Moonshiners

 

In this week’s excerpt from State of Chaos, I’ll introduce you to the Gump boys, a mutant pack of miscreants and my new next door neighbors in Stinky Hollow.

 

 

We turned up another bayou and watched turtles slide off logs, fat water moccasins seek victims, and birds grab insects and fish. After a half-mile or so, Tom beached our boat on a patch of sand. With the sun shining, the big trees overhead, and the calm water mirroring everything, it made for a great picnic spot.

“Cool scene, isn’t it?” said Tom.

“Idyllic. Warm as it is, I’m tempted to jump in.”

Tom pointed at a gator. It was looking at me, licking its lips. . .jaws. . .whatever.

“On second thought, let’s take a hike.”

We barely got out of the boat before a gruff voice ordered, “Hold it right there, boys.”

Three men in camo gear stepped out of the trees. Two of them aimed rifles at us.

“No problem,” I said, hands up, all Mr. Agreeable.

“Hey there, Booger,” said Tom, all Mr. Casual.

“Oh, hey there, Tom. Didn’t recognize you at first.” Booger took his rifle off Tom and pointed it at me instead. “Who’s this here fella?”

“That’s our long lost cousin Huck.”

“He don’t look like kinfolk to me.”

His brothers agreed. “You ain’t no Gump.”

I didn’t say anything, but I was thinking: Thank God.

“Huck’s adopted,” said Tom. “He can’t help the way he looks.”

“Poor feller,” said Booger, and lowered his weapon.

Booger, probably in his mid-30’s, was big and hairy. Picture a Sasquatch with squinty eyes and ears out to there.

Tom made introductions. “Huck, this here is Booger.”

“I figured as much.”

“He’s a smart one, ain’t he, Tom?” said the easily impressed giant as he crushed my hand.

“Tell that to Tuck,” I said.

Tom nodded towards a Gump with the same ears and face (except for the purple birthmark covering the right side of it), but a bit shorter due to the hump. “This here is Goober.”

“Hey there, cousin Huck,” greeted Goober, adding his own vice-like grip.

Tom pointed at the last Gump, a tiny, hairless albino wearing a possum on his head. Or was that a hat? “This here’s Abner.”

To my relief, the pure-white Abner lacked hands and settled for waving a stump.

“How come I ain’t never seen you, cousin Huck?” asked Booger.

Tom said, “Huck’s from California.”

Hearing that, Booger couldn’t help but spit. Same with the brothers. “Shee-it. No offense, Huck, but I don’t rightly care for Californians.”

The others followed suit. “We don’t, neither.”

“You guys have been there?” I asked.

“Hell, no, nothing but homosexuals, hippies, and vegetarians running the place. Wait a second. . .you’re a homo, ain’t you?”

“What?”

“Of course he is,” said Goober.

“Hey. . .”

“I can see you’re no damn hippie.”

“I bet he’s a vegetarian,” said Abner.

“All right, you got me there.”

Tom’s cringe told me, “Big mistake.”

“Thought you said you weren’t no homo?”

“The two things are mutually exclusive, Booger.”

Booger’s face went blank. “What the hell is he talking about, Tom?”

Tom shot me a look. It seemed to hiss, “What did I say about your vocabulary?”

Defending me, Tom said, “He went to college out West, picked up some strange ways.”

“A college boy?” said Goober. “Then he’s definitely a butt pirate.”

“No offense,” I said, “but you guys are nuts.”

“At least we ain’t homo.”

“Well, neither am I.”

Booger gave me a challenge. “Prove it.”

“If Missy will oblige, I will.”

“You having unpure thoughts about our sister?” asked Goober.

“If you consider deviate sex unpure, then. . .”

The rifles came back up.

“Huck’s just kidding,” said Tom. “Right, Huck?”

“That’s me, always joking around.”

Note to self: Stop joking around.

 

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 Thanksgiving greetings from President Trump

 

Thanksgiving morning hadn’t gone well, but I thought the worst was over. . .until Kellyanne Conway called to say, “Hold for Thanksgiving greetings from President Trump, and I knew I was wrong.

