DINNER WITH NIX was through-and-through an unpleasant affair, but dessert was the worst. Nix called for his "Bojangles butter." In came the midnight-blackest of the entire White House staff, apparently reserved for just this purpose as he took part in neither the serving of the meal nor in any other of the cordialities and proprieties that preceded and followed. So black he could have been Jolson, but without the telltale rings around the eyes or the abrupt cut that occurred near the collar and at the hairline. Bojangles showed a wide swath of gleaming teeth, brighter than the bleached gloves he now tugged taut over his invisible black wrists with a haughty, elegant snap! . . . . He kneeled beside the chief's seat in synch with Nix's undaunted gesture of standing and dropping his pants, earlier undone for increased capacity during the meal. In once expert motion--like Sally Rand with her famous feathers--the president molted dingey boxer shorts (grey, imprinted with the seal either of Whittier or the John Birch Society . . . couldn't tell, so distracted was I by the resemblance between Nix's bare, bushy legs and the scrawny misshapenness of my own assistant's hairy hooves) and planted his ass with blemishless trust--the trust that comes up only in the most intimate ritual moments between master and servant--smack over Bojangles'ss gloved, glowing index finger, bony and braced for insertion.

"Gung!" was the noise Nix let escape as he sat. The president, hands on Lincoln's leather arms, would shift slightly before Bo, out of sight now behind the edge of the great oak table, set to work at his digital enema. Then Nix could start in about "that damn war" again and in all the nonchalance I almost forgot anything funny was going on beneath the chocolate mousse but for the moment Nix finally stood, pulling up boxers and pants in one swift clip. Bojangles carried away his loot in a bejewelled box, discretely sparkling and resembling a container for tobacco or myrrh. Whether it went the way of Checkers's pieces or if it was preserved in back room of the National Archives dedicated to presidential enemas--well even the devil is damned if he knows!

pssst. . .sign the guestbook!