Roughrider

It's not often that the bowel habits of a president of the United States of America are openly discussed, excepting James Monroe's famous bout of the "whiskey shits" when he was touring the Western Reserve with his wife and fell crapulously ill from consuming too much drink and tainted pork. And most scholars are familiar with President Eisenhower's difficulties during World War II when, as the Supreme Allied Commander, he was completely "bound up" for ninety-seven days preceeding the Normandy invasion, after the success of which campaign he spent nearly a week excreting, in his own words, "a mound of night soil half the size of Salina, Kansas." And a recent email disclosed an interesting anecdote concerning flatulence and Theodore Roosevelt. This information comes from one of Roosevelt's lesser-know works, "If I Did It," a speculative exercise in which TR meditated on the possibility that he himself assassinated President William McKinley. Hats off to Dr. Juan Mendocino, the Scholl Professor of Insoles at Guam Podiatric College, for bringing this fascinating incident to my attention. Here, then, is an excerpt drawn from the book's opening paragraphs:

I was sitting in the White House one evening in 1903 enjoying a snifter of brandy with none other than Samuel Langhorne Clemens, the celebrated humorist better known as Mark Twain, the truest American of his times, and a man who thoroughly hated me for my assertive foreign policy and powerful physique. Yet Mr. Clemens was so entertaining and refulgent a fellow I couldn't begrudge him his strong opinions, and so the two of us met on occasion in my private chambers and regaled each other with stories from our frontier days, he of his youth spent on the Great River and in the Nevada Territory mining camps, while I "bent his ear" with tales of my ranching experiences in North Dakota and my service in Cuba during the Spanish-American War. We appreciated that we were both natural raconteurs, I think, and often competed to "outshine" one another. As Mr. Clemens was a literary and comedic genius and I am not, I invariably lost these contests, save for one day when I asked him what he thought of "horse biscuits."

"I can't say I've heard of them," the great man said. "The phrase suggests a tepid oath a schoolmarm might utter should wind slip from her nether cheeks and rattle her underskirts just so," he said, lifting one of his own buttocks and squeaking out a high, keening fart.

I chortled mercilessly for a full minute before collecting myself. "Hardly, sir," I replied while removing my glasses and drying my eyes. "You are simply incorrigible, Mr. Clemens, and our world is far the better for it. A horse biscuit is a Western comestible camp cookies bake with bits of charcoal mixed into the cornmeal to settle the stomachs of saddle-worn cowhands bloated by three daily meals of sorghum, mustard and beans. I have a humble story to share concerning horse biscuits and an evening I spent with Admiral Dewey, Lily Langtry, Pope Leo XIII, Buffalo Bill Cody."

The old gent arched his snowy brows and extracted from a silver case his third cheroot of the evening, a primitive-looking cigar my own asthma forbade me from sampling despite his kind offer of one and my desire to so indulge myself.

"Speak on," he instructed after lighting up his smoke, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

I nodded and cleared my throat. "After my election as governor of New York in 1898, my wife and I sailed to Glasgow for a short vacation prior to assuming my post at the helm of the Empire State. We left our children in the able care of their nannies, and anticipated a restful holiday as guests of Laird and Lady Loosestrife at their manor in the Highlands, where I intended to chase down on foot one of the estate's fabled red stags, then strangle it with my bare hands in the manner of the ancient Pict chieftains, for whom such an act was crucial were they to lead and inspire their people properly."

"Barbaric," Mr. Clemens observed. "Theodore, you are the basest savage I know."

"Coming from you that is a compliment, sir," I answered, though I flushed at his impertinence.

"You are lying," he accused, "but please, continue."

"We disembarked our ship, the HMS Aethelred the Unready, and were met by a fine hansom sent by the laird, which took us thence to the rail station and a private train. Six hours later and Mrs. Roosevelt and I were comfortably ensconced in our suite at Loosestrife Castle. We had just enough time for a vigorous romp on a bearskin rug, then we cleansed ourselves of man-milt and daisy-dew and dressed in evening wear for the formal dinner at seven o'clock."

Mr. Clemens revolved his hands urgently. "Get to the point, Theodore. No wonder I find your books unreadable. You meander more than the North Platte River. I fear we're already trapped in some shallow oxbow lake like a pair of fat and phlegmatic catfish suffocating in the mud."

