The red phone began to ring, and LBJ knew that capital L-U-V, luvvvvvv was on the other end. Not his love, but love all the same. He found himself in quite a pickle, and it would nearly all of his very considerable political acumen if he was to avoid finding a pickle in him.

“When I started showing his penis off at the urinal, is that when I was done in?” he wondered. “Or was it when I baptized him Jumbo that I opened myself up to this sort of attack?”

Regardless, the phone was thrice rung; he could play it cool no longer.

 

“White House, may I ask who’s speaking?”

“White House? I’d rather see you bent over in a white blouse! It is Leonid of course, my darling.”

“I’m busy, Brezhnev. It’s not as much of a drag around here as you seem to think.”

“I just want to know which of your holes is called Cuba because I have a missile I really want to hide there.”

“You know we can’t do this anymore. I have a wife, children.”

“But I will give you millions of my children! Send your family on a vacation to Siberia, while we are in Si-queer-ia.”

“It’s a very sweet offer, but-”

“Yes, Cuba is mouth then. It will taste very sweet! Almost as sweet as giving healthcare to all citizens.”

“But Leo, it can never work between us. I would never get reelected if this story got out.”

“You Americans have solved this problem before. Just stop gross vagina people from voting, then institute a very high pole tax.”

“Wait! Won’t doing the gay give us AIDS?”

“No, of course not. That will actually be a pretty common misconception in twenty years. Even if AIDS existed yet, you’d be more likely to get it from reading a blogger who ignores historical fact to push his agenda.”

“Golly! Any volatile moron being able to share their thoughts with the whole world is even scarier than a Premier prostate exam. That volatile moron would probably want to clarify that, despite the subject matter and his support of the right to love whomever you choose, he is not himself gay.”

“I agree. Hypothetically speaking, that seems like a very important thing for him to communicate to female readers who have not stopped yet because they don’t get the historical references or, more likely, it’s super gross. But he does need to get to 600 words, doesn’t he?”

“He sure does, Leonid Brezhnev.” (The name counts as two!) (And that’s five more!) (Et cetera)

“So you change your mind now?”

“As much as I long to, it can never be.”

“Come on! Just take a picture of yourself excluding the Lyndon and the Baines. I want to see that Johnson, solnyshko!”

“I… I… I can’t.”

“I have to take care of some business, and by now, there must be an audience waiting,” he thought, strolling down the hall towards the lavatory.

 

Red-hot tears fell, dripping and dropping, on the other end of the red hotline. They travelled impossibly slowly through air dominated by a miasma of despair, before making silent contact with the dark-stained pine floor. Even the laws of gravity seemed to give way to an old man’s loneliness and love. So why couldn’t one American?

Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Soviet Union, victorious vanquisher of the troika, usurper of Nikita Khrushchev, broken by a pudgy capitalist with a ginormous schlong. He shook his head and resolved to move on. These were not the bodily fluids he wanted to lose today.