“What about it, Dick? It looks like a perfectly good schedule to me. Madonna in Philly next week. Billy Idol in Boston the first week of August. What’s wrong with the schedule?”

“The problem is, there’s nothing on your agenda but concerts.”

“Right. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Dick.”

“Then you realize there’s a problem?”

“I sure do. I realize that it’s been over six months since the Supreme Court put us in the White House, and you have yet to see a single show.”

“I’ve been busy, sir. The energy crisis. The recession. Your daughters. I’ve been working like a dog putting out fires while you’ve been off seeing the Rollins Band and The Black Crowes.”

“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, Dick.”

“But, Mr. President, my doctor told me to slow down. It’s my heart, you understand.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Dick. See this?”

“Why… It looks like a TV remote control.”

“You’re half right, Dick. It is a remote control. Something my father had left over from his CIA days. I had the boys at the NSA modify it. It now runs on the same frequency as your pacemaker.”


“You’ve been a gloomy Gus way too long, Dick. All work and no play makes for a boring vice president. From now on you’re going to be the funky VP. And with this remote-control I get to decide how funky you’ll be.”

“Please, sir, don’t do it.”

“Suppose we’re at Guttermouth. I just push this button and…”


“I knew you’d like that. Gosh, Dick, I haven’t seen you jump that high since gas prices went up last year. Now pretend we’re rockin’ out with Black Sabbath at Ozzfest. I just boost the bass a little and…”


“That’s the spirit, Dick. From now on things are definitely going to be different. Hmmm… I wonder if I can get MTV on this thing.”