Who are you going to believe, me or Snopes?
Caucus moderator: “Is this thing on? Testing, testing 1 2 3. We begin bombing in five minutes.”
Silence, then a few boos. Someone laughs but quickly stops, embarrassed to be the only one.
“Tough crowd. You know, I killed ’em in New Hampshire. Moving right along, it’s time to start counting. OK, here we go…”
Mild commotion. Discontent is afoot.
Voice in the crowd: “Some people don’t speak English. Can we have a Spanish translator with you?”
“Sure. First person on the stage that hablas español gets to do it.”
[Functionary walks up on stage, whispers “Well I liked your joke.”]
There’s a buzz as people turn to their neighors—“Do you speak Spanish?” “No, I took it French in high school,” etc.
Susan Sarandon is about to offer up her phone for Google Translate when an all-too-familiar voice rings out:
“Fuck this shit! I speak Spanish!”
There are screams and moans. Somebody faints when the truth hits them. Unfortunately none of this was captured on camera.
It’s Donald Trump!
Nobody recognized him because he has been sitting quietly in his seat pretending to read a book (One Hundred Years of Solitude), knowing it would be good cover.
Trump carefully marks his nonexistent place in the book, then stands up and clears his throat: “You probably wonder what I’m doing here,” he says to a chorus of catcalls.
“I know Democrats are like a herd of cats, but let’s not be catcallers,” says the moderator to general confusion.
Someone else joins him at the table but they don’t have a part to play in this drama. It will later transpire they’re at the wrong table anyway.
Trump continues: “I’m not the evil one-dimensional cartoon character you all seem to think I am. I’m complex, multifaceted. Sure, I can imagine my own daughter as a highly desirable piece of ass I’d like to date. But the media never reports on my philosophical side.
“For example, the wall I propose to build is a metaphor meant to remind us of the walls we construct in a heart-wrenching bid to protect ourselves from truly understanding and communing with each other.
“Sure, it will also keep foreign scum out, but that’s win-win!”
While Trump is talking, Dolores Huerta approaches the group up front and offers to translate.
“Unfortunately I can understand Mr. Trump just fine,” says the moderator.
Perturbed by the sudden lack of attention, Trump lets fly an amazingly fluent string of curses in perfect Spanish. He doesn’t actually know the language, but his housekeeper says these things to him all the time, and he’s smart enough to know they aren’t compliments.
“English only!” shouts a Bernie Sanders supporter, anxious not to offend any Spanish speakers.
“Putain that, écoutons ca en français,” says someone who’s obviously using Google Translate, badly.
The sudden influx of multiculturalism pushes Trump to the next level of rage. He flings One Hundred Years of Solitude at nobody in particular, but it catches Sarandon squarely in the face.
“Oops,” says Trump, laughing hysterically. “Well, at least it will improve your looks.”
There’s an audible gasp. Or inaudible, as the case may be. “Dead man walking,” a crowd of onlookers begins to chant.
Trump’s eyes go wild, like a trapped animal’s. His toupee* scampers off his head in fright. He searches frantically for an exit.
Meanwhile the group up front is frozen in indecision about how to proceed without appearing too partisan on one hand, or uncaring for non-English speakers on the other.
Rock paper scissors is suggested, though to what end nobody knows. There is also disagreement on whether rock would win in a truly just society.
To add to the confusion, two alley cats have slipped into the venue and loudly begin to have sex, their shrieks nearly indistinguishable from Trump’s.
At this point you’d think all hell would really break loose, but rather than a climax of pandemonium, events reach an almost satisfying closure.
It is unanimously agreed that for the most part caucus rules may as well be written in Swahili for all the sense they make. Furthermore, whoever doesn’t come in first will probably find a way to claim a victory of sorts.
As the group disperses, the cats also finish with their business and head out, flicking their tails over the prone body of Trump.
He’s playing dead, feverishly composing tweets in his head until the coast is clear. Sarandon has retrieved One Hundred Years of Solitude and discovered the book jacket was merely covering a copy of 50 Shades of Grey.
His toupee is already outside talking to reporters.
. . .
* Yes, he wears one. Who are you going to believe, me or Trump?