4th of July at the White House

And so, the Good Family spent the 4th of July at the White House. You might think spending the 4th of July at the White House was an honor. You’d be wrong. Spending any time with Nixon and Dad was a drag, not an honor. Out front, Nixon put on a big show for Dad. Fireworks, the Blue Angels, a performance by Elvis. Stoned to the gills on magic chocolate fudge, Dr. Strangelove ignored the whole shebang. He was busy at the buffet, seeing how many shrimp he could cram into his mouth. Show over, Nixon and Mom came inside looking for Dad.

“There’s my favorite CIA agent,” said Mom, giving Dad a kiss on a stuffed cheek.

Dad nodded, mouth too full to say anything. When the president ignored the utterly cool hippie in the room (who in turn, ignored the creepy president), Mom said, “Mikey’s here, too, Dick. Say hello to your uncle, Mikey. ”

“Howzit, Uncle Dick.” I wouldn’t shake his slimy right-wing hand, but out of politeness, I gave him a shaka sign.

Ehrlichman and Haldeman stood next to him, so I threw a Nazi salute. Instinctively, they clicked their heels and saluted back. I knew it.

“Ah, yes, my favorite nephew,” lied Nixon. After we finished laughing, he squinted those beady eyes and asked, “How’d you get past the Secret Service agents?”

“Now, Dick, make nice,” said Mom. “It’s a special day.”

Nixon pouted, then sighed. Shaking his jowls in that lovable way of his, he said, “All right, I will if he will.”

“No problem, Uncle Dick. . .after you resign in disgrace.”

“Never, Mikey; not in disgrace, anyway. Only with honor, dignity, and glory.”

Thinking he was kidding, I cracked up. Instead of joining me, he raved, “The country needs me. Bla bla bla—I am not a crook.” Then, “Goddamnit, stop laughing.”

Here was my chance. Nixon’s neck was only inches away. I felt my hands tightening, longing to strangle something. And if I wasn’t a pacifist, and it wasn’t Dad’s big day, and if those Secret Service guys weren’t pointing guns at me, I just might have. I thought it through. On the plus side, I’d eliminate a dangerous foe. I could picture crowds cheering: Yea, Mikey! I’d be a hero. On the minus side, the Secret Service would fill me full of holes. I could picture crowds booing. Well, at least one voice: mine. How then would I change the world? An idea came to mind: Mikey G., zombie philanthropist. Anyone called me a vegan, I’d eat him.

Not yet ready for zombification, I went outside for a doobie break. There were straight people in suits and dark glasses all over the grounds; they had walkie talkies and ear plugs and none of them looked cool. Way out back by the service entrance, I smelled something illegal, and headed that way with a smile on my face. Two Secret Service agents and a tall, effeminate guy in a white track suit heard me coming and turned around fast, you know, as if feeling busted.

“Take it easy, guys, it’s cool.”

Tad and Skip, two agents from Air Force Two, recognized me.

“Hi, Mikey,” said Tad, reholstering his gun.”

“Howzit, guys. Smells good.”

“Heh heh . . .we’re taking a break from the stiffs inside.”

“Me, too.”

Skip offered me a tiny roach. “Sorry, you got here a little late.”

“That’s okay, I travel fully loaded,” I said, pulling out a fatty of Maui Wowee. “In more ways than one.”

A minute later, two Secret Service agents and a tall, effeminate guy in a white track suit enjoyed coughing fits.

The guy in white wheezed out, “Damn, that’s good. What is this stuff?”

“That, my friend, is da kine Maui Wowee. Mamba Kush, to be specific.”

He introduced himself as Brandon. “I’m Nixon’s masseur.”

“No kidding?”

Brandon nodded. “If anyone needs it, it’s him. That man is way too uptight.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I try to help with homeopathy. . .”

“Not on me, you don’t,” said Tad.

“That’s not what it means,” snapped Brandon. “I also do amateur proctology on the side. Well, not on the side, heh heh, but you know what I mean.”

“When you’ve got your hand up there, Brandon,” I asked, “you ever pretend he’s a puppet? You could have him say, ‘I’m guilty.’ ”

Everyone laughed at that one.

“That’s the only way that bastard will ever admit it,” said Skip.

“He’s not just uptight mentally,” confided Brandon, loosening up from the smoke, ready to dish some dirt. “He hasn’t taken a dump in weeks.”

That intrigued me. Also, confirmed a theory of Ray’s involving Nixon’s pursed lips. He was convinced pursed lips were a sign of an anal-retentive personality full of pent-up anger, which, in Nixon’s case, led to aggression and war.

“I keep massaging his prostate,” added Brandon, “hoping that’ll help.”

Something made me ask, “Does it?”

“Not with the constipation, but he seems to like it. I might have to put some suppositories up there before the man explodes.”

Bingo! Brandon didn’t know it, but he’d given me a killer idea.

“Mikey,” asked the president’s proctologist, “you think you can get me some Maui Wowee? Why are you rubbing your hands together like a mad scientist?”

“I’m sure we can work something out. For you and the president.”

“You’re all right,” said Brandon, holding out his hand to seal the deal.

“Sorry, Brandon, but I know where that hand has been.”

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Aboard Air Force Two

It was the 4th of July, Dad’s birthday, and Nixon was throwing a big bash at the White House for him. Washington, D.C. was the last place I wanted to be in July, by it was Dad’s 50th and a big deal with Mom. You didn’t say no to Mom. Not without repercussions. Repercussions you’d regret. And so, on the morning of the fourth, the entire Good family saddled up for a ride aboard Air Force Two to the East Coast. (Except for my older brother Major Johnny, who was already there, no doubt doing something unscrupulous behind the scenes with his partner-in-crime Ollie North. Those two were always up to something.)

(Below, a shot of Uncle Dick welcoming me to the 4th of July celebration.)

“Mikey, quit moping,” said Mom. “It’s your father’s big day.”

I looked across the aisle at Dad in his Uncle Sam suit, with his top hat and America, Love It or Leave It headband. He enjoyed his ride aboard Air Force Two, editing a technical manual for the new “toy” his team at the Secret Weapons Lab had created. Editing a technical manual was the opposite of fun and that’s just the way Dad liked it.

To be clear, Dad’s toy was not a toy. Not in the traditional sense. He didn’t believe in those. Something I’d learned early when Dad gave baby Mikey life lessons. He’d shout into my crib, “Life is not about fun, Mister.” Then he’d confiscate the Teddy Bears and rattles that Mom smuggled in. Around the Good household, toy was code for one of Dad’s diabolic weapons.

“What do you got there, Dad?”

“You mean this?” he asked, patting a suitcase. Gently.

“Yeah, that.”

“Take a guess.”

“A whole bunch of cash to cover the fortunes you’ve cost me?”

“Ha! I hate to admit it,” he said, “but you almost made me laugh.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

He gave his suitcase another love pat. “What’s inside is much better than a fortune in cash, son.”

“Diamonds? Bearer bonds? Rare art?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s a nuclear weapon.”

“Really? A suitcase nuke? Right here aboard Air Force Two?”

“That’s right,” he said.

“Aw, man. . .are we safe?”

“Of course not. The commies are out to get us.”

“No, I meant from you and your new toy.”

“I sure hope so.”

“Me, too.”

“Then again, if a certain someone doesn’t cut his hair, straighten out and fly right, well. . .”

On behalf of Mother Earth, myself, and the rest of mankind, I protested. “But, Dad, aren’t you worried it’ll fall into the wrong hands?”

“Wrong hands?”

“You know, like yours.”

He looked at his hands, flexed his fingers. “What’s wrong with them?”

Looking down at Texas, where a certain Bush family lurked, I had a thought. “Let’s see if your new toy works.”