I got up early to write you but my computer had crashed. And not just for a nap, the damn thing was comatose. It was four in the morning, too early to roust my computer guy. Then I went downstairs to heat up some coffee. As I pushed start, my  microwave kicked the dust. Then Jill, Thanksgiving hostest to the most, who was hosting a pot luck dinner, called. Where was my offering? She meant the pot part of pot luck and she didn’t wanna wait till dessert. Which is why she said, “Hurry.” It was eight in the morning, a little early for dinner, but I thought: Fine, I’ll bring some stash and then return later. And as I headed out to my truck, wearing my holiday tennies, the special ones I wear when I write to you, I spotted a dog turd near my front porch. It looked one of Luna’s, my neighbor’s dog. Luna thought it was funny to drop a dukie in Lola’s territory, which is why Lola returned the favor. They had a little competition. Glad that I spotted the land mine and avoided, I walked towards my truck. . .only to put my holiday tennies right on top of another freshly laid pile. Well, you know what mean, half an hour spent cleaning the wet shit out of each and every of the thousand little cells on my stylish holiday tennies. Which is why Jill kept calling.

“I’m leaving now.”

“No more delays.”

“Of course not.” And that’s when the batphone rang and a voice said, “Hold for Thanksgiving greetings from President Trump.”

“Happy Thankgiving, Mikey! Hw ya doing?”

“I’ve had better mornings, and the world is going to shit, but I can find plenty to be thankful for. How about you?”

“I’m thankful, too. Thankful for the great job I’m doing for the country. Also, for being so rich, handsome, so very, very big-brained. Not that I’m bragging.”

“You sure did a lot of that during your Fox News interview with Chris Wallace.”

“You mean my report card?”

“Among other things.”

“In all humility, I think I’m doing a great job. I would give myself ― look, I hate to do it but I will do it ― I would give myself an A+. Is that enough? Can I go higher than that?”

“By great job, you mean destroying the climate.”

“I guess you saw that government report that the global warming hoax will cost the economy hundreds of billions of dollars?”

“They’re just repeating what everyone but you and your greedy cronies already knows.”

“Oh, we know, all right, we just don’t admit it. Besides, who needs science when we’ve got President Trump? I’ve already found the solution.”

“Really?”

“Burn enough coal to block out the sun completely! Huh? Am I very stable genius or what?”

“Is that what your lackies tell you?”

“Except for that Kirstjen Nielsen, the White House runs like a well-oiled machine. Maybe I should oil her down, teach her some manners, right, Mikey?”

“Should America thank you for telling the world we don’t care about human rights, only money?”

“You still hung up on MBS killing Khashoggi?”

“Yes.”

“Well, so am I.”

“Only because you can’t get away with the same shit here.”

“Heh heh, you know me so well. Like I always say, Saudi Arabia first!”

“Don’t you mean America first?”

“Oops, don’t tell anyone I said that. It makes me look like Saudi Arabia’s bitch.”

“No shit. Vladi’s gonna be jealous.”

“Heh heh. But you should be thankful to the Saudis for buying all those arms from our defense contractors. They’re spending trillions of dollars, creating millions of jobs.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe not, but without Saudi Arabia starving 85,000 Yemeni children to death and using our arms to bomb non-military targets, those little brats would be able to join the caravans from Mexico. And you know how murderous those Middle Easterners are.”

“Should I be thankful that we’re killing the ocean?”

“Jesus Christ, Mikey. Would you lighten up and give me some praise?”

“Not till you deserve it.”

“Fine. What am I supposed to do about the ocean?”

“How about wising up about fossil fuels? How about using some of billions you spend on unneeded military bullshit. . .”

“You mean the Space Force and protecting our southern border from mothers and children that may or may not be dangerous thugs? That want to cook my Big Mac’s and clean my hotels for minimum wage?”

