I had to shake my head and check that I wasn't dreaming, but what I had seen had been no hallucination. It was our president on TV, being grilled. Some inquisitor had asked him some question, trying to pin him down, trying to get him to incriminate himself once and for all. The president thought for a brief moment, smirked slightly, and answered, "It depends on what you say the meaning of is is."
At this point, I could imagine the members of the inquisition fuming in repressed rage, going back to their chambers, throwing their wigs around, screaming, sobbing, and beating the leather strapped and muzzled page boys they keep chained under their desks for just such occasions when their pent-up anger becomes too much to bear. I was somewhat flabbergasted myself. What the meaning of is is? How can we get anywhere if we're arguing about the use of one of the most basic verbs in the language?
Then I replayed the president's answer to the question in my mind, and I saw some things I hadn't seen the first time. This time, the president looked me and said, "you see, Eugene, what I'm really trying to say is that this is all a crock. I shouldn't even be here, and they shouldn't be asking these questions." He stepped out of the TV and put his arm over my shoulder. "You see, son, all these things they say I've done are nothing compared to what goes on in Washington every day. Hell, half the politicians up here have something going on the side." We walk outside and survey the trailer park I live in, and the prez says, "See all this, now this is what's real. This is why I wanted to get into politics in the first place, to do something good, to make a real difference in the lives of Americans. I mean, look at these people," he gestures toward my neighbors, who are leaning against their trucks, shootin' th' bull. They raise their cans of Busch and say "How's it goin' Bill."
The prez looks back at me and continues, " I wanted to be the best president in history, I wanted to revitalize America, lead it into the next millenium as a shining example for the world of economic prosperity, social responsibility, and international cooperation." Then he looked at the ground, "Looks like maybe they've got me by the balls, though... How do you think I feel, looking at the prospects of being remembered as that president who was impeached?" I felt bad that I couldn't comfort him, so I suggested the best thing that came to mind, "How about we go get a beer at Chilli Billy's?"
After a few cold ones, I felt myself getting kind of loose, and suddenly I was overcome by a wave of empathy for the prez. "Y' know, Bill, I know where you're coming from. I mean it's kind of unfair of them to demand the truth, when all they want is for you to give them a silver bullet so they can put you six feet under. I think I'd lie, too, and feel OK about it. I mean it's like when I was a kid and my dad would be looming over me yellin' his lungs out because I told him the truth about some little stupid detail. Tellin' the truth for me meant a thorough beating with a belt, so I learned to lie, tell him anything he wanted to hear, just so he wouldn't get out his hammer and finish nails to stud the tips of his cowboy boots so his kicks in my rear would state his anger with even better clarity. I felt so low down and dirty, like I was a sub-human species. I felt that I was unworthy to be seen in public…" Bill interrupted me, "Stop blubbering in your beer, man, those bikers over there are starting to look at us funny, and besides, I've been working on some programs that just might help a fellow like you."
The president's rudeness had upset me, and I let him know it, "Look, I was just trying to reveal some intimate details about my childhood and you go and interrupt me, you gotta' be more respectful when guy starts lettin' out his emotions, it's hard for us to do, you know." Bill stopped, looked thoughtful, "I guess you're right, I'm sorry, It's not that it matters much anyway what I do. They're still going to remember me as the guy who got a lot of nookie while he was in the white house. I guess I get to thinking that just because I'm the president of the united states of america that my problems are more important than anyone else's," He ducked as a barstool flew overhead and landed across the room with a crash, "Go on, finish your story. So, how'd you survive these difficult circumstances of your childhood." I thought a moment to remember what I had been talking about, "Oh, yeah, well It wasn't 'till I was in my teens and out of the house on my own that I realized that it wasn't me who was the freak but my father who had been severely manic depressive and had a real problem dealing with his own anger. So, all I'm sayin' mr. President, is that I'm sorry it ever came to this, and it's really a shame all those guys are prying into your private affairs, when it's really none of their business. I mean, all I care about is that it's OK between you and Hillary. As far as I'm concerned, my right to know stops there." I stuck out my hand in a friendship shake, put her there buddy, you're all right. Bill stuck out his hand to shake like a square, but caught himself and grabbed my hand heartily. He winked and said, "Been a while. You gotta' act so fake out there with all those sharks. Hey, this Busch is pretty drinkable, how about another round? Hey waitress how, about a couple more beers!" She looks at him with "don't I know you from somewhere?" in her eyes. Bill shakes his head laughing, "No, A lot of people think that, I'm a distant cousin back from the Malvern area. You know you're pretty cute we outta get together sometime." He pulled a cell phone out of his jacket and leaned over to me, "Look, son, I gotta' call my goons. You better get out of here. In a few minutes the place is going to be crawling".
So, while you may be concerned about whether he is lying or not, I would like to pose the question: Is it fair to ask such questions for the purposes they are being asked? The motivations of the questioner come into play here, this is not a scientific experiment with a crystal clear truth that can be distilled, it is rather a very murky realm with only biased distortions of what maybe should have been left as meaningless events.