Air Force Hole-In-One

President Jack Wellington Jr. III hated bureaucracy. Red-tape stood no chance against his mighty pen. They called him “The Slicer and The Dicer” and he was proud of that. Even now, soaring above Eastern Virginia in Air Force One, he had a stack of twenty bills before him ending regulation on everything from lead in children’s toys to mercury in their milk. But he would never know that because he didn’t read bills. He found them dreadfully boring. He had advisors for that and all he wanted to know was one thing - does it end a regulation. That’s it. Nothing else mattered. Extreme, yes. But politically expedient.

That’s what his storied political family had learned very early on in their almost century long rise to power. It didn’t matter what you were for, you just had to appear to be really and truly all for it. “Find your extremes,” his father would say.

His older sister, Congresswoman Malia Jackson, had been embroiled in the worst political scandal that perhaps the world had ever known. But it didn’t matter. She was for all the regulations. Every last one of them. She never read a bill either. And, in spite of the scandal, she won her seat not once but ten times. And five of those terms were after being impeached.

There usually was some incident that would trigger a Wellington’s choice of all-or-nothing cause. For his sister, she hated roses. They reminded her of her high school dance for which she was not voted homecoming queen. When her neighbor decided to plant roses, early on in her political career, Jack’s sister decided that regulation would be her thing. No one in her constituency could plant roses now. Indeed, no member of her constituency could do anything without permission from some level of government (while Malia liked to point out that you could brush your teeth and wake up in the morning without regulatory interference, it was true that if you threw that toothbrush in the trash or your alarm was heard through an open window then you would be fined).

As Jack looked out of the window of Air Force One, a pile of bills he must sign before him, Jack’s own path to his all-or-nothing-cause came to his mind. For Jack, he wanted to name a golf course after himself. Every one of his forebears had one. And his real dream was to hit a hole in one on that golf course. Years ago, long before he had become president, when he was a young congressman, he had wheeled and dealed to make sure every regulation that stopped his golf course was killed. It was built and even operating. It was even voted best golf course in Virginia multiple times over the years.

Unfortunately for Jack, three days before the course’s christening ceremony, a petty, no-name congressman from some backwater had the bright idea of pushing through a particularly nasty piece of regulation. No golf course could be named after a living, federal politician. So it was that Jack’s extreme became “no regulation”. No matter what. And it worked. He rose through the political atmosphere like a shooting star on cocaine. Jack smiled at the thought. He had done a lot of cocaine and he was now on his fifth term as president. Extreme works.

Of course the golf course thing was a stupid little ploy on the congressman’s part, but it did force Jack to choose - get his golf course named after himself or continue his ascendancy to the peak of his political career. That little congressman knew it would peeve Jack and he also knew Jack would never give up on being the president. He couldn’t. Being president was baked into his DNA.

President Jack Wellington Jr. III was told he was to be president of the United States of America since he could remember. Every child since his great great grandfather had been given every last name of every president up to the point of their birth as a middle name. “To instill in your very identity, the airs of power,” grandfather would say.

It was the nature of this naming convention that each child in the Wellington line could have quite a few more names than their father. This was because an average of 5 more presidents would have served between a Wellington’s birthday and their father’s. The girls got the names too (they could be president after all) but they didn’t pass the naming convention on to their children. Not that the girls’ children were not encouraged to enter politics, just that the vast resources of the family wouldn’t be focused on any of the girls’ children. They were definitely encouraged to enter politics and campaign funds were created for each child upon birth as long as that child could trace their lineage back to John Winnebago Wellington, Jr. But aside from the sizable campaign fund, the children of Wellington daughters were unsupported by family resources.

If you could draw a direct patrilineal line back to John Winnebago Wellington Jr., however, then you were born with an enriched uranium spoon in your mouth. Your political career was sure to be nuclear. Jack, for example, was the youngest Supreme Court Justice to have ever ascended the bench at 18. A feat only achievable as he had received his law degree from Harvard at the age of 15. It was a point of pride for him that he was able to achieve all this without once attending a single class. Afterall, Cs don’t get degrees. Money does. The extra time allowed Jack to become a skydiving champion. It was important that all Wellington children take up sport and do well at it. It kept the mind sharp and played well on TV.

Jack had altogether 5 more middle names than his father. He had the same number of middle names as his older sister Malia since they had both been born during the 4th term of a presidency by an Obama, and he had 2 more names than his younger sister Jackie. Jackie had been born almost a full two terms after Jack. Jackie was “collateral damage” of a certain Valentine’s day his father would joke. But this was merely a joke. Every child was celebrated as, after all, each Wellington was another shot at the presidency.

Jack was the most celebrated Wellington of his generation, though, by virtue of being the eldest male. He certainly gave reason to be celebrated too. He was the first person in history to be a Supreme Court Justice, a congressman, a Senator, and even a congresswoman for a quick spell. That last one gave him a good chuckle. It was quite the political machination to pull that one off. No time to dwell on past successes however. All his dwellings these days surrounded the idea of revenge on a little backwater congressman and ways he could get his golf course named. But no matter how much time and energy he put towards it, he could not figure out a way around it. As soon as Jack was dead, he would have his name on that golf course, but not a moment sooner. He sighed in resignation. Patience felt like weakness, acceptance like defeat.

He signed the last bill and, just as he was about to lay his pen down, he decided to read. He wasn’t sure why he decided to read then. Something just came over him. Sometimes it did that. What it was, he wasn’t really sure. Just that the feeling to read what he had just signed would sometimes well up in him. And so he read.