“Among other things. Look, we need to save the oceans. Not just from global warming, but from plastics and toxic waste. They found a sperm whale with several plastic bottles, 100 plastic cups, flip flops, and God knows what inside.”

“So that’s who keeps stealing my flip flops. Serves him right for dying.”

“Come on, Donald, don’t you care about anything that’s not named Trump?”

“What are you worried about? Thanks to my policies the whales are adapting, learning how to survive on new foods. If only California’s trees would learn to adapt to fire.”

“Your remarks about the fire were ridiculous. You really should learn the facts before you speak.”

“I don’t need facts, not when I have strong opinions. If I wasn’t so busy Tweeting rants about everyone who displeases me, I’d have put those fires out myself.”

“You’d just rush in and stop a firestorm as big as Chicago?”

“Sure. I’d prove it the next time, if not for these bone spurs.”

 

Well, you can see why my Thanksgiving morning went downhill, but after hanging up the phone, I adjusted my attitude, and felt fine again.

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Arriving in Chaos

 

With a bag of Mama Cass seeds hidden in my luggage, and poor Rocky stuck in the cargo hold, I flew to Atlanta, where we grabbed a plane to Mudville, the capital of Chaos. Except for the occasional towns, butt-ugly landfills, and evil-looking industrial sites spewing effluents into the Mississippi, the aerial view reminded me of flights over the Amazon basin. With all the rivers, lakes, and swamps, I saw almost as much water as land. Waiting for Rocky and my bags at Anil Roberts Airport, I got a first-hand look at my future neighbors. Everyone was chewing tobacco. Even the women and kids. Forewarned by Tom, I had a wad of gum in my mouth.

 

 

Blending in was hopeless. I never saw so many crossed eyes, lazy eyes, missing eyes, popped-out eyes, eyes with styes, droopy eyelids, missing eyelids, and, well, you name it. There were mouths with missing teeth—or else way too many and pointing in unusual directions. Odd-shaped heads sported enormous ears, tiny ears, missing ears, birthmarks, tumors, cysts, yaws, and carbuncles. Then there were the missing fingers, missing hands, shriveled arms, missing arms, missing feet, and missing legs. I tried to imitate them, making faces and twitching like a Tourette’s Syndrome victim, but I couldn’t pull it off. I gotta admit, I felt uncomfortable, what with the looks they gave me. Like I was the freak.

Tom, his wife Becky, and my old partner Lucky grew up in Chaos, yet looked nothing like these people. I’d like to say living in Hawaii forced coolness upon them, but I sensed the general weirdness of the population went far deeper than a lack of coolness. Had those three inherited the few decent genes their parents had to offer? I’d reserve judgment till I saw Tom’s family. Meanwhile, I wondered how he’d fit in any better than I did.

I heard a familiar voice. “Hey, Mikey, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Guess I blended in the crowd.”

“Ha! Good one.” Tom nodded at a corpulent family standing next to us. And then at several others. “My view was blocked.”

You might as well look through a wall of meat.

Something was different about Tom and not just the straw hat, overalls, and chewing tobacco. When he smiled, I saw what it was.”

“Goddamn, Tom, I thought you were kidding about the teeth. At least I hoped so.”

I was dedicated to my mission, but not that dedicated. He pulled his front teeth out of a pocket. “I’ve had these for years. You never noticed?”

“What am I? A dentist? I gotta admit, you do fit in.”

“See?”

“Even so, I’m not pulling mine.”

“Of course not. That’s what dentists are for.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Thought you wanted to change the world.”

“If that’s what it takes, the world is on its own.”

“At least you cut your hair. We better give you a codename. How about. . .Huck?”

“Yeah, that’ll work. I was a huge Mark Twain fan as a kid. Loved ol’ Huck; he was the coolest. Remember him and Jim rafting down the river, having a good ol’ time? Man, I wanted to be there with them. Hell, I wanted to be anywhere but the dungeon of learning. Even school.”

“What about Tom?” asked my pal, sticking up for his namesake.

“Eh, he was okay. Kind of manipulative. . .”

