“Sir, sir!” A scrawny, unassuming intern with thick glasses pines for his excellency's attentions over some meaningless diversion. Our great commander is about to finish the 18th hole with a big win over some schmuck he paid to lose, and this little ingrate with a half-shaven uni-brow has the nerve to interrupt, throwing papers at the President with such reckless abandon.
“I'll look at it later!” Our fearless champion bellows, with triumphant resolve. Turn his attention back to his form, which is flawless, he can see victory in his grasp. “Sir, it's urgent!” This little shit just won't give up. Our marvelous warrior puts aside his 9-iron to take a reluctant look.
“So the Russians have invaded Ukraine? Why should I care?”
“Sir, the Ukraine is a key ally in Eastern Europe.” Some pointy-headed brainiac with a bald patch chimes in from the peanut gallery, attempting to ruffle our glorious white knight with “facts” about “foreign policy.”
“I don't like Eastern Europe. They're all a bunch of Socialists.” Our exuberant paragon sweeps aside such absurdities. The nation's attention ought to be focused on this final stretch.
“Sir, this necessitates some sort of response.” Pointy-head speaks again. Fearlessly our brilliant demigod reaches out towards the puny intern. “Bring me a phone. Get Putin on the line.” The little guy jumps to our handsome luminary's clever command. The sunlight glistens from his hair like an aura of powerful eminence. He continues to eye the 18th hold, mouth scrunched up with tempered resolve, eyes squinting from the evening glare.
“Sir, it's President Putin.” Our sweaty lapdog returns to his master, expecting a treat from our ever-prominent majesty. “Hello. Vlad? Yeah.... listen, Vlad this is a bad deal, you invading the Ukraine. It's just a bad deal. I wouldn't do it if I were..... Vlad, just listen...... No I don't want to hear about Craymeon Peninsula, or whatever you people call it. No.... Vlad. If you don't listen I'll have to bomb you. Do you want me to bomb you?.... Vlad? Are you there?”
He hands the phone back to four-eyes, unphased by his heated exchange. Eyeing the ball, he reaches back for his club. Allison hands it to him. Never once do his eyes shift.
Everyone sits in silence, my pen making love to my notepad the only noise outside a few chirping birds. Our inspiring leader's form is perfect as he drives the ball straight into the 18th hole. The Chinese ambassador claps feverishly. “Good job, Mister Trump!”
“I know it was a good job, ching chong.” He reaches for the phone again. “Get me the Pentagon.” The Chinese ambassador quickly realizes he is the only one smiling and clapping, and is clearly beginning to wonder if his interpreter has been entirely honest.
“Yes, Secretary Carson. Yes... listen, I'm going to need you to send some bombers to Russia.” Everyone is eyeing each other with visible concern. Not I, the only reporter allowed on our astounding orator's Wednesday golf competitions. I can see this inception of an historic decision for what it is... pure genius mingled with resolute decisiveness.
“Yes, of course I'm serious. Putin is a loser. Total loser. He'll call to apologize after, believe me. He's a complete tool.” Hanging up, he hands the phone back to the mousy poindexter. “Did you see that shot? Boy that was a great shot.”
“Sir, aren't you afraid this might start WWIII?” Needleneck spews out some annoying concern yet again.
“Don't be stupid.” What fortitude. “How much longer on my wall, bow-tie?”
A man with a bow-tie is here and apparently he's in charge of the Mexican Wall construction. “Well, sir, there have been some delays recently, but I'm sure it'll be done in time for the re-election campaign. Vice President Palin has been very confident in her speeches around the country...”
“You're boring me now. I warned you not to bore me.” He turns to the intern. “You think you could make a shot like that?”
“Oh, I don't know, Mr. President.”
“No, you do know. You can't. Maybe you could do almost as good, if you practiced... but that shot” he points towards the hole “was one in a billion.”
The Chinese ambassador interpreter speaks. “Mr. Yen would like to know if you are planning to discuss the deal at any point today.”
“Relax. I'll make a deal, and it'll be great... Why does everyone look so concerned?”
“Well, sir... I can't speak for everyone, but I believe we're all somewhat concerned over you ordering the bombing of the Russian Federation.” This guy.
“It's exactly that kind of talk that loses you a cabinet position. Now, who wants to see the pool I had installed at the White House? It's fantastic. So classy.” I know I would.
F-15's fly overhead, creating a beautiful contrail formation above the green slopes and rippled oceanfront.
“Sir, I'll get the helicopter ready immediately.” The Battle Hymn of the Republic begins to blare over the speakers.
Our manly chieftain turns to the ambassador, hands thrown up in the air, a look of hapless glee in his eyes.
“What'd I tell ya? Is this country great or what?”
He nods, smiling. Two thumbs up for our brave lion.
Do I hear sirens?
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