“Sorry, son. I have to work with George whether I like him or not.”

“Ah, I get it. You’re saving it for the Democrats, right?”

“Not this particular one,” he said, scribbling a note, “but I like how you think.”

“Who gets this one?”

“Your Uncle Dick.”

“You’re nuking Uncle Dick?”

Dad rolled his eyes. “You wish.”

“No kidding. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

“That’s not funny, Mister.”

“Neither is flying with a suitcase nuke.”

Mom tried to reassure me. “It’s safe, honey. . . unless we hit some  turbulence.”

“That’s all it’ll take?” I asked, looking around for a parachute.

Mom chuckled. “Your father hasn’t perfected the safety mechanisms yet.”

“Stop this plane, I wanna get off.”

“You are so silly.”

“So is being in Washington when Uncle Dick lets loose with the, ahem, fireworks in Dad’s suitcase.”

“It’s not for the fireworks show,” confided Dad.

He left me hanging, so I made a guess. “It’s for the press corps, isn’t it?”

Dad’s lips twitched for a mili-second. “You are an intuitive boy.”

Maui Wowee, the 5th book in the Senor Bueno Travel Adventure series is coming out in two weeks, so get ready for some insane humor. And with Dr. Strangelove in the picture, I do mean insane.

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Trump’s Popularity Ratings

With President Trump’s popularity ratings in the dumpster, the Donald had a question for me. Actually, he had a lot of them. For fans of the fakest news in the business, I’ll try to recall the gist of our talk for you. Keep in mind, Trump isn’t what you’d call articulate, so I’ll do my best.

“You see the headlines, Mikey? Trump’s popularity ratings lower than Nixon’s? Like I told you, I’m setting records.”

“That one is not something to brag about.”

“You kidding? I brag about everything.”

“You’re not big on self-reflection, are you?”

“I’m the biggest self-reflector ever. Every day I stare into my mirror, admiring my good looks. You know that expression God made us in his image? Well, he meant me. If Jesus came back, he’d want my face. He wouldn’t have stayed a virgin long then, would he, Mikey?”

So much for self-reflection. “So, you’re not worried about your lousy ratings? Being the most unpopular president in history?”

“I suppose I am. Not for me, but for the country.”

“You mean Mother Russia?”

“Always with the jokes.”

“I wish.”

“Let’s be serious for a minute. You think this putt breaks right at the hole, or should I play it straight.”

“I’d like to see you play it straight for once. So would America.”

“Another joke?”

“Not that time.”

“You think President Trump’s approval ratings would soar if everyone knew what a great golfer I was?”

“You wanna be more popular, you shouldn’t refer to yourself in third person.”

“Why not? Isn’t the royal form of address?”

“The common people might find it off-putting.”

“What’s with those commoners, anyway?”

“We want our president to stop kidnapping babies, hitting on porn stars, enjoying golden showers from Russian hookers. . .”

“I’m not sure if enjoy is the right word. Trust me, that was not as much fun as Vladi said it would be. Allegedly.”

“Where was I? Oh yeah, then there’s obstruction of justice, taking health care away from 20 million people, playing nice with Putin, getting played by Kim Jong Un. . .”

“Jesus Christ, Mikey, you could go on all day.”

“See? That’s the problem.”

“What about the great stuff I’ve done? Made the rich richer, made the environment poorer, alienated our allies, started a trade war with China? If making the U.S. the laughing stock of the world doesn’t make me popular with the common people, I don’t know what will.”

“You are popular with uncommon people.”

“You mean the Deplorables and those Q-maniacs? Or as I call them, my base. Those lunatics cheer at everything I say, no matter how demented. Aren’t they the greatest? I put down the Elite, telling my people that I’m more elite than the elite. They can enjoy the foul air from deregulated coal factories and foul water from fracking even better knowing that their leader is a billionaire. They go back to their shithole trailer parks and tell each other how great I am.”

