It’s a clown car, yellow and red and blue. Clowns hopping in, clowns tumbling out. Clowns ripping around the car with their hair on fire.
No, wait. It’s the Trump Administration. At last count, 29 senior aides have resigned or been fired. No one in Washington wants to be taken for a ride in Trump’s clown car. No one wants to risk catching cooties by working in the White House. Who can keep up? Who’s going to babysit Trump now that Hope Hicks has surrendered? “Little white lies” indeed. Who’s going to pull us from the brink of Trump’s disastrous trade moves? Bye Bye, Gary. So long, Rex.
I had a dream last night.
I got a call at 2:30 a.m. from someone who introduced himself as John Kelly, asking if I’d please consider working in the White House.
Thinking I was being punked, I chuckled and said, “Has he finally run out of hookers?”
“No, ma’am, he hasn’t. And that’s not funny.”
“Uh, is this THE John Kelly?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“I’m sure you have the wrong number.”
“No, ma’am, we don’t. We’re the government. We know stuff.”
“Well, whassup, General?”
“We’d like you to come work for us.”
“Well, if it’s not as a hooker, what did you have in mind?”
“We need your management skills.”
“How did you know I once worked in management?”
“We’re the government. We know stuff. We want you for a special position.”
“What does that mean?”
“Whatever I say it means.”
“Are you aware I’m a Democract?”
“No problem.”
“Are you aware I can’t stand President Trump?”
“No problem.”
“What about a security clearance? I once traveled to North Korea. Once smoked marijuana, didn’t inhale, but I lit up.”
“No problem.”
“What’s the pay?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Well, let me think about it. Are you sure there’s no one else who can do this job?”
“Certain. We’re sending a plane for you right now.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ve ever sexually harassed someone or beat them up?”
“No. We don’t care.”
“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m honest and would never take a private jet at taxpayer’s expense if I didn’t absolutely have to?”
“No. We don’t care.”
“What about talking with foreigners, say, a Russian or two?”
“Again. We don’t care.”
“Are you really that desperate?”
“Does a bear sh*t in the woods?”
“What if I want to change my gender? Would there be a bathroom for me?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I dunno—maybe I’m bored with being a woman—you know, groped, harassed, raped, paid less—that kind of thing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, but no, not a problem. We need to hire more chicks, er, I mean broads, er I mean women. We’d prefer you’d stay that way.”
At that, I woke up, safe in the embrace of my own bed, my four cats and my sweetheart. But, wait— what’s that clown nose doing on Steve’s face?
What a nightmare.
Rosie Sorenson is a humor writer in the San Francisco Bay Area. You can contact her at: RosieSorenson29@yahoo.com
From The Progressive Populist, April 1, 2018
Blog | Current Issue | Back Issues | Essays | Links
About the Progressive Populist | How to Subscribe | How to Contact Us
PO Box 819, Manchaca TX 78652