February 1, 2018P2P
I was at the Post Office the other day buying some Forever stamps (resisting the urge to ask what the government meant by Forever) when I ran into my old friend, our resident curmudgeon, Pete the Pissed.
“What’s up, good fellow?” I asked.
“I’m doing it,” Pete said. “Put if off long enough.”
“As in?” I said.
“Writing the big fellow there in the White house,” he said. “I do believe he needs a little help.”
“President Trump,” I said.
“Yessir,” he said.
“Could I …?”
“Sure you can,” he said. “I’m gonna go get one of them Priority Mail envelopes.”
So here’s what Pete wrote:
Since we’re both pretty close in age (thus, the dreaded, older white male), pretty successful in our respective realms, with a strong tendency to articulate whatever pops into our head; since we are, thus, “one of the boys,” a little overweight and fond of our hair, I thought you might appreciate a little advice, kindly meant.
Consider women, which I know you do. We came of age with Playboy and learned that a woman’s place was not in the home, but on our lap, preferably naked. Their value wasn’t much different from those stereos, cameras, and cars, the ads of which earned Uncle Hugh a lot of money. We were empowered, too, to think of women as a commodity to be purchased, whether with money or affection or love; still, a thing, an object. That’s a pretty shallow view but one which, as teens, we could be expected to grow out of and to view women as equal partners in working through both the joys and the struggles of life. Some of us did that, some of us didn’t. You might want to see how your vaunted base stands on that issue, or maybe you just need to look in the mirror.
Speaking of women – really, Don, it’s time to let Clinton go. She had the better numbers, you had the right numbers so you won. If she truly needs investigating, there are those authorized to do that. You, however, need to vacate that scene. It’s like you’re seeking revenge on a bad snowstorm that’s long since melted away and it demeans you something fierce.
Don, all presidents become very concerned about their legacy, about what they have done, and especially about how history will view them. Yes, your friends, your base of the disheartened, disenfranchised, and disillusioned cheer you at your many rallies, but you have to understand they are not the ones reading the history books and they certainly are not the ones writing them. They will disappear once you are out of office and you will then be at the mercy of those so-called fake people: the newspeople, archivists, historians, and pundits you so freely castigate. You need better friends, dude.
Speaking of which, could you just get rid of that “fake news” phrase? Really, if you hate the media all that much do you really think they’re talented enough to create all those things you call fake? Besides, human nature being what it is, whenever you call something fake we all just assume the opposite is true. Truth, you know, can be a fussy bugger.
Which leads me to think there’s a lot to be said about truth that I think you might have missed. We all learned in second grade that your lies will always catch up to you. Yes, you can deny you ever made that claim about grabbing women by the crotch, but it was recorded, my friend. Yes, you can deny that you referred to Haiti and much of Africa as shithole countries, but there were witnesses, man, including Senator Dick Durbin who’s never been known to lie about anything (your Republican pal, Senator Lindsay Graham, even praised Durbin for outing you on that nasty comment). Yes, you can say that Hillary Clinton won the popular vote because of fraud, but practically every secretary of state in the country said they had little evidence of any voter fraud. Yes, you can say you’ve been on the cover of Time Magazine (eleven times) more than any other president, but you’re not even close to Richard Nixon (fifty-five times).
Yes, Yes, Yes, big boy – Americans know that politicians lie, but they don’t expect it to be such that news organizations on the right and the left keep a running tally of the untruths. Depending on the source, you’re between twelve-hundred and two-thousand verifiable lies in your first year in office.
By the way, my plump friend, a little less time on the golf course (you’ve already exceeded Obama’s time on the links and people do remember how you criticized him for that) and a little more time in the gym might help to wash away that orange pallor that looks so freaky.
Here’s the big rub. You’ve got that old man’s sense of infinite wisdom where you think you know everything just because you’ve been on the planet longer than most, and, worse yet, you do that damned Twitter thing because you think we’re hanging on every word you spew out. We’re not. We’re just glad you’re not driving.
“Oh, damn,” Pete said as he came back with his envelope.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“They say he doesn’t read,” Pete said. “Or that he can’t read. I don’t know.”
“Maybe someone will read it to him,” I said.
“Maybe so,” Pete said. “Maybe so.”
G.K. Wuori © 2018
Photoillustration by the author