Last week, I contended with what felt like a touch of pneumonia, maybe some West Nile virus, mixed in. After no sleep for a couple of nights, I finally dozed off. Wouldn’t you know it, the ghost of Richard Nixon came to me in a dream. He said he had a message for Paul Ryan.
"Hey, I don't like Ryan a bit," I said. So, I told Nixon to quit bothering me, he should just tell Ryan himself.
Frowning and shaking his jowls, Nixon said he’d stop pestering me when I promise to never draw another mean caricature of him.
Naturally, I chuckled, “No dice.”
So, Nixon instructed me, “Tell that Ryan not to let anybody discourage him from twisting the truth into whatever shape he likes, whenever the hell he feels like it. You tell him that when a Republican Vice President-elect says it during his run for office, it isn't called lying. No sir! It’s called, advertising.”
Nixon waited for me to laugh. I didn't. Then he wanted to talk about the genius of his famous Checkers Speech.
To shut his trap, I woke up and ambled toward the bathroom. Covered in sweat, I was hoping my fever had broken ... but that would take another day-and-a-half.
-- Art and words by F.T. Rea
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