How the Draft Allows the President to Give 110% to the ninety-nine percenters or Operation Occupulco Spring

You are President Jones. You are in the Amityville Horror, which is the codeword for the White House. You are here because you have given up on trying to escape. It might be Stockholm Syndrome. At least the place has good whiskey, food and TV.

As the President, you are expected to keep the wheels of industry turning by keeping them greased. And it doesn’t hurt if a little grease rubs off into your wallet either. So today, you’re going to be receiving a couple visitors who are the driving force behind those cogs and sprockets. It seems that they have an urgent problem and believe that you’re the guy to solve it. You do not have to be very bright to be a banker you guess.

Right on time, the intercom chimes and Brick House says, “Sir, your one o’clock is ready, Mr. Blank…”

“Brick?…” She really hates the codewords.

“Thurston Howell the Third and J.R. Ewing are here to see you, sir.”

It amazes you how she can enunciate so well without ever unclenching her teeth. “Please, send them in.”

The door opens and a couple of guys enter. They seem like ordinary rich people, but you know, in fact, that they are the people who actually run the Earth. Yes, kids, there are jobs even worse than being President. You usher them to the couch while Brick House gets them a couple of drinks.

After Brick exits, you ask, “So guys, what can an ordinary Cheeseball do for you?”

J.R. opens up, “Well, sir…”

“Please just call me Cheesy, we’re all friends here.”

J.R. chuckles, “Well sure, Cheesy, anyway you know about the ‘Occupy Wall Street’ thing?”


“Well we really would like them to stop already.”

“I can’t see how they’re even bothering you guys. Just ignore them, they’ll get bored and go away eventually”

“There is a tent in my parking space,” J.R. says.

“Just take a limo. You didn’t forget you’re stinking rich did you?”

“You don’t understand, my car is is IN the tent. They’re sleeping on it.”

“Okay, just get another car.”

“It’s a Maserati.”

“Hmm… that is serious. What do you want me to do?”

Thurston speaks up, “Can’t you just shoot them?”

“Probably, but it’s not a good idea. You wouldn’t believe how much rigmarole there was just because I waved a two by four near Wolf Blitzer. I can only imagine the mountain of paperwork there’d be for shooting those guys. Besides, do you really want blood and bullet holes on your Maserati?”

“Can’t they just shoot carefully?”

“The Guidos?” which is the code name for the Department of Homeland Security, “No, they don’t shoot ‘carefully’, they shoot ‘massively’. In fact they’re liable to shoot you guys in the process.”

J.R. looks suddenly nervous, “I hate getting shot.”

Thurston sits up straight, “Good grief man! They sound dangerous.”

“You have no idea, they only get down to ‘just dangerous’ at lunch time.”

J.R. takes his stetson off, “There has to be some way to get rid of them.”

You take a sip of your Jack Daniels and lean back in the chair to think. After a while you realize you have nothing. And then… the epiphany! You know someone who has something.

“Well boys, I don’t know how to solve this one. But I will put my best man on it right away. I’m sure he’ll come up with a solution.”

So after some chit chat they take off back to where ever it is that the richest people in the world hang. You get up and head to the liquor cabinet with a post it note. After writing a quick message on it, you pour yourself another drink and put the bottle with the message back into the cabinet.

After a little while playing Nibbles on the computer, a knocking sound comes from the secret panel in your office. You make a mental note to do something nice for Brick, since she is going out of her way to make your life pleasant. You open the panel. Unfortunately behind the panel is not Hot Pocket or Sausage Wrap (codewords for your very special “therapists”), but it’s Mr. Frost.

“Cheesy, you look disappointed.”

“Oh no big deal, thought you might be someone else.”

“I got your message, I understand you have a problem to solve.”

“Yeah, my buddies from Fort Knox,” codeword for Wall Street, “really want to get rid of the Occupy Wallstreeters. I figured you might have an idea about that.”

There’s a strange concerned look on Mr. Frost’s face now. He takes you by the arm and leads you to the couch, “Oh my, I didn’t realize it was this bad. Please, Cheesy, have a seat here and take a load off. Let me get you a drink.”

After refilling your glass and handing it to you, Frost sits down opposite you. “Cheesy, I’m concerned that you are working much to hard.” Oddly enough, that statement does not cause whiskey to spurt from your nose. “I realize that, like myself, you are a workaholic.” That statement does cause alcohol to shoot from your nose. “So I am aware of the pitfalls of this condition.”

His bedside manner is so good, you’re already becoming convinced. You lift your feet up onto the couch and lay back and take a drink, “I have been feeling a little run down lately.”

“That, sir, is obvious from the request you made of me just now.” Mr. Frost takes a drink of his whiskey.

“Really? How so?”

“Well, sir, the solution to this problem is so simple, it’s well within your already considerable skill set to solve without my help.”

You’re beginning to wonder if you might have a fever. You wave your empty glass and Mr. Frost hops up to refill it for you. “Okay, so help me out here, what is this simple solution?”

“Well, what we have here are a bunch of bored college students. And they’re pissed off they are broke. You know where they’d be right now if they weren’t broke?”

You shake your head weakly, “No.”

“Spring break. That’s all they really want.”

You realize, he’s right, you should have thought of this. But in your weakened condition you still can’t put it together into a plan. “So, what do we do?”

“Well first, in my capacity as Chief Intelligence Officer, I am ordering you to get some R&R. I would suggest, after a little emergency R&R, an extended trip to Acapulco. At least a couple of weeks.”

“But who’ll run things here while I’m gone?”

A blast of Scotch comes out of Mr. Frost. After a choking chuckle, “Good one, sir. I can see my treatment is already having a positive effect.”

“I’m still not a hundred percent. Fill in the blanks for me?”

“Okay we can’t just invite them all to go to Spring Break. Their self delusion won’t allow that. What we have to do is convince them that they are going there to further their cause.

So we need to infiltrate them with an obvious one percenter who can convince them that he is on their side and wants to help. You, sir, are the obvious choice for that. You’re the only one percenter out there who acts like a ninety-nine percenter.”

“I do like to be a man of the people.”

“So we put Duckie out there somewhere to make sure they don’t think it’s really you. And we inject you into the crowd…”

“You know the Agents Smith are going to want to come too? And probably the Drinking Buddies.” Of course that would be the Joint Chiefs.

“The Drinking Buddies are not a problem, just put them in some Hawaiian shirts and they’re good to go. Since we’re posing you as a one percenter, you can tell the crowd the Agents Smith are your accountants. They’ll buy that.”

“Okay… then what?”

“You tell the crowd that you’re as disgusted with your kind as they are. Tell them that you came to help. And that the people who they are protesting fled to Acapulco to get away from them, that they are protesting empty buildings. Then offer to fly them in your private jet so they can continue their protest at the foot of the very people they hate.”

“Yeah, it is pretty simple. I should have thought of this.”

“Well, since you brought me in on it, I can fill in a little bit of detail that you might have missed. We need to send Duckie to San Fransisco while he’s playing you.”

“Why there?”

“Well, it’s a younger crowd you’re taking to Acapulco, you’re going to need some supplies besides whiskey and beer.”

Mr. Frost gets up and heads toward the secret panel. “Now, about that emergency R&R…” He opens the panel and in comes Hot Pocket and Sausage Wrap. As they see your condition they rush to your side.

“Oh you poor baby! You look so worn, let’s get you comfortable.” Sausage Wrap says as she helps you out of your shirt. You notice that you never heard the panel shut as Mr. Frost left.

Operation Occupulco Spring starts off smoothly.


“White Rabbit, this is Clapton, I have a visual on target.”

“Roger that Clapton, Raising the hostile now. Unidentified plane, this United States Air Force Major Nelson, you are flying in a restricted air space. We will escort you to…”

Aboard the Cessna, “Oh crap! We have to dump the pot man!”

“Yeah, I’m sure those fighter jets won’t be filming us dropping eighty pounds of pot out the door. Dumbass. Just land so they don’t shoot us.”


 “In the news tonight, a small plane which strayed into restricted presidential airspace during the president’s visit to San Fransisco was found to be carrying forty pounds of marijuana with a street value of…”


The Ground Rocket, AKA the Presidential Limo, now disguised as an ordinary limo (yeah, they took the little flags off the front…), really gets the attention of the Occupy Wall Street crowd. They’re all gathered around as you exit.

There’s a look of shock as they recognize you as the President. One of them greets you, “Mr. President…”

“Oh, no, I’m not the President, son, I just happen to look a lot like him. My name is Gekko, but you can just call me Gordy.” It takes some time for the crowd to get the message that you’re not you.

After the commotion dies down you ask, “Can I talk to the guy who’s running this show?” With the commotion at bay they’re starting to realize that you aren’t in the same tax bracket as them, so the hostility level is starting to rise. You realize that this is making your accountants nervous so you have to nip this in the bud.

“I am here to help you.” No one in this crowd it buying that, but one of them steps up.

“I’m Ted Williams and I’ll speak for the crowd.”

You reach out to shake his hand but he leaves you hanging, “Well, Mr. Williams… can I call you Ted?” No response. “Anyway, Ted, as you might have guessed, I am what you would call one of the one percenters.” This draws some hushed conversation in the crowd. “However, unlike my peers, I was once like you. I didn’t just have money dropped on me, I earned it the hard way.” Your mind drifts back to the moment where Agent Smith showed up at your door with the draft notice.

“And I don’t like that my peers are intent on shutting out people like yourselves from their little club.” You can feel a slight positive up tick in the crowd. “So I want to help.”

Ted is still skeptical. “How exactly do you think you can help us?”

“Well, I can tell you things you don’t know. For instance, there’s no one in that building you’re protesting at that is making above twenty bucks an hour. All of the upper management snuck out while you were sleeping.” This really gets the crowd going.

