A chance encounter
Bumped into my old friend Vladimir Bupkis at the Sacred Grounds coffee shop in town. I stood on line to place my order.
“What’ll you have, sir?”
“Cup of coffee.”
“What size: petit, grande or machismo?”
“Just pour the crap in a cup and give it to me. No more questions. It’s Monday.”
Bupkis waved me over.
“Shonbrun, how’s eet hangin’?” he said, just the trace of his old Russian accent evident.
“Nice to see you, Vlad. What’re you up to?”
“Just reading the paper.”
“What’s in the news?”
“Nothing. It’s all about Trump. Jesus, what an idiot!”
“I take it you’re not a fan.”
“This is what America needs now in a time of monumental crises – global warming, an exploding Middle-East, income inequality – a larger than life, colossal, monumental idiot to address these and other pressing issues?”
“I get your point.”
“Other countries have their Trump-size idiots – Kim Jong Unm, the crazies that run ISIS, Ayatollah Meshugganah or whatever his name is – but we have the one and only real dealer. This is why America is so exceptional? It produces world-class schmucks? This is the super power’s answer? A Superidiot? Should be a comic book.”
He spoke like this. He continued on the comic book theme.
“Dumber than a freight car of dirt, more obnoxious than a city of Texas oilmen, and more incoherent than a congregation of religious leaders. With qualities like these there’s no telling how far this putz can go in politics. Nice country you got here, Shonbrun.”
“Well I can’t argue with you about Trump, but there’s always been a certain faction of the country attracted to flamboyant fascists. We have quite a long history in this regard.”
“Yeah, but this guy has got them all beat. In my country he’d be in jail on some trumped up charges or slipped a nuclear cocktail by some cutie. Hey, not bad, eh, ‘trumped up’ charges?”
“You’ve got the language down, Vlad.”
“What’s the matter with you, Shonbrun? This doesn’t upset you?”
“Sure it does, but I don’t believe there are enough crazies to get him elected, and he’ll fade back into the woodwork when he or the country gets bored with his rantings. Or maybe the Mexican mafia will pay him a visit.
Well I better be going, Vlad. See you around.”
“Trumpfinger!”
“How’s that?”
“That’s what I’m going to call him.”
He started singing.
“Trumpfinger, he’s the man, the man with the Midas hair, he don’t care.” Hey that’s pretty good, huh?”
“Yeah, not bad, maybe needs a little work. See you around, Vlad.”
“Yeah, see you, Shonbrun,” he said distractedly, and began singing again as I left.
“Trumpfinger, on the rise, he’s the moron’s man, with a plan.”