“What about everyone else? How will you get them on board the Trump train? Stop the Democrats from taking over Congress in the mid-terms?”

“I’ve advised Republican candidates to go strong on fear tactics. Forget human rights, and worry about aliens raping their babies.”

“I’ve seen those ads. Heinous.”

“Thanks.”

“I hope that’s not all.”

“It’s not. I’ve been tossing some ideas around with my Brain Trust.”

“Jared and Ivanka?”

“Right. Lemme run a couple things by you. First, we’re gonna put my head on Mt. Rushmore.”

“Where? There’s no room for something that bloated.”

“Since I’m the most presidential president in history, we might as well get rid of those posers and make the whole thing me. Then headlines will read: Trump’s approval ratings skyrocket!”

“What else you got?”

“You’re gonna love this one. We change the money.”

“Into rubles?”

“Not till I hand over the reins to Putin. We’ll stick with dollars for now.”

“How you gonna change them?”

“First of all, we get rid of those dead presidents. Who needs ’em when we’ve got a live president who’s three under par on the front nine?”

“If you don’t count two out of bounds, three in the water, and never putting.”

“Whatever it takes, long as I win. Let’s talk about money. That’s where my heart is.”

“Bullshit, Donald, you don’t have one.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“Okay, let me hear the plan.”

“Sure. By the way, what is hideous Ben Franklin doing on the hundred dollar bill? He wasn’t even a president? What’d he ever do for America?”

“Is that a plan or a rant?”

“Whaddaya think, Mikey? Won’t our money be more valuable with my handsome face on the bills?”

“You’ll put yourself on every bill?”

“Sure, why not? That’ll guarantee my popularity with the common people who use them.”

“Your Brain Trust told you that?”

“No, they suggested I only be on the hundreds, thousands, ten thousands, and so on. That way I won’t seem pretentious. . .whatever that means.”

“I’m impressed with your humility. Who’ll be on the other notes?”

“Ivanka wants be on the fifty. She’s much prettier than Grant. I mean would you have sex with Grant?”

“Good point, even if it makes you seem creepy.”

“You telling me you wouldn’t have sex with Ivanka? I know I. . .”

“Let’s focus on the money. Who’s on the twenty?”

“That goes to Jared for all the fine work he’s done running the country while I play golf.”

“What about the smaller denominations?”

“We still have those? Jesus. Well, I suppose I could put Donald, Jr., on the ten.”

“What about the five?”

“I guess the other one, what’s his name? With the teeth?”

“Eric?”

“Right, right. Are there any left?”

“Children or notes?”

“Either one.”

“There’s the one dollar bill.”

“Seriously? Who’s on that?”

“The founder of our country.”

“Come on, Mikey, I need a name, not a hint.”

“Washington.”

“State or D.C.?”

“George.”

“Oh, I get it. Like the memorial. Everyone talked like he was a big deal, but was he a billionaire? Hell, no, which is why the poor schmuck ends up on our bottom dog currency. Who do you think I should put there?”

“If you’re going with the family theme, I guess you could choose Tiffany or Barron.”

“Who?”

I could go on, but with my new book Maui Wowee coming out in two weeks, I’ve got things to do. I hope your week goes better than the Donald’s.

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A Little Romance

In response to a question from a fan, this week’s excerpt from Maui Wowee, features a little romance for your author buddy Mike. Well, at least a step in the right direction. Living like a hermit in a hidden rainforest paradise, I didn’t meet a lot of girls. Unless they trimmed pot or went to the same parties. But now and then, I’d hook up with a girl from another scene. That would lead to awkward questions, questions I didn’t wanna deal with. Questions like: “What do you do for a living?” “How come you never invite me to your place?” “Why can’t I get a straight answer from you?” “Are you hiding something?” That didn’t stop me from flirting my brains out with every fox I met, as you’ll see in this week’s excerpt. And with girls like Noelani living in the Islands, can you blame me?

