My candidacy for the Republican presidential nomination, which so many pundits have dismissed as quixotic, was vividly affirmed in a completely unexpected way earlier this week when my fellow candidate Donald J. Trump, shown in some polls to be many voters’ second choice, behind only Jeb Bush, reached out to me.
I recognized his voice immediately when he telephoned me. Alone among my rivals, he has made no attempt to prettify his speech, which many linguists have noted is nearly indistinguishable from that of the working classes of his bioregion. No puller of punches, he said he hoped to talk me into withdrawing from the race, and supporting his own candidacy. He suggested we have lunch together in Las Vegas, where he owns a hotel whose exterior windows are gilded in gold. He would send one of his fleet of private jets for me. “No,” I said, “I’ll fly commercial.” He asked if I would at least allow him to pay for my airfare. I said I would not, but that he could pay for lunch if he insisted. He said he would fly the late Auguste Escoffier over from France to cook for us, or Guy Fieri. I was flattered by how hard he seemed to be trying to impress me.
There was a former Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition cover girl in an alluringly form-fitting chaffeuse (female chauffeur, if I remember the high school French I never took) uniform waiting for me at the airport. Her lovely cyan eyes said, “You can have me,” but I felt ethically compelled to rent a car instead, and opted for my customary sub-compact. I am a humble person, and believe my humbleness is one of the things that has most endeared me to voters.
In person, Don, as he invited me to call him, turned out to be surprisingly humble and understated himself, lacking any trace of the bluster and fervent stupidity that characterize his televised persona. I was strangely flattered by his not having bothered to have his remarkable coiffure assembled before my arrival. Dressed in a denim work shirt, Wranglers, and Dior loafers without socks, he was reading a dogearred copy of Madame Bovary as I was ushered into his remarkable penthouse suite. “I’ve tried the whole Kindle thing,” he said apologetically as we shook hands, “but there’s just something induplicably pleasurable about holding an actual book in one’s hands.” I was surprised to learn that Flaubert and Proust are two of his four favorite authors, the others being Joyce Carol Oates and of course Steven King, of whom he said, “He’s no prose stylist, but I commonly find his stories intriguing.” He offered me a chilled Coors, right in the bottle.
As we chatted about how both we, the Republican party, and the American people as a whole would benefit from my withdrawing from the race, and about the likelihood or lack thereof of my supporters boarding Don’s bandwagon rather than Bernie Sanders’, his beautiful wife Melanoma and their son came home laboring under the weight of several bags of Walmart groceries. Melanoma — am I getting that right (I’m frightful at names!) — was smaller than I’d expected, but with conspicuously large breasts offset by a tiny waist. She and Don gave each other little pecks on the cheek, and addressed each other as hon. After she introduced their son, whose name I understood to be Barron, as Buddy. Don explained that his brand consultants had suggested the name, after Barron’s magazine (they’d rejected Forbes as insufficiently manly), but that nobody ever called the lad anything but Buddy, or The Budster.
After we’d chatted for around 40 minutes, one of my host’s assistants came in to remind him of another appointment, apparently due to begin in minutes. I was surprised by her addressing him as Don. Their mutual affection was palpable, as it seemed to be between Trump and all his employees. He asked if I’d like another Coors, and asked, eyes all a-twinkle, how much it would cost him to get me to withdraw from the race. “A couple of billion ought to do the trick,” I said puckishly.
He frowned thoughtfully (I am pleased to report that, in private, he never pouts as he does so often in photos), and sighed, “Let me get with my accountants.” I said I’d only been kidding, and that I intended to remain in the race as long as there was even one Republican out there who continued to believe in me. He punched me fraternally in the shoulder, shook his head in embarrassment, and said, “You got me!”
We rose. I offered him my hand, but my hand would no longer suffice. What would suffice was a big bro-hug. The man’s really warm!
Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t play to win. As I waited for the elevator, two very large men in Trump baseball caps appeared. The more articulate said, “Would you come with us, please, sir?” Having just had my right shoulder re-replaced, I didn’t think I should try to fight them off, and complied. They took me down one flight of stairs and threw me out the living room window of a luxury suite on the 63rd floor. I am writing this from the afterlife.
Together, we can!