WHY NOT? / Et Tu Ted: End of the Trump Era

As loath as I am to relate stories that may be lacking in veracity, I feel compelled to share this narrative. Very recently, an acquaintance of mine known as Travis Redfish approached me with a tale so astonishing, I knew not whether to laugh or cry. This was just the kind of mess the dubious Redfish could be mixed up in. He is a man of extreme imagination and moderate probity. That is why I recorded his exact words and bring them to you now — unedited. True? False? You be the judge.

WARNING: What follows may not be suitable material for children or sensitive adults!

“Last week I done jumped into the deep end and found myself in way over my head. It really wasn’t my fault. I got involved because my so-called pal, Juan The Weasel, knew a guy that knows a guy that drinks with a guy who does some snoop work for some big-wigs in our nation’s capital. Anyhow, them boys heard about how me and my computer-whiz buddy, M.M., been a-foolin’ round makin’ some little ol’ firearms on a 3-D printer.

So, the first thang I know, I be blindfolded and ridin’ in the back of a Fancy-ass Limoh-zeen with a suitcase plumb full of my homemade pistols. We started out in beautiful downtown Odessa, Texas and I’m pretty sure we went through Goldsmith. That’s when one of them apes who had blindfolded me shot me full of some kinda way-too-strong-medicine and I went way-too-floaty to care ‘bout much else ‘cept not fallin’ over on my face. Got to admit, that drug weren’t too B-A-D. I tried askin’ Ape #2 about it, but he wasn’t no kinda friendly. I do know his boot was steel-toed. I reckoned they was some kinda Cartel or somethin’.

No idea how long we drove fore they manhandled me out of the vehicle and plopped me down on a tile floor. My blindfold had come loose and I was able to peek out a bit. The tile floor was in the patio of a ranchero house a tad smaller than AT&T Stadium. The surrounding countryside looked a bit too green to be West Texas. And the folks eating BBQ in the patio looked way too important to be involved with a humble cit-zen such as myself.

“Is there any precedent for the action we are contemplating?” The voice sounded familiar.

“Of course. A group of patriotic Senators assassinated Caesar.”

“Some Senators killed Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer?” I could see the speaker was Senator Marco Rubio. “Bet it was Feinstein. No, probably Rand Paul. He doesn’t act like an animal lover.”

“Not Cesar Millan, you nincompoop!” That was Ted Cruz.

“The old comic Sid Caesar?”

The entire group shook their heads.

“Caesar Romero? No wait, I got it — Julius Caesar, right?”

The dignitaries ignored him as they looked through my suitcase and passed around the 3-D pistols. I recognized Senator Cruz as the one waving a .38. “How do we know these toys work?”

“Only one way to find out.” I couldn’t see the speaker, but I recognized that soft southern drawl. It was Attorney General Jeff Sessions. A shot rang out. “Ooops.” Again it was Sessions.

A body crashed to the floor. The bloody face of one of my favorite actors, Chuck Norris, was starin’ straight at me. Chuck had a head wound, but he was still breathing. Before I could tell him how much I loved “Walker, Texas Ranger,” One of the apes carried him out of the room.

“Nice shot, Jeff. Guess that question just got answered,” volunteered none other than Nancy Pelosi. I could just make out the House Minority Leader yuckin’ it up with Senator Marco Rubio, someone in ornate religious vestments and former FBI Director James Comey.

“So who leads this assault? Somebody has to fire the first shot,” asked Ted Cruz.

“It’s gotta be you, Ted,” responded Rubio.

“Why me?”

“Because your family has experience in these things. After all, your father killed President Kennedy.”

“That’s a damned lie!” screamed Cruz while everyone howled with laughter. “That’s what HE said in the campaign. It’s a damned lie. Wait, which Kennedy?”

“Well, we sure as hell don’t want Dick Cheney anywhere near a gun!” The witty remark by Senator Susan Collins increased the laughter.

Oliver North quickly spoke up. “If there is going to be shooting, the NRA needs to lead the way.”

Someone shouted, “Wish McCain coulda been here!”

An argument broke out with everyone talkin’ at once. I couldn’t make out who was saying what. Then from a shadow across the patio came a cough. There was immediate silence. Then the shadow spoke.

“It is most important that our actions are seen as just. And that we are unified during the chaos that shall follow. The Supreme Leader served us well for a spell, but let’s face it, the bloated madman has gotten too big for his designer britches. And his impeachment would be bad for business.”

“That’s right,” volunteered Betsy De Vos. “And while we’re at it, why are we spending so much money on books for kids who can’t read, when we could spend it on football players who need to learn the National Anthem?”

Ignoring her, Rupert Murdock whined, “But Mr. Koch. None of us want that sanctimonious Pence to be President.”

The Shadow drew a deep breath, “Now, now children. We can endure Pence for a few months. Then I’ll purchase us a new President. One of you, perhaps? “

Everyone in the room discreetly glanced at everyone else.

Ted Cruz stood with one foot on my head while he whispered to himself. Surely I will be the Chosen One. Rubio is too “Little Marco.” Sessions is too “Way down South in Dixie.” Rand Paul is too “Ayn Rand.” At long last, vengeance shall be mine. I’ll grind that blob of a bully into dust!