This particular bit of legislation, to his delight, ended all regulation. His heart leapt. Could a golf course with his name on it finally be his? Unfortunately, his heart became heavy again. There, in bold, black ink, was the pork. This bill ended all future regulation, true, but all current regulation was grandfathered in. He sighed. He would never get a hole-in-one on a golf course named after himself now.

He dozed off to the comforting hum of the jet engines. He felt as though he walked barefoot in the warm grass. The golf club in his hand cut a cool contrast to oppressive heat. He could see the flag of the 14th hole of his beloved golf course before him. All of a sudden, he was thrown back by some recoil. It was almost as though he had walked right into a rubber band. His shock subsided and he saw before himself an infinitely long piece of red tape that stretched before him. He looked down. The golf club had been replaced with a giant set of scissors. He looked up.

Suddenly, he felt as if he were being stretched. And stretched. And stretched. There were two of him now. The one holding the scissors and the one that was the red tape, stretched thin from horizon to horizon, barring the way of his other him to his golf course. The him that held the scissors lifted them slowly. Scissor-holding-him opened the scissors and placed the opening around red-tape-him who screamed in terror. All three of him - scissor-him, red-tape him, and him-him, observing the whole nightmare - all felt the terror. The scissors snapped shut and a shower of blood blacked out his vision.

He woke with a start.

He was the red-tape. It was only his own life standing in the way of his golf course bearing his name.

He made up his mind right then and there. He had already achieved one half of the dilemma presented by that stupid little backwater congressman. He didn’t really have to worry about his political career any more. He had already achieved nearly every political goal any person could ever have. Now it was merely a matter of number. Sure, there were presidents with more terms. But there would be presidents with even more terms in the future. No matter how many numbers of terms future congresspersons, supreme court justices, senators, or presidents served… he was the first to do it all. And maybe even the last. He had achieved the pinnacle of all political aspirations. Now, he would have his golf course, come hell or triple bogie!

He slammed back the final drops of the whiskey in his glass and looked out the window. A sign from God (If God existed, that is)! Being a champion skydiver had its perks after all. He could read the terrain from a plane window like he was reading a map. There, below, he could see that Air Force One’s flight path happened to be approaching his yet to be named golf course.

He looked at his Chief of Staff, Doug Derbin, and said, “Doug, hold on.” Doug was quite drunk by this point in the flight, though not so drunk as to wonder what the president had just said. Doug replied with an inquisitive cock of a bobbing head.

Jack stood up, walked to the emergency exit, yanked up on the handle, wrapped his hand around a seat belt, and pushed. The cabin decompressed immediately. The alarms were deafening. Jack grabbed a terrified Doug before he was sucked out of the door. Jack guided Doug’s hand to the seat belt and yelled.

“Hold on, Doug!”

Doug was quite sober with adrenaline now. He grasped the seat belt tighter than that stupid little backwater congressman’s regulation. Doug’s confused face begged for an explanation.

“I am the red tape, Doug!”

“What are you doing, Mr. President?!”

“I’ll never have my golf course named after me while I’m alive, Doug!”

“Mr. President! Just resign!”

“Doug! Don’t be a fool! A Wellington never resigns! And red-tape must go!”

And with that, President Jack Washington Adams Jefferson Madison Monroe Adams Jackson Van Buren Harrison Tyler Polk Taylor Fillmore Pierce Buchanan Lincoln Johnson Grant Hayes Garfield Arthur Cleveland Harrison Cleveland McKinley Roosevelt Taft Wilson Harding Coolidge Hoover Roosevelt Truman Eisenhower Kennedy Johnson Nixon Ford Carter Reagan Bush Clinton Bush Obama Trump Biden Trump Obama Trump Biden Obama Trump Bush Bush Clinton Wellington Wellington Obama Jr. III, AKA “The Slicer and the Dicer”, let go. He was immediately sucked out of the emergency doorway and was only ever seen alive one more time for a very brief second.

On the infamous 14th hole at President Jack Wellington’s unnamed golf course, Congressman John Denver O’malley VII repeated his mantra for the 15th time. “Drive for the show, putt for the dough.” The green was fast and large and he was just off the green on the rough. His pitch shot was terrible so a good hard putt would have to do. He cocked his hips back and his shoulders followed. He held for a moment and paused. He heard what sounded like a mosquito at first. The sound quickly grew and he realized it was someone screaming at an awfully high pitch. He looked around as the sound grew. By the time he realized the sound was coming from above he didn’t even have time to look up. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something fall onto the other side of the green.

A leg attached to nothing else tripped John and he fell to his stomach.

Shocked though he was, the congressman had enough wherewithal to look up in time to see a lone eyeball roll along the green. It left a mesmerizing trail of blood as it approached the hole. The eyeball circled the hole a couple times and finished its journey into the hole with a satisfying kerplunkathunkadunk. “Well I’ll be. A hole-in-one.”

The End

Well. Almost. The Sign on the President Jack Washington Adams Jefferson Madison Monroe Adams Jackson Van Buren Harrison Tyler Polk Taylor Fillmore Pierce Buchanan Lincoln Johnson Grant Hayes Garfield Arthur Cleveland Harrison Cleveland McKinley Roosevelt Taft Wilson Harding Coolidge Hoover Roosevelt Truman Eisenhower Kennedy Johnson Nixon Ford Carter Reagan Bush Clinton Bush Obama Trump Biden Trump Obama Trump Biden Obama Trump Bush Bush Clinton Wellington Wellington Obama Jr. III golf course in East Virginia won the Wellington (formerly Guinness) World Record for longest sign on a golf course later that same year.

On the the 14th hole (endearingly nicknamed “The Splatter”) a gravestone was erected in which was carved the following:

Here Lies The Slicer and the Dicer

Regulate Me Now, Bitch

Really The End