Oscar watch party madness...The Gigi returns...Fearless Leader makes a proposal...it's raining golf balls. Must be Monday!

Here we are, another stinkin’ Monday. Hope you’re well. It may be awhile before we here at The Compound are able to recover from a near-calamitous finish to the weekend.

It started off easy enough. I was hosting our annual Oscars watch party that usually only involves me, Cousin Fred, and the Wife. This year, of course, we had the addition of Friend Lamont. It had been such a nice day (first in several), that the Wife chose to sit atop the roof chain-smoking filterless Pall Malls and chugging Old Crow whiskey while singing her peculiar rendition of “My Philadelphia Home”.

Let me state up front that I wouldn’t normally watch those proceedings, but Cousin Fred gets positively giddy about it for some reason. I personally think that Hollywood types live on a different planet or something. The Wife says I think that because I’m not one of them. Hmmm.

Anyway, about an hour into the freakin’ red carpet nonsense, we ran out of beer here in the house. Cousin Fred said he had a few cases stashed for emergency purposes inside Das Boot out on the north lawn, so he headed out the door to get some. The Wife, of course, began cackling and launching empty Old Crow bottles at his head as he ran a zig zag pattern trying to get to Das Boot without being pummeled from above.

That’s about the time we heard it.

Very softly at first, then increasingly loud. It was the thump-thump of helicopter rotors. That was followed by a series of loud pops and Cousin Fred screaming. Friend Lamont and I jumped up and ran to the front door to see a Cobra gunship chasing Cousin Fred across the lawn and shooting what looked like golf balls at him from one of the mounted cannons.

He was screaming, “We’re under attack, we’re under attack! Hide the women!”

Friend Lamont and I looked at one another. The Wife, still on the roof, began cackling again.

The fusillade of golf balls ceased as Cousin Fred neared the main house.

The Cobra took up a defensive position above Das Boot, its weapons still pointed toward the house. From the east, another Cobra gunship moved up and took up a position over the south pasture. Then, coming from the east, we saw it. Marine One.

It was Fearless Leader making another visit to The Compound!

Egad! Gazooks! What now, I thought to myself?

As Marine One settled on the lawn, two goons with guns (read as, Secret Service types) stepped from inside the aircraft and began running up to the house. One was carrying a long yellow tie. It was my Sponge Bob Squarepants tie. I hadn’t seen it since Fearless Leader’s last visit.

I stepped out onto the porch as they got there. The one agent thrust the tie towards me and instructed me to put it on. I knew what this meant and made no move to accept the tie.

“Look, we have to get back to DC for the damned Governor’s Ball. Put the f**king tie on,” the other agent said.

I reluctantly accepted the tie and tied it around my neck. The yellow color really stood out against my Three Stooges black t-shirt.

“Come with us,” the tie-bearer said.

As I stepped down off the porch, the two goons each grabbed one of my arms and ran me across the lawn to the waiting helo.

The Wife, still on the roof, began shouting, “Nice knowing you!” That was followed by more cackling.

As we moved across the lawn toward the idling helicopter, I saw another goon with a gun step down from inside. He was holding someone by the arm…a woman…good grief, it was Gigi! He gave her a minor shove in our direction. As we passed on the lawn, I said, “welcome back.”

It was about then that Cousin Fred spotted her and ran out into the yard yelling Gigi’s name. The Cobra gunship hovering over the north lawn commenced firing the golf ball cannon again. The golf balls littered the lawn between Cousin Fred and Gigi. He turned and ran back inside.

The Wife atop the roof yelled, “Fore!” The cackling recommenced.

Onboard the helo, Fearless Leader sat behind a desk dressed in black tie. In his lapel a small crossed nine irons pin.

“Come on blogger boy. I have serious business back in D.C. Have to get back. The nation’s governors want to meet and greet their favorite president of all time. That’s me, by the way. Now, what do you want?”

I stood, confused and unsure what to say. “Umm…,” came out.

“I graciously brought back Gigi to you. Don’t need her anymore. Jeff Sessions can’t find work after I let him go, but it turns out that he worked his way through law school as a stylist at Mr. Leonard’s House of Coiffure in Mobile. So, I’ll give him a shot. You know, throw the dog a bone.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I replied.

“Yes, I am kind. I’m the most kindly and gracious president of all time. The only thing I ask in return is that you keep that idiot cousin of yours away from me. Got it?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“I have a proposal for you, blogger boy. You have a real flair for the words and smart-ass comments, don’t you? How about you take over my Twitter account. I’m much too busy with affairs of state to keep it up.”

“Umm…”

“Sure, you just make whatever comments you want about things happening in the world. Enrage people. That’s what I like. It attracts attention to my favorite person in the world…me.”

“Yeah, I don’t think…”

“Good, then it’s settled.”

At that, one of the goons with guns handed me a sealed envelope.

“That has the handshakes to access my Twitter account. I expect great things from you. We already have your non-disclosure agreement on file so no worries there.  My campaign will pay you per tweet.”

“Wait, what non-disclo…?”

“Okay, now vamoose. I have a ball to attend.”

At that I summarily thrown off Marine One. As the rotors began turning for takeoff, my Sponge Bob tie was whipped in the rotor wash. Sand burrs and bits of dried grass flew everywhere.

After Marine One disappeared over in the east, both Cobra gunships began firing golf balls from their respective cannons. I ran a zig zag pattern back into the house. The Wife cackled. 

That is all.