To emphasize his point, Cruz ground his shoe into my ear. “We’ll soon see who is the lying dog, and who is the Alpha Bitch. The United States of Cruz will —” He paused with a new thought, bashing my nose with his heel as he turned suddenly while blurtin' out, “But Mr. Koch, how can Pence be stopped? He’ll have the nation’s sympathy and he’s too clean for scandal. Danged puritan!”

“Do not fret, my little Canadian pet. My brother and I have it covered. A Pence Presidency will rally the evangelicals and other crazies to our side. Then, just before the next convention…THIS!”

Suddenly the patio was encased in darkness. Out of nowhere a life-sized picture was projected. Slowly it came into focus, revealing Vice-President Pence havin’ intimate relations with a goat.

“That can’t be real?” asked Sessions. “Can it?”

Koch chuckled, “If the Attorney General of the United States of America has to ask, then it is real enough. If not for the fact that we all find the Supreme Leader so unlikable, this would be a sad time for us and the nation. But we cannot abide a Dictator who is out of control. Now Nancy, I appreciate your being here. A Democrat in our midst gives a legitimacy to our cause. But —”

“I just figured it was important to have someone here whom you don’t own.”

“How very noble. By the way, I was considering a 10-million-dollar grant to help with your struggle to keep your position in the House. No strings attached, of course.”

Nancy didn’t say no.

Almost before I knew it, I was wearin’ a white jacket and pushin’ a cart into the Penthouse Suite of Trump Tower in New York City. It was a bit swank. On the cart was an enormous phallus-shaped cake engraved with “Sock It To ‘Em Donald!”

Everyone from the patio gathering was there, plus a few dozen other faces I’d seen on Fox News and CNN. Sean Hannity, the loudest voice in the room, was led out by Rupert Murdock for an important conference downstairs. Susan Collins maneuvered General Kelly out of the room on some pretense or other.

Then the Supreme Leader himself entered the room. Everyone started to sing “Hail to the Chief,” but nobody knew the words. Are there any?

The Supreme Leader was smilin’ and swaggerin’ until he spotted Michael Cohen and Paul Manafort comin’ in a side entrance, handcuffed to James Comey. America’s Sheriff and America’s Mayor were sneakin’ out the same door.

Suddenly all the folks from the patio meeting were greedily tearin’ into the phallus and pullin’ out my 3-D pistols, undetected by the elaborate system of metal detectors. Jeff Sessions was the first to emerge with a pistol. He immediately shot Scott Baio in the foot.

All was chaos!

Oliver North just missed shooting Marco Rubio. Melania began gigglin’ uncontrollably. Betsy De Vos slapped her. “Snap out of it, foreign bitch!”

Melania stared at De Vos for a second, then floored her with a haymaker worthy of a hockey player. “That’s Foreign First Lady Bitch to you, bitch!”

Ted Cruz advanced toward the Supreme Leader. “You too, Ted?” asked the Leader in astonishment. Ted fired point blank into the Supreme Leader’s face.

Don’t know who was more surprised, the Supreme Leader or Cruz, when the gun squirted water up the Leader’s nose. I had told them to double check the guns. M.M. always liked to put a wildcard in the deck. But nobody ever listens to old Redfish.

Pelosi’s pistol performed perfectly. However, her aim was a bit off. Her wayward shots destroyed a golden chandelier, sendin’ shards of gold and glass crashing down on the Supreme Leader while he attempted to crawl under the cake cart.

Somehow. Some way. At some time … Order was restored.

The Supreme Leader — The Big Dealer — bargained for his life. He agreed not to seek reelection if either his daughter or Steven Seagal would be assured of second spot on the ticket.

Champagne was popped. Sounds of Kanye West blasted from the state-of-the-art sound system. Celebrities began driftin’ in to the party. Various Kardashians found advantageous places to pose. Ted Nugent searched for someone who knew who he was. Rubio slow-danced with Kellyanne Conway. Oliver North engaged Sarah Sanders in something resemblin’ a Tango. Cruz danced with Melania, who turned it into a dirty dance. A very dirty dance. Ivanka twisted and twerked with Roy Moore. The Attorney General was being taught the boogaloo by Scott Baio, who struggled with a cane and a huge ice pack on his wounded foot. The Supreme Leader reclined beneath the cart, eatin’ cake crumbs while attempting to make out with Hope Hicks and Stormy Daniels simultaneously.

In the confusion, I slipped out and headed to the elevator. When the elevator door opened, I thought it was a Standard Poodle standin’ with the two giants and the dwarf. Then I realized the dwarf was Vladimir Putin and the poodle was a goat. He led the goat toward the party, but not before he gave me a Dracula smile that almost froze my heart!

Free at last, I traveled directly to my favorite journalist with this report. This is Travis Redfish, signin’ off for what may be the last time.”

So there you have it. An improbable tale told by a probable lunatic. Was Redfish fibbing? hallucinating? (he has been known to experiment with the bulbs of a certain mystic cactus) or telling the truth? I really don’t know. But consider this: neither Redfish nor Chuck Norris has been seen since Travis informed me of his adventure. Make of it what you will. However, if Ivanka or Seagal winds up running for Vice-President, remember you heard it here first!

_________________________

James BigBoy Medlin © 2018

James BigBoy Medlin was the sports writer for the original Austin Sun. His column was called "Why Not?"

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