As you know, President Obama has invited Cambridge Police SGT James Crowley and Harvard loudmouth Henry Louis Gates, Jr., to the White House for a “beer summit,” although no one seems to know what the goal of this meeting is other than to drink beer.
The Czar recommends that regardless of the ugly incident involving Gates and the Cambridge Police Department and the President’s now asinine comment, the three of them get freaking hammered.
Really: White House beer is probably better than a bucket of Rolling Rocks. Obama will likely partake of a Belgian wheat lambic with slice of orange, Gates will opt for a Michelob Ultra, and Crowley will be more than happy to take a Heineken. And just keep going.
Screw it. Just keep going. Have the guys start hammering about the f@wkin’ Red Sox, and how Larry Byrd would do bettah as a Red Sock if he came out of retiahment and played baseball. Start saying nonsense like “Larry Byrd would have like a .480 batting average with runnahs in scoring position against lefties and could still make a f@wkin’ fadeaway jump shot from center-f@wkin’ field.” And shout that kind of stuff, a lot.
Get on the White House phone and start drunk dialing people. Get Sarkozy on the phone and ask him if is heart is still running. If so, better go catch it. Laugh and hang up. Have Gates can an old girlfriend and pretend he’s someone else. Watch a Jackie Chan movie on DVD, and be sure to watch the out-takes twice through at the end.
Talk about hot celebrities. Have Obama say “And what about that Megan Fox chick? How is it that someone mildly good-looking with no experience at anything can come out of nowhere, get so popular, and rise to the top of the media attention span without having an ounce of obvious talent?” and then have Crowley ask “Like you?” Gates spits his beer over the top of his glass in laughter, at which point Crowley and Obama burst out laughing at that, having completely forgotten the original question. Then, the fart-lighting begins.
This could totally conclude with them vomiting off the balcony, and yelling ridiculous threats at people walking along Pennsylvania. “Oh my God,” the President moans into his hands, “I need Mexican food!” Gates suggests they go find that tree Jefferson planted and climb it. Crowley, shirt off, belches out more beer and hot wings puke and sits down with his back against a pillar, looking at his fist and commenting that he really could punch out a leopard, if he had to.
The next morning, they wake up with stinging Ravens tattoos in Baltimore outside the old Hammerjacks with no clue how they got there. Do it right, you know?