“I reckon you’re biased. We gotta get you to the K-Mart and into some polyester.” He pointed at his feet. “Then we’ll get you a pair of muskrat boots. I know a place. . .”

“No way I’m wearing polyester. Or boots made out of muskrats.”

“That’s the style here. Also, anything that’s camouflaged.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“And yet, under your jacket you’re wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt.”

“What can I say? I love the Dead.”

“Well, wear it at home, but out and about you gotta look square.”

“Don’t you see my short hair?”

“That’s a start.” He snapped his fingers. “We’ll get you an Oak Ridge Boys t-shirt.”

“That’s too square.”

“They’ve got beards.”

“So?”

“So they’re the country music version of ZZ Top.”

The two groups didn’t belong in the same sentence. Had Chaos gotten to Tom already?

 

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President Trump is angry.

 

I keep reading how President Trump is angry after the midterms. Well, so are a lot of other people, me included, which is why I’m posting this week’s phony interview with the Donald. For fans of irreverent political humor and the fakest news in the business, keep reading.

 

 

“I gotta tell ya, Mikey, I’m not in a good mood. I’m pretty much pissed off at everyone.”

“Even Melania?”

“Even her. She went over my head and fired Mira Ricardel. Made me look like a pussy.”

“I think Putin already did that.”

“He such a strong will.”

“Right. Lemme ask you something, Donald. When you felt like a pussy, did you grab yourself?”

“Heh heh, you know me so well.”‘

“If you’re so angry, how come you declared the midterms a great victory?”

“It was a great victory. . .for the Democrats. Which is why I gotta shake up my administration.”

“You figure it was their fault people across America rejected your stooges?”

“Well, I gotta blame someone, and it ain’t gonna be me.”

“Right. Let’s see, you replaced Sessions with your pet minion Whitaker, a guy with a reputation almost as bogus as yours. Who’s next to go?”

“I’m thinking Kirstjen Nielson.”

“How come? Not racist enough?”

“Not even close. You see how she let some of those beaner kids escape their cages? Next thing you know, they’ll be raping Republicans. Sad. We can’t be having that.”

“What about your Chief of Staff?”

“Kelly? Him I’m not sure about. I might keep him around like I did Sessions, just to watch him squirm while I ignore every bit of advice he gives me. Then that old prune Wilbur Ross has gotta go.”

“Not fascist enough?”

“He’s getting too old, losing some of the old mustard.”

“So you’ll be bringing in more swamp creatures?”

“My team is dredging the bottom right now. Speaking of swamps, I’d like to bury Jim Acosta in one.”

“I see CNN won their lawsuit and Jim got his press pass back.”

“Another victory for Team Trump.”

“Huh?”

“You know me, I’m a champion for the free press. They should have total freedom.”

“Really?”

“Sure, as long as they ask the questions I approve and sit down and shut up when I tell them too.”

“I’m not sure that’s how freedom works.”

“It works just fine for Vladi and Jongy, why can’t it work for me?”

“Because they’re dictators and this is a free society. Supposedly. . .”

“We’ll see about fixing that. You see how the fake media is twisting things around about my terrific idea for solving the Saudi mess?”

“You mean your idea about expelling a U.S. resident. . .”

“Don’t forget, he’s a Turkish dissident.”

“A Turkish dissident with political asylum. If he goes back, President Erdogan might murder him.”

“There’s no might about it. Erdogan is a vicious brute. He’s taken away the rule of law. In a way, I gotta admire him.”

“Donald, you can’t resolve one brutal murder by a head of state with another.”

“I don’t see why not. They were both outspoken critics, so what’s the big deal?”

“Two murders are better than one?”

“There you go. It’s like geometry. They cancel each other out.”

“I gotta tell you, Donald, I’ve seen pond scum with moral social conscience than you.”

“Fine, then let the pond scum deal with the Saudis. Me? I do a lot of real estate business with them and I’m not gonna piss ’em off.”