You continue, “That’s right. Those cowards have done what they always do. They ran away!” The crowd gets loud. You realize you may have a knack for public speaking. “The question is: what are you going to do about it?” Lots of rumbling from the crowd.

Ted looks confused now, “I guess the only thing we can do is keep protesting.” The crowd gets noticeably quieter.

“I think I have a better idea. You see, I have resources at my disposal that can help your cause by helping your protest.” There’s a hush as they are all waiting for your next line, “Being who I am, I just happen to know where they ran to and I just happen to have a private jet, of the 747 variety, fueled up and ready to take you all there to continue your protest!” The crowd cheers, signs wave.

“But where did they go?” Ted asks weakly, in his subconscious he knows he’s become second in command now.

“Well those cowards went to Acapulco! And I say we go there too! And we stay till we get the job done!” More cheers and sign waving.

You crawl up onto the hood of the Ground Rocket, “Who’s with me?” Hands and signs go up with a cheer. “GOOD! Then you all see those buses behind me? They’re my own personal chartered fleet. Everybody who wants to help us protest this travesty, just get on those buses and we’ll let those cowards know what you all are really about!” The crowd clambers toward the buses. It only takes moments to completely clear the street.

After a few trips back and forth in the SS Minnow, which since you’re undercover and not technically supposed to be the President is the new codeword for Air Force One, you find yourself, the Drinking Buddies, Captain Tailhook (pilot of the SS Minnow), Brick House, Major Tom (Your limo driver), Hot Pocket and Sausage Wrap, and the ever present Agents Smith sitting comfortably on the balcony of the hotel suite the following afternoon sipping drinks and watching the warm sun set toward the ocean. Out of the corner of your eye you see Mr. Frost appear, with a couple of gorgeous local girls in tow. You raise your glass to him. On the other end of the balcony you see Santa Anna (codeword for the President of Mexico) and his ‘therapist’, Gucci Cucci.

Down below the protest is going smoothly. There are at least seventy or so protesters in the hotel pool and twice that many protesting earnestly by making sure that each and every lounge chair is occupied. And the protesters in the pool appeared to have gotten maximum use of all their signs by lining them up across the Olympic sized pool midway as a volley ball net. Out on the beach are even more protesters, thoroughly occupying both the beach and the surf. Turns out, surfboards also make great signs.

You notice Ted sitting by the pool watching his protest. He still looks a bit confused, but you’re sure the open bar will help with that. Like you, he’s a leader and clearly he just needs a few days to unwind.

You, yourself, are beginning to get very relaxed, due in large part to the massage that Hot Pocket is performing. But just then, on the next balcony over, a man in a suit appears. You sit straight up in the lounge chair as you recognize Vampire Bill. That would be the code word for the Secretary of the Treasury. You notice the Agents Smith form up like the offensive line of a football team just after the ball is snapped. The even draw their guns.

Vampire Bill seems unusually at peace though as he raises his hands. “I’m unarmed, I just wanted to know if I could come over there with you guys.”

You’re sense of self preservation makes you skeptical. “Ok sure, I guess.” You figure you may as well get this over. You whisper to Agent Smith, “Frisk him thoroughly.”

A few minutes later the Agents Smith come back out onto the balcony, “He’s clean sir.” one of them says.

They are followed by a sight that stuns everyone on the balcony. Vampire Bill steps out. He’s wearing a hundred decibel loud Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and is holding what is clearly not his first drink of the day. He looks at you through glazed eyes, “Hi Cheesy! How you doing?” He reaches his hand out and shakes yours. This makes both you and the Agents Smith nervous.

“Bill,” you nod, “Doing pretty good here I’d say. How about you?”

“Oh I’m great!” He slurs just a little, “After that unpleasantness a few weeks ago, I got enrolled in some GREAT anger management therpy… therarpy… therapy.” He pours himself into a lounge chair and puts on his sunglasses. “They called it alcohol therapy. I don’t know why, maybe they use it for alcoholics a lot. Anyway, it’s very relaxing,” he looks down at the pool, “a lot like this really. You just sit and basically eat good food and drink these special fruit drinks they call PJs.”

“You volunteered for anger management?”

He looks at you, and it takes a moment for his head to spiral to a stop. “Oh no, I didn’t think I had a problem. It was kind of a condition for having the gun on me. Anyway, the hospital hooked me up with Dr. Frost and he took me into the plan.”

All eyes swing toward Mr. Frost. Slowly Bill’s eyes follow. “Oh hey! I didn’t see you there. How you doing doctor?” Bill raises his glass to him.

Mr. Frost raises his glass to Bill, “I’m doing great and I’m glad to see you’re sticking to the plan. Not all of my patients keep to it you know?” Everyone on the balcony is suddenly a lot less tense and a lot of knowing smiles and nods pass around.


There’s a saying: Fight fire with fire. I’m starting a new one: Fight vice with vice.

© 2012 Evil Wordsmith. All Rights Reserved.