I Do Not Want to be President

The last time I saw Lucie was last February. She had invited me to her village pub just outside of Brno. As constitutional crises go this was a trying time in the Czech Republic. Vaclav Havel had finished his historical term as Premier of Czechoslovakia and later of the Czech Republic. The Parliament was locked and could not elect his successor, after two attempts they had begun to run out of options.

So in grandest Czech fashion, the newspapers and magazines filled with jokes and commentary about their beloved elected officials’ inability to do something useful. Maybe for once, I do feel for the politicians. The only people running for the top job were all following a legend. Each of them had a checkered past, the crook, the thief or the Mafioso. I know there is a smoking ban in the Parliament chamber. During these debates, even the main newspapers carried stories that more than 50% of the ministers were smoking.

The headlines all read, fifty percent of parliamentarians smoking in the Czech Parliament, given the decision at hand, maybe we will let them slide a bit. I guess it was a slow news day. Lucie and I were talking as best we could drinking beer in her village pub. Everything was great.

The day’s big topic of discussion was my effective use of the Czech inter-city bus system. I had traveled down to Moravia for the weekend, and then out to her village. If you have ever been to the Prazske Hlavni Autobusovy Nadrazi (Prague Main Bus Station) you will understand the topic, just trying to find the ticket counter is enough of a challenge. For such a perilous journey I received many accolades. It was one of my first trips to be arranged in mostly Czech language. I know several people who would rent a car before they would take a bus out of Prague.

Back to the story at hand, Lucie and I are pitching back our share of foamy tops. She had drunk circles around me. If I was counting, I would not be surprised at numbers almost two pints to one. After an hour or two, she told me she had to pee. A slight stumble in her walk showed the beer was getting to her. She was fun to watch walk away. Her ass was like a song, and as song goes, “… I hate to see you leave, but love to watch you go…”

She has an amazing body and she certainly knows it. I could go on and on about her figure, but this is a family show. The only flaw I can find in Lucie was smoking. I do not mean the “good kind” of smoking either. She certainly single-handedly took up her share of the slack that Americans were giving RJ Reynolds’ profit margins.

When she returned to the table, she ordered another pair of 12 degree pints. After number four or five their effect certainly weighed on our conversation. I think the idea of “pissed” comes to mind. She told me that she had been practicing her English. That was a good thing, because Czech sentences were still beyond me.

All such conversations tend to loll from one topic to another, and the alcohol certainly made any misunderstandings seem unimportant. Her inhibitions were well lubricated and she was happily chatting away with me in English.

I bet that two drunks in some West Texas bar invented the Texas two-step on their way to the bathroom. Our soiree of beer and good times would never start the next dance craze, but I can see how drunken cowboys talked each other into learning the “boot scoot”.

We found ourselves laughing and giggling and ordering still another round. She quickly drank another; I remember watching some of the foam slide down between her breasts and sighing. Thinking to myself, a great name for a rock-n-roll band would be “Soapy Tits”. How Captain Bill would smile to be billed as “Captain Bill now playing with Soapy Tits.”

The worst thing about a truly good evening drinking is that so much gets erased. One thing I do remember was asking her to slow down. I am not sure if she understood when I asked, “Hey Lucie, slow down. What are you doing, running for president?”

She replied, “I do not want to be president, just mayor.”

I see the English lessons are working.