With Mother Nature nurturing our crop in the rainforest, I had plenty of free time. To get away from the constant rain, I’d spend a few days in Kona. While living there, I’d commuted often to the sunny side of Maui for diversion. Seemed ironic. There were two main airlines, Hawaiian and Aloha, and one or two smaller airlines, depending whether the fourth had just gone into or out of business. Of the smaller airlines, and there have been many, Royal Hawaiian was the only long-term survivor. I liked to fly them because the tourists they carried were far fewer and less stuffy.

Also ‘cause Royal Hawaiian’s prop planes flew at lower altitudes than the jets the big boys used—much better for enjoying Hawaii’s amazing scenery. If whales were breaching along the way, the pilot would take the time to spin around them, going lower still. Plus, they had some killer flight attendants. On one of those flights, the lovely Noelani sat her sexy self down next to me. Obviously, she’d noticed my coolness and couldn’t resist. It had only taken a year of clumsy flirtation. So, pretty fast by my standards.

“Howzit, Noelani. Nice of you to join me.”

She smelled like jasmine. I decided jasmine was my favorite smell and told her so. Girls love compliments like that.

“You smell, too,” she said, but forgot to make it sound flattering.

I gave her a mega-watt smile. “So, my charms finally got to you, huh?”

She chuckled, then said, “No, not really. But you left this in the restroom.”

She put something in my hand. I looked down and saw a buffalo head nickel with a coke spoon soldered onto it.

“Jeez, am I that obvious?

“Hell, yes, you’re that obvious. Sometimes you don’t blink for the entire flight.”

“Well, it’s only an hour long.”

She laughed because I was deranged. A little confused, I reached into my pocket, and after digging around, found my own buffalo head nickel coke spoon. Now I had one in each hand. Noelani looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and smiled, no doubt impressed to meet an ambidextrous coke freak. And, unless I was mistaken, a bit more interested. I laughed because I was the opposite of ambidextrous: clumsy with both hands. Plus, until my bartender buddy Shorty gave it to me the night before (oddly enough, he’d found it in the Chuck’s Steak House restroom), I didn’t have one of those spoons. I’d only accepted it from Shorty because I’m polite. When it came to blow, I preferred to tip some into the cap of my little glass bottle and get a decent snort. Those chintzy coke spoons never gave me enough. Know what I mean? They must have made them for pygmies. Or moderate consumers. Who knows? Generous to a fault when horny, I trumped her little gift with my bottle and ended up with Noelani’s phone number. Cocaine sometimes provided the charm my natural appeal did not. Did I let that bother me? Are you kidding?

A week later, after a fun weekend together in Honolulu, Noelani said, “Why don’t I spend next weekend at your place on Maui? I want to see where you live.”

“I live in the rainforest, Noelani. Trust me, you don’t wanna go there.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ve stayed at the Hotel Hana.”

The Hotel Hana was the nicest hotel in Hana. Also, the only hotel in Hana. Nothing fancy, not even televisions, but they made up for it by charging a fortune. With its tiny golf course, mown lawns, and pest control (meaning far fewer cockroaches per room), the grounds were a far cry from Happy Valley.

“Happy Valley is not the Hotel Hana. Tell you what, Noelani, we’ll stay at my buddy Tom’s guest house on the beach. You’ll like it there better.”

“You’re not hiding something, are you?”

Yes, I sure was. Two thousand somethings, but I left that unspoken. Read Maui Wowee to find out what happened to Noelani, the two thousand somethings, and the Happy Valley Hui.

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Security at Happy Valley

With a marijuana plantation as large as ours came a lot of risk, and security at Happy Valley was a big concern for the Happy Valley Hui, same as it was for all pakalolo growers. Ripoffs were rife and narcs were on the loose. So were pigs of the wilder persuasion. Bottom line, my partner Ray decided we needed security at Happy Valley. . .and lots of it. Read today’s excerpt from Maui Wowee and see what I mean.

