Liar

"In 1931, an unemployed mechanic, named Byron Unger Nelson, attacked Herbert Hoover in the Oval Office. The would-be assassin lunged at the President, screaming 'I don't even own a chicken!' Unger was restrained by Treasury agents before he could harm Hoover. The tear in this letter marks exactly spot where his knife fell." This is some of my best stuff, manufactured on the fly and falling on deaf ears. This rube in a red feed-store cap looks like he’s been pole-axed with a hockey stick. A real mouth breather, his brain is 10 minutes behind on this field trip. There is no fun in this. It’s like out-boxing a retard on ice skates. He leans in for a good look at the document in the case and nods knowingly, the flag on his cap waving like Old Glory run up over the open plains of unrelenting dumb.

Docent and tour guide at the National Archives! The money sucks, the polyester jacket sucks, the standing sucks, the ignorant, unwashed masses on holiday suck but I shaved, cut my hair, bought a box of National Geographic Magazines for a dollar, studied up and took the job. I drink a gallon of indignity piss a day. Only telling truly outrageous lies to the American public makes it worthwhile. On my first day, I found myself telling a crowd of blue-hairs that William Howard Taft's cabinet used a Thai girl named Bette, food, preferably blackberry cobbler, laced with a laudanum concoction and a handful of Mexican jumping beans to distract the President any time a decision was called for. I had them like an alligator, or is it a crocodile, rolling them over and over and over in the deep water. I found a calling and here I stay.