“Speaking of critics, I can’t wait till Whitaker fires Mueller. Not that I’m obstructing justice or anything.”

“I read that you answered his written questions.”

“I did a real could job lying on those answers, too, didn’t get any help from my lawyers this time.”

“Really? Rudy didn’t get involved?”

“Are you kidding? Every time that idiot makes a statement he leaks something truthful. But this Mueller guy? You see how he’s gone crazy since the midterms?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s screaming, shouting at people, horribly threatening them. . .a disgrace to our nation. . .don’t care how many lives ruined. . .”

“Wait a second, Donald, I thought that was you.”

“Heh heh, busted. It’s hard to pull one over on you.”

“Too bad the Republicans are so gullible.”

“My sheeple love me no matter what I do.”

“Sheeple?”

“It’s fitting, isn’t it? Don’t them tell I said that.”

“Right.”

“Another thing I’m angry about? During my triumphant tour of France last week it rained. How dare it? Why doesn’t Europe show any respect?”

“They often wonder the same thing about you.”

“Hey, they want me to play nice? They want me to show up at World War I memorials for our veterans who laid down their lives for freedom when they know the rain will mess up my hair? Then they should’ve thrown me a huge military parade? Everyone knows I love a parade. Well, that and a good ass-kissing.”

 

The fires in California

 

“That’s true. I see you went to California, viewed the disaster from the fires. Also, that you still deny we’ve got a problem with global warming.”

“The science is still out. A tiny percentage of scientists say there’s room for doubt.”

“They’re all employed by the oil industry. Them and the Saudis.”

“Well, until they change their minds, I’ll turn a blind eye to the environment. After all, what’s it done for us? Look at it burning up California, right? Man’s not doing that, nature is. You wanna blame someone for heating up the place? Blame Mother Nature. The sooner we kill her, the better off we’ll be.”

“What?”

“Think of the savings, all the money spent on putting these fires out.”

“It’s like you just don’t care about the climate.”

“Hey, I want a great climate. And we’re gonna have that.”

“We are?”

“Sure, once those lazy Democrats in California start cleaning the forest floor.”

“What?”

“You know, raking it or whatever gardeners do. Even better, we should just get rid of all trees. They’re the ones responsible for bad quality. . .”

Looks like I caught President Trump off his meds again. Tiring of his rant, I put the phone down. I doubt if he noticed. . .

 

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Going to Chaos

 

With Maui heating up, especially for yours truly, I had to consider going to Chaos. Talk about desperate. . . To set the scene, my prospective partner Tom has just found an ammo box full of cash, enough to finance a new adventure and then some. We’d struck a deal: If he found some money (two million bucks had washed down our gulley during a flash flood), I’d check out Chaos, considering doing a major grow there. I was stoked when Tom found some dough, not so much with fulfilling my end of the deal.

 

 

I’m telling you, Mikey, Chaos is a great opportunity. No one is growing pot back there.”

“Too busy making moonshine?”

“It’s a different culture.”

“I bet. One I wouldn’t fit in.”

“No offense, but fitting in isn’t one of your strong points.”

Tom was right about that. Although I did fit in well at Grateful Dead concerts, with my long hair, good vibes, and cool attire, I rubbed the Establishment the wrong way. I blamed it on the pesky drug laws that kept us apart. Also, on their uptight worldviews. Something I hoped to change with my philanthropy. My long-term goal was raising world consciousness, ending war, and legalizing pot. Like a beauty contestant, I wanted world peace. Unlike baffled beauty contestants who majored in cheerleading and cosmetics, I had a viable plan. Well, a plan, anyway. It wasn’t my first plan. That one involved being the world’s first tone deaf god of rock. It hadn’t worked out. Especially after creepy free-lance journalist Gerry Rivers (now calling himself Gerardo) got editor Jann Wenner to put me on the cover of Rolling Stone. Usually that’s magic for a musician’s career (just ask Dr. Hook), but in my case the headline said: Meet Señor Bueno! World’s Worst Musician! The smarmy subhead demanded: Move over, Yoko! You’ve lost your crown!