I quelled a violent impulse to cane the old man for speaking so rudely to the president and resumed my story. "We entered the dining room to find an unexpected extravaganza: a dozen or more guests were sitting around the table, dressed from head to toe in buckskins, including the laird and lady, who, like the others, were festooned with bandoliers of ammunition, their faces virtually hidden under the gigantic cowboy hats that occupied their heads. I confess that my speaking faculties were addled temporarily, an affliction otherwise wholly unknown to me, and that my jaw hung slack in imitation of the lowliest manga-manga gawping at a society ball. Mrs. Roosevelt herself seemed more amused than flustered; I learned presently she was in on the surprise. Laird Loosestrife rose and seized me by the elbow, escorting me to my chair and welcoming me thusly to his home:

"Guv'nor, we cannae sae tae ye whoo glod we aire tha' lak nae talkn't. Kraik ne och ah mae cluve wi' ye. Sup' ye wi' a dram and setten' thee ach wi' haggis an' leekie an' 'ear tha' pipers 'k'le't'ae'q. Aye?"

"While it's the English the Scots despise, it's their language they assail," Mr. Clemens noted.

"Indeed," I said. "Fortunately, I was hauled from the depths of confusion and thrown onto the banks of incredulity when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see my old friend Buffalo Bill Cody.

"Why you slumgullinoed, bandy-legged, cattle-humping old bison-killer, what in the sweet name of Odin are you doing here, and why is everybody dressed like either you or Calamity Jane?" I ejaculated.

Bill grinned and threw his arm around me. "We're celebrating," he finally said.

"Celebrating what?"

"Your win, you fool. You are soon to be the governor of the most populous and influential state in the Union. I'd say that warrants a party. Come now, I've got a special outfit you can change into, then I'll introduce you to our guests."

"Theodore, you're rambling again," Mr. Clemens scolded. "Let me help you out while you refill my brandy. You put on your Western togs, met everybody at the table, and either told them about horse biscuits or contrived to have some actually made. Some of the guests tittered when you described the pastries' original purpose. Perhaps the yammering laird demonstrated their raison d'etre, as I just might again myself. No, sorry, nothing's brewing within right now, but you'll be the first to know once it does. Am I right so far? Did you eat cowboy cuisine? Did that old blackguard Bill Cody, this continent's exterminator-in-chief, entertain the guests with a twirling lariat and blindfolded shooting tricks? Did Admiral Dewey propose the invasion of Scotland to acquire additional heather and gorse land to sate his colonial masters? Did Pope Leo the Doddering die during dessert, and if so, did anyone notice? Did Lily Langtry strip naked and sing crude songs while writhing in a tub of porridge? And did you somehow govern the event to demonstrate that New Yorkers who exercised their franchise elected the right man to lead them into the new century?"

Damnable miscreant! I thought. Mr. Clemens hadn't a respectful bone in his body, and while indifference to power can be admirable, he'd gone too far in joshing me. I determined it was therefore time to end our evening. "You're all too clever, Mark Twain," I said, calling him by his nom de plume. "You're a very clever man. The meal unfolded almost exactly as you said, save for that Pope Leo XIII writhed in the mush with Miss Langtry, and seemed very much alive while doing so. And you missed one small detail. It's perhaps too trifling to mention, though. I think we should finish our drinks and bid each other a good night. We're invading Quebec tomorrow, and I need to sign off on the plans."

Mr. Clemens didn't miss a beat, as the youth of today might say. "I see that I've riled you, Theodore, and while I consider you a fifth-rate despot, you've always been a good host to me and an entertaining interlocutor. Excuse my sense of mischief, then, Mr. President, and please finish your tale."

I smiled wanly at this old Missourian, who surely ranked as one of the most famous men in the world, and decided then to put one over on him. "Kindly strike a match, sir, and hold it a foot from your face. I know this is an odd request, but humor me."


Mr. Clemens cocked his head sceptically but obliged me. I picked up the decanter of brandy, poured a goodly amount into a cupped hand, and rubbed the liquour into the seat of my pants. I then turned so my bottom fronted the match, and let loose with a great fart that broke like a thunderclap, the gaseous expulsion mixing with the alcohol that was volatilizing from my trousers, and rushing toward the match's little flame like a jet from the sun's surface. I regret I couldn't see the resulting firestorm, but it was spectacular enough to extinguish Mr. Clemens's cigar by consuming all the surrounding oxygen. His whispy white aureole of hair was slightly singed, but he was unhurt, though shocked speechless himself.

"I'm afraid I must be going," I said. "Intestinal problems, as you can see. I need a couple of horse biscuits right now, so if you'll excuse me I'll let my footman show you to your carriage. As always, a pleasure, sir," I said, bowing.

The next day my man brought me a telegram from Mr. Clemens, which read: 'You win, Theodore. Sam.'

And so I had.