Author’s note: Few people know that former President Richard Nixon was an alien abductee. This information would be lost to history were it not for the copious tapes he recorded, even before his Presidency. This tape is believed to have been recorded late one night in 1966.
They labeled me Tricky Dick when I put the screws to Red Mary during my first run for Congress. So what if she was no more red than Ronnie Reagan out in Hollywood, selling his friends to the blacklist so he could advertise twenty mule team Borax? She was pink, the pink you get when you leave a medium rare steak on the fire another five minutes. Not well done and wholesome either.
Let them call me Tricky Dick. I was on a mission. A mission from beyond the stars. I’d been thinking about that mission since my childhood sitting by the mill house at night in Whittier. In fact, that’s how I got my middle name, from sitting by the mill house.
That was a joke. Milhouse was my mother’s maiden name AhHaAhHaAhHa.
Point is, I’d sit outside, study the night sky, and, deep down inside I knew we weren’t alone. I’d look at those big skies and know we weren’t alone, and think to myself how wonderful it’d be if I were President and brought the free worlds together.
Imagine my surprise when, after my election to Congress, Allan Dulles himself takes me under his wing and invites me to join this super secret group called the Majestik 12. And Majestik 12 captured a live alien in New Mexico.
I said, “Well where else are you going to catch them, Allen? That’s where they come. There and Texas and California.”
“Not that kind of alien, Dick, aliens from outer space. Little green men, only they’re kind of gray.”
Dulles took me to a dark room with a one way window where we watched Truman , the other Dulles, and Acheson interrogate a tiny gray man, the color of penicillin, no more than three feet tall, with three fingers in each hand, two huge eyes and no penis whatsoever.
“Just like you, Dick,” Dulles said, punching me in the shoulder, “that guy’s got no balls.”
I didn’t hear what he said because the alien took control of my brain.
“My name is Krll,” he said. “You’re the one we’ve come for. You will open America to the universe at large. You will be Nixxon, universal diplomat, who seals a treaty between galaxies.”
“Whoa, Dick, you look shaky there,” Dulles said.
“It’s a new era of diplomatic relations,” I said. “This will end the cold war, wipe out communism and bring peace on earth.”
“Don’t get ahead of us, Dick. We don’t want to wipe out the Cold War. We invested in too much in General Dynamics.”
But that night Krll’s buddies came to me, while Pat slept soundly in her Republican cloth pajamas in her Republican twin bed. They lifted me to a space craft, surrounded me with bright lights and bobbing penicillin colored faces.
“You, Nixxxon, will open American to the universe. You will bring our people together. You will break down the walls of conflict and help us spread the American ideal to the far reaches of the universe.”
I realized, in that minute, that I would be President. The greatest President ever. I, Richard Milhouse Nixon would take the presidency where no President had gone before.
I woke Pat as soon as I got back. She said her doctor could prescribe wonderful tranquilizers. Dulles said he’d never have invited me had he known I’d go over the deep end. His exact words: “Dick, need to know doesn’t have to include you.”
I realized then and there that I’d have to tape record every future conversation.
I planned to run for President in 52, but I couldn’t beat Eisenhower. So I signed on to climb his coat tails into the Oval Office. Once I revealed the truth, he’d let me spearhead negotiations. When I took Eisenhower to the Majestik 12 offices, however, nothing remained but a Polaroid of Dulles shaking his finger.
Eisenhower never trusted me after that. He asked me to spend time on the golf course. “Practice your swing and stay out of my office,” he told me. Rumor has it Dulles killed Krll, or spirited him away to Nevada.
I waited eight years to become President, sitting on my roof at night and projecting my thoughts to my alien allies. I would’ve been President in 1960, but Kennedy bought Cook County with his daddy and the mob’s money.
Two years later I had the wind at my sails in California, Pat Brown buffaloed the California voters and stole that election. No one knows how.
Demoralized, I tried to contact the aliens, but they never answered. Three years later, in LA I saw Krll passing out anti-war hand bills in Berekely. “I still want to help, ” I said. “What can I do to bring us together.”
“What drug is he on?” Krll’s hippie companion asked.
“He’s just a loser,” Krll said.
I told the aliens they wouldn’t have Dick Nixon to kick around any more, and they didn’t.
Since then I’ve been nothing more than a political punching bag floating in the flotsam of public opinion. One of those dummies with the bottom weighted down sitting in the middle of the room waiting for someone to kick around. I could run for President, but I’d still be empty, out of gas, missing the cosmic fuel.
I blew my chance to bridge relations between galaxies, to form a new alliance.