That pissed me off. Did they have to use exclamation points?

I needed a reality check. “Come on, Tom, you really think we could grow high-quality buds there?”

“Lucky and I did.”

I’d never seen that pot and I had my doubts.

“Tell the truth, how good was it?”

“It was the best around.”

“You mean the best around Stinky Hollow? Where no one else grows?”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t get you high.”

I’d heard about those buds from Lucky. I couldn’t remember him comparing them favorably to Kona Gold. Then again, Tom and Lucky, inexperienced growers at the time, didn’t know what they were doing. The results were inconclusive.

“No offense, Tom, but I can’t change the world with mediocre buds.”

He smiled. “With you involved, how could they not be great?”

Ah, Tom knew how to stroke my ego, always an effective move. I felt the lumps on my head smoothing out with the bloating and I smiled back. Modest though I was, when it came to growing pot, I was an egomaniac. All the best growers were.

I showed humility. “You’re probably right, but I’d have to give up this cool house and go somewhere I won’t fit in. Or enjoy.”

“If you work on your personality, things will go easier for you.”

“Why does everybody say that?”

Tom just laughed.

“Culture is one thing,” I said, “but environment is another. Chaos is a festering hellhole of heat, humidity, and swamps. Also, alligators, poisonous snakes, and more mosquitoes than Hawaii. Some funky stuff, too.”

“I thought you hadn’t been there.”

I smacked my head. “Shit. It’s really that bad?”

“Only if you’re outside. Indoors, it’s, uh, well, it’s somewhat better. . .unless you don’t have air conditioning. Except for the snakes and gators, it’ll remind you of Happy Valley.”

Another hot and humid place full of venomous bugs and one I did not wanna be reminded of. You never saw so many centipedes. Despite the promise of venomous bugs, I remained unenthusiastic.

“I suppose you have something better lined up,” said Tom. I detected sarcasm. Also, skillful use of his psychology degree.

“Um. . .”

“Or isn’t raising world consciousness important anymore?”

Talk about peer pressure.

 

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This week with President Trump

 

I wanted to see what was up this week with President Trump, so I gave him a call. For fans of the fakest news in the business, enjoy the interview. I’ll have to paraphrase our talk as the NSA is wise to me and blocks recordings. Still, you’ll get the gist of it.

 

 

“How’s the weather in Paris, Donald?”

“Sucks, just like our allies in NATO.”

“Come on, man, try to get along, this is your chance to show some class, honor our fallen soldiers from World War I.”

“Hey, I’m all about class, but I’m gonna pass on the memorial service.”

“How come?”

“It’s raining outside, not good for my hair.”

“You’re skipping the 100 year memorial for World War 1 because your wig might get wet?”

“What’s the big deal? All those soldiers have been dead for a hundred years. I like my soldiers alive and able to vote for me. Instead of giving me a hard time you should be praising me for getting rid of your nemesis.”

He meant that evil munchkin, the pot-hating Jeff Sessions.

“I’d like it better if you didn’t circumvent the legal process and put Matt Whitaker in charge.”

“Always with the complaints. What’s wrong with Whitaker?”

“Let’s see, for one thing, he’s a con man under investigation by the FBI.”

“Just like me. My kind of guy.”

“Right. And you put him in charge of the FBI.”

“So?”

“So, he’s biased.”

“Why do you think I picked him. Haven’t you seen him calling the Mueller investigation in my obvious collusion a witch hunt?”

“Many times.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“People will see that as collusion right there. It’s one thing to stick your cronies in the Cabinet and Supreme Court, but this guy will run the justice system. You need someone with integrity, not one of your slobbering minions.”

“Matt’s not a minion. . . yet. In fact, I don’t know Matt Whitaker.”

“Donald, you’ve met with him more than a dozen times. You’ve been quoted as saying, Matt Whitaker’s a great guy. Imean, I know Matt Whitaker.”

“Who you gonna believe? Me or me?”

