Now that the holier than thou grinning Georgian, Jimmy Carter, and the hirsute Communist windbag, Castro, are posing for the cameras it seems particularly apposite to return to the hectic time Castro spent as Lyndon Johnson's coerced guest in 1967. Carter might help give Castro a more sanitized profile, but I bet as he listens stupefied with boredom to all Jimmy's democratic cliches, Castro thinks wistfullly back to the spanking and fist _f_u_c_k_ing he helped administer so many years ago in the Johnson White House. Who knows if he told the grinning Georgian about it, he might feel lust in his heart also? It can't be very appetizing humping Rosalyn after a day of building houses for Habit for Humanity, or pursuing killer rabbits, or whatever other piece of do goodism the couple from plains is currently involved in.
After Hoover had dragged the cute dinge marine from the Oval Office, Johnson barked, "Hey boy. Put your hands against the wall."
Sullenly, Alberto complied. Soft baby golden brown spicie hands against the white wall. Round succulent tush straining against the tight fatiguess.
"Give me a second, Commandante," said Johnson with elaboratedly feigned courtesy to Castro.
"Si," mumbled the dictator, trying to hide his excitement.
Johnson opened a drawer and took out his cowboy boots from Texas. These were no elaborate fancy cowboy boots; they were the real McCoy. Johnson had broken them in striding through his ranch, and the soles were covered with cow_s_h_i_t_ and other delights from a real ranch.
"Drop your pants, boy," barked Johnson.
Alberto maintained his defiance as he loosened his fatigue pants, but his hands trembled slightly despite himself as he fumbled with the catch. It was disconcerting looking straight ahead at the wall, and feeling the presence of the big Texan behind him breathing rather heavily.
The fatigues dropped to the floor tangled in the young Cuban soldier's boots. He was wearing grey, none too clean undershorts. Normally, he had a healthy _c_o_c_k_ bulge, but fear had made his penis shrink. The boy's legs were long and golden with just the faintest fuzz of black hair on his upper thighs.
Johnson raised his boot and stroked the boy's thigh. Alberto trembled as the coarse boot rubbed insinuatingly against his soft golden thigh. Then without warning Johnson gave him a violent kick from behind. The boy fell forward his cute Hispanic nose being squished against the wall. His thigh was throbbing with pain, and he unwisely reached back and rubbed it.
With great deliberation, Johnson grabbed the young Cuban by the ear. He twisted his ear viciously, so the boy bent toward the side. Then raising one gnarled, redneck palm, Johnson viciously smacked the boy's left cheek. WHAP!
"Do not touch your leg, you _f_u_c_k_ing bean eater, till I tell you. I am the god_d_a_m_n_ed President of the U S of A and don't you forget it!"