With a couple thousand stunt plants in flower, we were stoked. Looked like we’d pay off our initial investment; even receive a nice bonus for our good deeds. In Kona, I’d averaged a quarter pound on plants I picked in the spring. But Kona had a sunny winter, just the opposite of the rest of Hawaii, and I wasn’t sure what to expect in rain-soaked Happy Valley. A quarter a pound average here would yield five hundred pounds. A huge crop at the time, even for long season. I’d tried a few times, but the only one I knew who’d successfully pulled off multi-hundred pound crops was the Duke, and it looked like this year I’d finally surpass him. King Mike? That had a nice ring. Emperor Mike? Even better.

Not that I was power mad or an egomaniac, but I wanted bragging rights. We’d aimed high. And why not? We had the perfect place. Sort of. More sun would’ve been nice. Less centipedes? Also, nice. Same with the other varmints and the mildew, and, well, you get the idea. Happy Valley in winter wasn’t the most cheerful place to live, but with two locked gates protecting entry, no unwanted visitors showed up. That right there was worth a big smile. But first, enjoy this shot of the security at Happy Valley.

Featured: Adolph, Happy Valley’s Chief of Security, at play. Imagine when he was angry.

Of course, we never knew when that might change. Weird stuff happened to marijuana growers. For safety’s sake, and ‘cause he had a dozen attack-trained pets, the militant Ray came up with a plan. Naturally it involved the dogs, a dozen of them, but also us walking around with rifles, patrolling the grounds. A pacifist, I didn’t care for the plan. I couldn’t picture myself blowing someone away over herb, but Ray, having spent his rebellious student days blowing up military academies, not to mention a few years as an attorney, had no qualms. He’d learned his share of battle tactics, and insisted on readiness.

First, a word about Ray’s dogs. He’d imported (well, smuggled) the first white German shepherds to the Islands, scoring them from his pal Rutger, a mercenary/gun runner/drug smuggler he knew from school days. Rutger, from a prominent family of South African fascists, had spent a few years training dogs in the art of attack and bigotry for the South African military and offered to trade Ray two pups (Adolph and Eva) for some pakalolo.

When I’d first met Ray and his dogs I’d asked, “Adolph and Eva? Isn’t that a bit, you know, racist?”

“Hitler spelled his name with an f.”

“Still.”

“What would you name him?” he asked, pointing at Adolph’s tidy brown mustache. “Despite their names, my dogs aren’t bigots.”

“No?”

“Although they do love ethnic food.”

Let’s just say, I was glad I tasted bland. Not that I didn’t attract my share of cannibals. Ray loved those dogs, so when he stationed them at strategic posts around the property they enjoyed deluxe accommodations. We cleared long runs through the jungle and hung overhead wire. Attaching leads to those, the dogs could run a hundred feet or so. Even with the home team’s trucks, they raised a racket. And when they did, it sounded like the dogs of war were coming to get ya. Anyone who didn’t know them well would shit their pants. Then, embarrassed and uncomfortable, quickly drive away. Or so I hoped, because I did not want to shoot anybody.

Each station had a camouflaged shelter built off the ground. Its walls and roof were made of visqueen that we’d coated with black, green, and brown spray paint. With a sheet of foam-covered plywood raised three feet off the ground, a sleeping bag, a mosquito net, and a kerosene lantern, it wasn’t a bad place for a grower driven crazy by peacocks on his roof to spend a night–let alone a doggy resting between patrols. It was certainly quieter than the house. We had a half dozen of these stations scattered around and changed the furry guards often so they wouldn’t get lonely. On clear nights, I’d sometimes camp in one of the shelters with Rocky. Me reading by Coleman lantern, Rocky looking at me, probably thinking, “What a nerd.” Out there, miles from the closest neighbors, we loved the solace. Not that we were alone. The rainforest at night was alive with the sounds of scurrying feet. Many, many hundreds of them at a time. Given what was down there? Rocky appreciated distance from the ground as much as I did.

Hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Be warned, Maui Wowee is due to launch in mid-September. I hope you’re ready. Meanwhile, if you haven’t read any of my other books, you can find them all on Amazon and the other booksellers.

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Obstruction of Justice

Obstruction of justice? That sounds serious, even worse than collusion. Which is what I told the Donald during our round of golf yesterday. I’ll try to recall our conversation, but when I’m around the President, I have to smoke a lot of pot because, well, you know why. . .so don’t quote me on my quotes.

“Collusion is bad enough, Donny, but obstruction of justice? That could be big trouble for you and Jr.”

Ignoring the obstruction of justice comment, the President went into a rant. “Collusion? What collusion? There was no collusion. That’s a rigged Witch Hunt. See how I said that with capital letters so you’d know it’s true?”

“Very convincing, if I ignore Michael Cohen revealing you approved the meeting at Trump Tower to get dirt on Hillary. Almost as convincing as the six birdies on the front nine.”

“Heh heh, another new course record for your President! And besides, if there was some collusion, and I’m not saying there was. . .all right, maybe that one time with Don, Jr. and that Russian babe, and some with Paul Manafort, and some other stuff with. . . well, that’s not the point.”

“Really? Then what is?”

“Collusion’s not illegal. Just ask Rudy.”

“Yeah, Rudy Giuliani, AKA: Nosferatu, is real credible. Jesus Christ, Donald, what’s going on with his teeth? Don’t you pay him enough to get them cleaned?”

“That’s his signature style, like Geraldo with the capped teeth and giant mustache.”

“He might wanna change his style a little. Also, get a new job. I saw him wiping the flop sweat off his face trying to cover for you. He’s obviously cracking from the stress. I don’t know how much longer he can hang in there.”

“Ha! I go through lawyers almost as fast as Big Macs.”

“There may not be a federal statute regarding collusion, Donny, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Same with conspiring with a foreign government to meddle in our election.”

“Seriously? You’d think my lawyers would say something.”

“Yes, I would, not that you’d listen. Then there’s interfering with Mueller’s probe into Russia hacking our election. That’s obstruction of justice.”

“You heard Rudy saying if I obstruct justice in public with my Tweet to Jeff Sessions that’s okay.”

“So, it’s only bad if you obstruct justice in the dark?”

“Hey, I’m not the legal expert here, I’m just saying, I’m above the law. Which is why I’m giving myself this ten-foot putt. Hey, you see me wow them in Philadelphia? I got the Qanon crowd in my pocket, baby!”

“I saw you tell them they needed I.D. to buy food. I bet that was a surprise to them.”

“How was I know you could use wire transfers.”

“I guess Paul Manafort could have told you. That’s how he shopped.”

“It doesn’t matter what I say, the people in my crowds aren’t deep thinkers. Except when it comes to those lunatic theories I promote. What’d you think of Pizzagate? Pretty wacky, huh?

“No kidding. So your strategy for re-election is to cater to the lunatic fringe? Rile ’em up so they attack the media?”

“It’s worked so far. Everyone with any common sense, from the Intelligence Community on down thinks Russia is America’s enemy, but my crowds know it’s the fake news media.”

“You mean Fox?”

“Not funny, Mikey, you leave them out of this.”

“Am I your enemy, Donald,” I asked a few minutes later as I was about to chip one onto the green. “Because if I start shanking everything, we’ll lose this match.”

Donald put up his tiny hands, said, “Of course not, Mikey, I’ve got no beef with you. After all, no one believes a thing you say.”

I sighed. “I hate to admit it, but we have something in common, after all.”

If you like political satire and laughing out loud, you should read my books, starting with Breaking Good. If you haven’t already grabbed a Free Copy, here’s your chance. You know what to do.

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