“Hmm. . .neither one?”

“There you go. Anything else bothering you?”

“Yeah. How can you threaten to pull federal aid from Califonia during the worst firestorm its ever seen?”

“Easy, they’ve got Democrats in office there. And those Democrats would rather release water into the ocean than put out fires. I say let ’em burn. That’ll teach ’em. What’s next?”

“We don’t have enough time for everything, but I wanna point out some hypocrisy before I go.”

“Thought you didn’t have much time.”

“Heh heh, good one, Donald. I’m wondering what happened to the invasion on our southern border.”

“What invasion?”

“That’s what I thought. Your pals at Fox, who ranted dozens of times each segment about the invasion and need for 15,000 soldiers guarding us against women and children and men desperate for work, only mentioned the caravan one time on the day after the midterms.”

“That’s because they no longer threatened Republican votes.”

“See? You should be this honest in your real interviews.”

“If I was, I’d be back to hustling steaks, lousy busy deals, and my phony university.”

“If only. . .”

“Sorry, Mikey, gotta go. Vladi’s on the other line.”

“You guys gonna talk strategy? How to divide the States?”

“Who leaked that?”

“Just an educated guess.”

“A good one, too. Don’t tell anybody.”

“Right.”

 

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Midterms

 

With the midterms looming, President Trump has gone into overdrive, pulling out all the stops. I talked with him about he migrant caravan, his superfan, Cesar Sayoc, his racist attack ad, and his penchant for bullshit. For the fakest news in the business, I’ll paraphrase our talk.

 

 

“It’s getting close to the midterms, Mikey. Whaddaya think? Am I the greatest or what?”

“What?”

“I said am I the greatest or what.”

“And I said what.”

“Huh?”

“You’re the greatest bullshitter I’ve ever met, I’ll give you that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the 8.3 phony comments you’re averaging per day.”

“Is that all?”

“I know it doesn’t seem like much to you, but it adds up to over 5,000 turds you’ve laid on the American people since you got into office.”

“I don’t see your point.”

“My point is, rational people can’t believe a thing you say. You’re like the Bizarro president. Everything is the opposite. Why can’t you stick to the truth? Is it some kind of sickness?”

“Hey, I try, I do try. I always want to tell the truth, you know, when I can. Why are you laughing?”

“Come on, Donald.”

“Is it my fault if the fake news media makes my truthful hyperbole seem crazy?”

“All they’re doing is quoting your speeches or printing out your Tweets. How can that be fake news?”

“Consider the source.”

“That’s a good point. I gotta hand it to you, you come up with some wildly imaginative stuff.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Coming from a fiction writer, it sure sounds like one.”

“Yeah, but my crazy stuff makes people laugh.”

“Not the squares. Jeff Sessions loves to hate your stories.”

“That’s true. My stuff is not for the uncool or narrow-minded, but it’s not belligerent and dangerous.”

“How can you say my provocative raving is dangerous?”

“Well, for one thing, it made your Superfan Cesar Sayoc go nuts.”

“All right, that might’ve been a mistake.”

“Ya think?”

“Like you say, I should’ve chosen a more competent maniac, someone who actually knew how to rig explosives.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Whatever. You gotta admit, my concept was ingenious.”

“Really? Trying to take our the figureheads of the Democratic party and reporters at CNN was a wise move?”

“What’s with the attitude? It’s not like I inspired him by saying batshit crazy stuff about the evil Democrats and how they want to let murderers kill Republicans in their sleep.”

“Yeah, you did. And you got that right-wing maniac Jacob Wohl to offer women money to lie about Robert Mueller coming onto them.”

“Aw, shit, you heard about that?”

“It’s been all over the news.”

“He didn’t say where the money was coming from, did he?”

“I don’t think he has to.”

“Heh heh. . . Admit it, Mikey, you wouldn’t call him a madman if that my insane scheme worked.”

“Even for you, Donald, trying to extort the FBI’s lead investigator, is lame-brained.”

