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Richard Nixon On Acid
by Con Chapman

Jefferson Airplane singer Grace Slick was invited to the White House as a former classmate  of Tricia Nixon.
She planned to spike Richard Nixon’s tea with LSD, but was determined a security risk and denied entry

            Wall Street Journal

Good evening, my fellow Americans. Tonight I want to talk to you on a subject of concern to all Americans—the war in Vietnam. Also, about the lights on that camera over there, the red one and green one. Did you ever read The Great Gatsby? Green light at the end of dock. Heavy. Got a B on my paper.

Anyway, Vietnam. There’s a North and a South Vietnam, like the Dakotas and Carolinas. The American people shouldn’t be asked to support a war against North Dakota. Let them secede into Canada—who cares? North Carolina is where I went to law school--not going to attack my alma mater. 

Americans have lost confidence in their Government over Vietnam.  You know, I never noticed the grains in the wood of my desk; like waves on the San Clemente beach—soothing, shiny.

Did you know the best shoes for walking on the beach aren’t flip-flops?  Nope--wing-tips. That way you never get sand between your toes. Maybe you like sand there--I don’t. It’s gritty, and it gets mixed up with toe jam. Which is disgusting enough by itself.

Tonight, I will answer questions on the minds of many Americans. How do I know? Because I can see your thoughts!  Bet you didn’t know that. It’s not hard. Haldeman—“Need haircut.” Ehrlichman—“Modified limited hangout!” Agnew—“Where’s the money?”

Thoughts comes in beautiful colors. I like colors. This speech I’m reading is black-and-white—the President of the United States ought to get a speech in living color. Colors . . . crawling towards me. Make them STOP!

Breathe--remember to breathe. Gotta read this speech, then call George Allen with a trick play. A flea-flicking, dipsy-doodle. It’s got to have a code name, so the Redskins can call an audible at the line of scrimmage. How about “Dipsy Poodle Flea”?

I have a plan for peace, which I believe will succeed. If it does, the critics won’t matter, and they won’t have my little dog Checkers to kick around anymore. Checkers has fleas, my dog has fleas.

If it doesn’t succeed, nothing I say will matter. Words are just . . . colors inside our heads that we taste. Floating on the breeze from my air conditioner. Which is on even though it’s May so I can have a fire--pretty.

America is the most powerful nation in the world. More powerful than a locomotive, like Superman. Lois Lane hoped Clark Kent would be a man instead of the milquetoast journalist that he was. Always “Yes, sir” “No, sir” when Perry White yelled at him.  I hate the press. They’re not silent—like you, the silent majority of my fellow Americans.

And so, I ask for your help.

I have the munchies.