This is a story about Richard Nixon. Not the late president Richard Nixon, mind you, but another entity altogether. I use the word “entity” rather than “person” or even “character” for good reason. Because, you see, the Richard Nixon of this story is a chair—albeit a fictional one. A chair called Richard Nixon? Why not? You wouldn’t complain about a chair called Louis XIV, now would you?

Anyway, this is a story about a fucking chair named Richard fucking Nixon. I ought to inform you, at this point, that I, your humble narrator, suffer from Tourette’s syndrome, specifically coprolalia, a happy coincidence, I might add, as it provides ample cover for my random and gratuitous use of naughty fucking words throughout this story.

A story about a chair? Does that mean that this chair will have human qualities, anthropomorphized, as it were, a surrogate for a more conventional character? Not quite. In fucking fact, I was being a trifle misleading when I told you this would be a story about a chair called Richard Nixon. To be more accurate, though this chair figures prominently in the story, this is really a story about a little boy and a little girl named Ike and Mamie.

Ike was sitting on Richard Nixon when Mamie entered the room.

That reminds me of Noam Chomsky. Chomsky tells us that our knowledge of the rules of language allows us to generate an infinite number of completely new fucking sentences. Certainly this story has already provided ample evidence of that. We’re hardly out of the starting gate and you have already encountered a number of sentences you’ve never seen before. Certainly, “Ike was sitting on Richard Nixon when Mamie entered the room” is a completely new sentence, or it least it was just a little while ago. Anyway, pardon the digression and let me get back to where I left off. Actually, let me backtrack a bit, just in case you’re feeling a bit lost.

Ike was sitting on Richard Nixon when Mamie entered the room. Mamie, who was 40 years older than Ike, but still a little girl at heart, said, “Ikey-Wikey, have you decided on the next Supreme Court appointment?”

“Yes,” replied Ike, “I’ll probably regret it for the rest of my days, but I think I’m going to appoint little Billy Brennan.”

Ike and Mamie were playing house. White House, that is. Mike was playing, too. Mike was Ike’s Siamese twin brother, joined to Ike at the hip, though I believe the politically correct term now is conjoined twins, but when this story takes place nobody had any problem with “Siamese twins,” except maybe the Siamese, or should I say Thai? So I really should have written, “Mike and Ike were sitting on Richard Nixon when Mamie entered the room,” which is a completely new sentence, if one can say that a partially new sentence is a completely new sentence. Mike’s full name was Michael Anthony. Mike was employed by a millionaire named John Beresford Tipton. His job was to knock on strangers’ doors and hand out million-dollar checks. Ike, of course, had to tag along, and the millionaire was glad to have two lackeys for the price of one.

And then, one day, tragedy struck. All of a sudden, a cleavage appeared in the upholstery (it wasn’t Mamie’s), and the stuffing started popping out of Richard Nixon. Mike and Ike were so distraught they shit their pants. “What shall we do? What shall we do?” they cried.

“Change your pants and I’ll think of something,” Mamie said.

“We can’t, we can’t,” cried Mike and Ike, “these are our only pants and we can’t afford no others as Mr. Tipton, millionaire though he may be, feels perfectly justified in paying us starvation wages, fuck, shit, fuck.”

“Well, then, keep your pants on and follow me,” Mamie said.

Mamie picked up Richard Nixon and left the house, with Mike and Ike in tow. They walked and they walked and they walked, and after several hours they arrived at a shop called “Louie the Furniture King.”

Mamie put Richard Nixon down on the counter. “What’s the problem,” Louie asked, adding, “boy, something smells like shit.”

“That’s us,” said Mike and Ike, “and you can blame it on that cheap son of a bitch John Beresford Tipton.”

“You mean the guy who gives away million-dollar checks?” Louie said. “I thought he was a great philanthropist.”

“Are you kidding?” said Mike, alone this time. “He’s nothing more than a publicity-seeking cocksucker. And I ain’t just being metaphorical.”

“But I thought he operated anonymously,” said Louie.

“Yeah, so how come you know about him?” Mike asked.

“I watch TV—ah, I get it!”

“And anyway,” Mike and Ike said, “how’s a million dollar check here or there gonna solve the ills of society?”

“Now, now, boys,” said Mamie, “fuck society and let’s do something about this fucking chair.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” said Mike and Ike, reeking of poop.

“Let’s take a look at the patient,” Louie said as he began to examine Richard Nixon. Within several minutes, the verdict was in. “This baby’s gonna need a complete re-upholstery job.”

“Is it worth it?” Mamie asked Louie.

“If you mean, can it be rehabilitated, the answer is yes. Just leave the chair with me and in a couple of days you can pick up the new Nixon.”

And that’s about all there is to the story. A couple of days later, they picked up the new Nixon, which was exactly like the old Nixon.

Ike and Mamie got married a few years later. On their wedding night, they fucked for hours on end, in numerous positions, in bed, on the floor, and, yes, on Richard Nixon, as Mike, the odd man out, watched longingly.