the president

I’ve got a short film of The President taking a dump in a child’s toybox you can borrow. The best part is when the child cries. Originally it was gonna be a full-length feature. Shitty Christmas, starring The President. Only Bobby Beausoleil, who also did a syntho soundtrack from prison, refused to share writing credits with The President, and that’s why the Manson family killed Bruce Lee. Not many people know that Jane Birkin, french pop chanteuse and wife of Serge Gainsbourg, had her actual teeth removed and replace with the teeth of two wolves at the direction of Lee disciple Wilt Chamberlain, and that she was to be the final opponent in Lee’s “psycherotik” collaboration with renouned “New Satanist” and LSD addict Jackie Gleason entitled “Jesus Fucker ‘78”, a film about a gang of thirteen bikers on a mission to kill the The President. The President was not asked to participate. In a vodka-rage, The President and then-lover Jan Michael Vincent snuck into the home of Bruce and Linda Lee and took a dump in Brandon Lee’s crib. The President's attempt to have a brainwashed Timothy Leary kill Charles Manson at Vacaville Prison was less successful. At the very end of the Rolling Stones documentary “Cocksucker Blues”, there is a second-long flash of an “attack and cripple” sigil, hand-drawn by Dennis Wilson prior to his “accidental” death. It is my conviction that The President, who suffers from dyslexia, saw this sigil in its inverted state and became an agent of The Hidden Christ. Syd and Marty Krofft built automated fellatio devices with the faces of history’s great villians which were shared and soiled at Lee’s “retreats” in the hidden tunnel-city beneath Oakland. It was here that The President learned “the death-touch”, a combination of jeet kune do and remote viewing. “Every home holds a weapon, a gun pointed at the faces of every viewer,” an obviously intoxicated President told TV Guide in 1988. The ghosts of all the people The President has killed via television gather at his bedside as he tries to sleep, fighting coke-jitters and heart palpitations and crying jags, no one left to call at three am and beg for mercy, no stary-eyed groupies to give a medicated nod to his every memory, desperate searches for instructions from The Hidden Christ blurred and broken. Tonight, Black Peter stalks The President, Santa pants puddled around his ankles, faded polaroids of faceless victims stuck to his sweat-stained chest.