“I admit, that one kind of backfired. I’m God-like, but not perfect. Yet. But in all humility, I’m getting there.”

“I guess that’s why you relate so well with the common man.”

“You mean those maniacs at my rallies?”

“It blows my mind that you can be so arrogant, so elitist, so bombastic, so egotistical, so, well, full of shit, and yet, a news network, countless ranting right-wing conspirators, and a third of our country is devoted to you.”

“I know. It defies logic.”

“They repeat your lunatic theories as if they have no minds of their own.”

“It’s the American way.”

“Maybe so, but why don’t they realize you’re anti-American?”

“I may be in love with Kim Jong Un, Vladi, and MBS, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a Nationalist.”

“That’s not the same as being American. Just ask Hitler.”

“The only anti-American thing about me? I’m not crazy about the name.”

“I don’t blame you. Donald is a better name for a duck.”

“No, I mean America. Who was this America guy? A foreigner, right?”

“Well, yeah. . .”

“And why do we need three Americas? We got North America, where those untrustworthy Canadians lurk. We got South America, where all they do is play soccer and snort cocaine, and we got Central America, where all those viral, sexy men pick bananas. You see the abs on those guys?”

“Calm down, Donald.”

“Anyway, once I’m re-elected President, I’m changing the name of our country to Trumpland. It’s got a nice ring. Trumpland. Say it with me, Trumpland.”

“I’m afraid my mouth will explode. Let’s get back to your rants about the caravan.”

“You mean the one full of young, strong, hard-bodied men coming to rape out women that George Soros is paying for?”

“No, I mean the desperate refugees from a hostile government you support.”

“I guess you mean the desperate mob of welfare-seeking, serial-killing single moms looking to clean our hotel rooms and destroy our way of life.”

“No.”

“Then you have to mean the swarthy Middle Eastern hit teams smuggling nuclear arms inside Mexican children.”

“What kind of drugs are you on, anyway?”

“Heh heh, I took a tip from my good friend Kanye. I’m off the bi-polar meds. I get all the power I need from my MAGA hat.”

“This is you normal? Well, not normal, but. . .”

“I’m not the only one spouting this hysterical nonsense.”

“Who else is?”

“Stephen Miller, for one. Fox News, for another.”

“Have you done any fact checking in your relentless quest for the truth?”

When Donald finally stopped laughing, he said, “I can’t guarantee anything my pet ghoul says, but that doesn’t stop me from repeating it.”

“It sure doesn’t. You don’t think that’s irresponsible? I mean, you’re supposed to be the leader of our country, not the Conspirator in Chief.”

“And Fox News is supposed to be fair and balanced.”

We both cracked up at that one.

“You wanna see true leadership? I’ll show you leadership. I’ll send 15,000 troops to protect our southern border.”

“That’s three times the force we have in Iraq.”

“Right, and we’ll bring in more if the rocks start flying. A lot of people don’t know this, but brown-skinned women have strong arms.”

“You don’t think 15,000 troops have enough bullets to stop terrified refugees?”

“Not if the Middle Easterners start exploding those radioactive kids. Which is why we gotta get rid of our crazy, lunatic 14th amendment. No more birthright citizenship.”

“I don’t follow your logic.”

“That’s because I don’t have any.”

“Right. By the way, you can’t just overturn constitutional amendments at a whim.”

“I don’t see why not, I’m the Emperor. While I’m at it, I think I’ll 86 the 1st amendment.”

“No more freedom of the press?”

“That’ll teach ’em to put out fake news about me, won’t it, Mikey? Then I get rid of the no 3rd term clause and make myself dictator for life.”

At this point, Dr. Ricky, who must have been eavesdropping, burst into the Oval Office with a glass of water, a handful of pills, and a pair of husky orderlies. “Here you go, Mr. President, you forgot to take these earlier.”

 

If you like wacky humor full of political and social satire, zany misadventures, quirky characters, snappy dialogue, and exotic locations, check out my books. Start with a Free Copy of Breaking Good.

 

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