couple..)

Clarke: Okay, so I’ll be giving the speech here and the sniper will be across the park in the third story of this building here. He’ll take the shot, I’ll hit the ground, rise back up again and the people will see a real leader. The President just took a few punches; I’m takin’ a bullet for my country.

Margarets: I just don’t think this is very safe, Mr. Prime Minister.

Clarke: Relax, Margaret. The sniper’s shootin’ blanks.

Margarets: Then how will it look like you’ve been shot?

Clarke: With this.

(The Prime Minister unbuttons his shirt and shows Margaret a small device taped to his chest..)

Clarke: It’s called a squib. They use ’em in Hollywood westerns. It pops out and fake blood goes all over the place. Looks like I’ve been shot, but it’s perfectly safe.

Margarets: I just don’t think it’s right to mislead the public like this.

Clarke: This is what leaders do, Margaret. We never give people the whole truth. Just enough to appease and satisfy them. I’m merely giving the public a “partial truth”.

Margarets: Very well, sir. We’ll be leaving shortly.

Clarke: Thanks, Margaret. Hey, send in that new redhead temp real quick. I’ve got a…bill to write or something.

(A redheaded twentysomething bounces into the PM’s office and he smiles as he shuts the door..)

Clarke: Wanna see my squib?


(Gen. Peters’ humvee is rolling through downtown Chicago and Lt. Gregg leans out the passenger side window and unloads on an approaching volunteer soldier, blowing his head off..)

Gregg: Oh, jeez. Sorry about that, eh!


(President Jackson is sitting in a veterinarian’s waiting room with Dog. Dog glances at a panting rottweiler and starts wagging her tail. Holden puts his hand down to stop it..)

Jackson: Don’t even think about it, slut.

(The nurse pokes her head out from the back room, checking the chart..)

Nurse: Mr. …Jackson? The doctor will see you now.

Jackson: Don’t you mean the “veterinarian”?

Nurse: He prefers to be called “Doctor”.

Jackson: (scowling)  Well, ain’t he fancy.

Nurse: Aren’t you the President?

Jackson: No, I’m anonymous. Stay out here, guys.

SS Agent: (nods)

Doctor: Mr. Jackson. And this must be Dog.

(The vet picks Dog up, puts her on the table and she starts licking his hand..)

Doctor: (smiling)  Well, it looks like Dog’s got some little Dogs on the way.

Jackson: Yes, and we were hoping you could take care of that.

Doctor: Well, of course. I’d be honored to deliver the First Dog’s puppies.

Jackson: I’m anonymous! And that’s not what I meant by “take care of it”.

Doctor: (frowns)  You don’t mean–

Jackson: (nods)

Doctor: Oh my God, you do. No, I won’t be a part of any dog abortions. Not again.

Jackson: (whining)  C’monnn!

Doctor: No.

Jackson: Doctor, she’s a single mother. She can barely take care of herself, let alone a bunch of baby dogs. She doesn’t even know who the father is; I’ve asked her. He’s probably some good-for-nothin’ black lab from the wrong side of the tracks.

Doctor: Mr. Jackson, Dog is going to be a natural mother. All dogs are. Well, the female ones at least. I think you’re just getting cold feet.

Jackson: (scowling)  So the Christian fundamentalists got to you too? What do you think, they’re gonna bomb your clinic?

Doctor: No.

Jackson: Well Doctor, you’ve backed me into a corner and forced me to take matters into my own hands. I hope you’re happy.

(Holden picks up Dog and turns to exit..)

Doctor: Good luck with the War, sir.

Jackson: (turning back before slamming the door)  You’re not a real doctor!

Dog: Ruff!

Jackson: You tell him, Dog.


(Prime Minister Clarke is giving his speech in Tim Horton Park as the sniper — a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman — sets up in the building across from the park..)

Mountie: Can’t believe I’m gonna fake-shoot the Prime Minister. This is the craziest thing since Henry “Gizmo” Williams scored seven field-goal-backs in the front period of the 1987 Grey Cup!

Clarke: My fellow Canadians, we are currently mired in a time of crisis. We are at war with our once good neighbor; now our mortal enemy. We have been stomped on for far too long. Our accents have been called “funny”; our food “lousy” and our people “simple” and “too nice”. Well no more, eh!

Canadian Masses: (raucous applause)

Clarke: I propose a new day. A day where french fries are slathered in gravy. A day where plaid is the new black. A day where Canadian bacon is just called “bacon”!

Canadian Masses: (more raucous applause)

Canadian Citizen: Then what will we call bacon?

Clarke: (raises a fist into the air)  Death to America!

(A shot rings out and PM Clarke clutches at his chest and drops to the ground, a pool of blood emptying out of his chest. The crowd scatters screaming as Margaret kneels down next to her boss and dips a finger in the blood..)

Margaret: (whispering)  Wow, sir. That squib really did the trick. Very convincing.

Clarke: Nope. I put it on backwards and it went into my chest. That’s real.

Margaret: (wiping the blood on her dress)  Oh my.

Clarke: (eyes rolling back)  Doctor.


(Back in D.C., Gary steers Holden and Dog into an old warehouse where they’re introduced to Gary’s friend..)

Bouche: Rick Bouche. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.

Jackson: I’m anonymous.

Bouche: Oh.

Jackson: Listen, buddy. Have you performed a dog abortion before? Because I’ve been led to understand it’s a very complicated procedure.

Bouche: I’m a professional dog abortionist. Among other things.

Busey: (smiling, pats Rick on the back)  ‘Ol Bouche here’s a jack of all trades.

Jackson: Do you have the appropriate instruments?

Bouche: Yup. I’ve got a coat hanger and a towel.  (glances around)  Ah, shit. I forgot the towel.

Busey: That’s okay. We can use my shirt.  (pops shirt off, rubs belly)

Jackson: Gross, Gary.

Busey: Is there gonna be a lot of blood?

Bouche: Ho yeah.

Dog: (whimpers)

Bouche: Whoa, have you gotten the mother’s permission?

Jackson: What are you talking about? She’s a dog.

Bouche: I never perform a dog abortion without the mother’s permission. Wouldn’t be right.

Busey: (scratches his hairy nipple)  He’s a dog abortionist with morals, Holden.

Jackson: (pushes Dog toward Rick)  Go ahead, Dog. Tell the Bouche it’s alright to get that bastard puppy out of you.

Dog: (whimpers, slinks back toward Holden)

Jackson: Bark if you want to have a dog abortion.

Dog: (licks Holden’s face)

Jackson: Alright, we’re havin’ puppies.

Busey: (throws his shirt into the air)  Hooray!

Jackson: (shakes his head)  I just hope Wilbur is ready for all this added responsibility.

Bouche: I’m still gonna need to get paid for a dog abortion.

Jackson: (fishes around in wallet)  Do you take AmEx?

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