The Tail Between My Legs

Gerry's Corner: Many of you might think of Gerry's Corner as the place where you get up-to-the-minute news about your favorite "late" president. Alas, I've done nothing in the last three and a half months to give you the confidence that that would be the case. I'd like to say that I was away from my computer, tracking Osama around Tora Bora, or that I was hang-gliding through the Andes in search of endangered species in need of rescue - but I was just being lazy. So Gerry's Corner should instead conjure images for you of me sitting in a corner, facing the wall, with a dunce cap. I hope that I can turn that around in due time. I appreciate your trust and patience.

In the meantime, I most certainly did not fake my own death to watch the Maize and Blue lose to the likes of Appalachian State and Oregon. If there's anyone who should wear the face of shame these days, it is the football team of my alma mater. Holy crikey! I mean, let's consider:

• Here is what the prototypical athlete from Oregon used to look like.



• Here is the family from which an Appalchian State player might be recruited.



And they beat us at home! An unconscionable fate. Not-Betty told me years ago that she thought it was only a matter of time before Michigan became a huge field hockey school. I laughed then; I regret laughing now.

But I'll tell you one thing: I should replace Lloyd Carr as head football coach at Michigan. Just think how inspiring it would be for the players and fans to see that a guy who used to be President of the United Fucking States came back from the dead just to coach the Wolverines back to glory? I would walk into the first press conference and say, "The state of Michigan football is an American tragedy in which we all have played a part. It could go on and on and on, or someone must write the end to it. I have concluded that only I can do that, and if I can, I must."

The first thing I would do to turn around the team is I would seek out the most vengeful, hate-filled people on earth to become the backbone of our line: former child actors. I mean, look at the transformation of Brian Bonsall, who played adorable Andy Keaton on Family Ties, from:



to:



The Buckeyes would never see it coming.

*

I know that back when I stopped posting, I had started a new section of this blog, called Gerry's Piggy Bank, in which I donated $10 to a different worthy cause each week. I have not kept that up, but I will get back to it once I find employment (and if Lloyd Carr's not fired this week, then I'll have to continue finding ways to make ends meet). I shouldn't have to wait too long, but I need a steady source of income before I can go out and give money I don't have away. That would be as hypocritical as doing credit repair for people when I'm in credit card debt up to my eyeballs myself.

The reason my job situation and life have been in flux is because, well, I broke up with Lassie, my unicorn. We were just moving in different directions. Okay, truth be told, he lanced me accidentally - and then I found out that it was no accident. Plus, a gypsy told me that living with unicorns is bad luck.

So I moved out and took up with the legislative director for a Congressman instead. He drinks milk from the bottle, has a raging case of gingivitis, and is virulently anti-American - all of which our deal-breakers for me - but I just know he's the one. In fact, he's so the one that I wrote a poem about him, since I love to write poetry.

In 1-3 years,
I'll probably be dead,
for real this time,
and not fake like last time,
and you'll still drink milk from the bottle,
and your gums will be rotting,
and you'll hate America,
but you'll still cry
at my funeral.

In 2-4 years,
I'll almost certainly be dead,
and you'll have to tell the grandkids
what a special person I was,
except history already did it for you,
so you can just throw books at them and
tell the grandkids to read them.
You're so melodramatic,
but we can't reproduce,
you and I,
so no grandkids
anyway.

In 3-5 years,
you'll be dead, too,
a victim of your lactose loving,
American angst-filled ways,
and also the gingivitis,
which can be lethal,
or so I've heard.

In 5-10 years,
someone will read this blog,
someone important,
and they'll know of our love,
our forbidden love,
but they'll report instead
that I was a brilliant writer,
and I'll be published,
finally,
and world-famous finally, too.
Take that, Nixon.

In 10-20 years,
no one will care about the sudden,
meteoric rise of a late President's blog,
and if either of us were alive,
we would shed tears like clothes on a hot day,
or maybe I would,
since I have a good beach body,
or had a good beach body,
back when I was alive,
so many years before.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry