[My apologies to those about to be offended]
It started slowly with me being mistaken for a Republican psychiatrist by the Secret Service. That's an easy mistake to make. I'm white, male, and exit mental health facilities by walking backwards.
So Homeland Security whips me off a street corner near the White House. I try to explain my motivations behind my blogs posts and that whole thing with the backpack in the public meeting. No one really seems to listen. Most of them have one hand covering an ear while talking to their jacket cuff, keeping that hand clenched.
So I sit back in the plush leather seat of the limo and focus on giving my captors the militant, 'I'll never talk' stare. I'm tough. I'm from Indiana and there's nothing but corn there. No body talks to the corn. I'm holding my own. Mentally I'm repeating the Hoosier secret mantra, "I am the rogue and the tassel."
They break me quickly, like a twig with the classic ploy, "Would you like some Dansani?"
That's who it works. Without thinking, I'm suddenly saying, "Yes." Yes to everything with a thoughtful, little Sure thrown in.
So, in the middle of my one worded conversation, which never touches on that backpack thing, Wrist Talker 3 throws a black bag over my head. My fate seems sealed. It's a rendition to a third world prison.
I don't see the point in the black hood. I can hear the planes landing and taking off. Just as I start mouth breathing, I smell jasim. Sweet. Calming. Sleep inducing. Coma causing, Jasim scented black bag gas. I'm out.
I dream of hands on my body. A tape measure sizing me up for an orange suit. I feel the little footies placed on my feet. My vision returns, blurry. The world seems to swim. I see my mirror image. Gods! I look like Ivanka Trump complete with a sleeveless dress. In this dream, Ivanka stands beside me, her image in the mirror. We look like twins! Who knew?
She says something to Wrist Talker 4 who wears sunglasses. "There's no fracken way I'll ever sit in a chair after Daddy has been sitting in it. Why can't someone else in the family go? How about Tommy the Tongue, or Louie the lip? What about you? You go. If this is the best body double, Republican psychiatrist on the planet, he's going in."
Two guys lift me to my feet and frog march me through a door. The lights are too bright but I see a fat man with an orange face rise from a chair. I'm thrust into the chair. The chair stinks. The seat feels wet on my butt. Maybe they should have added a girdle to my outfit. I smile but instantly, I'm challenged. Maybe in Italian.
"What the fuck is going on here? Who the fuck is this?"
I hear myself breaking the deadly silence, "My name is Ben Sobel... -lioni. Ben Sobellioni. I'm also known as, uh, Benny the Groin, Sammy the Schnazz, Elmer the Fudd, Tubby the Tuba, and once as Miss Phyllis Levine."
Someone coughs. I hear the whispers. "It's Trump's daughter."
The blond guy with no shirt mutters in a bad Russian accent, "Bitch."
I give him the Hoosier stare and say, "Now is that polite? Is that nice? I'm tryin' to be nice over here. Do I go up to you and say, 'Hey, you're so-and-so, the Hard-On?'"
I hear some German woman shouting. There's a magic voice in my ear, translating. "What qualifies her to sit at this table. What does she know about world events?"
"I know 1957 was a big year. The Russians put that Sputnik into outer space, the Dodgers played their last game at Ebbets Field to say goodbye to Brooklyn, that guy shot Frank Costello in the head, and missed, and the Gallo brothers whacked Albert Anastasia in the barber shop of the Sheraton View hotel. It was total chaos. With Anastasia out of the way, Vito Genovese figures he's the big boss. But Carlo Gambino and Joe Bananas, they had other ideas. So they called a meeting. A big meeting. Huge! Bigly!"
Into the silent pause, I hear a Canadian voice. Or, what I think is a Canadian voice. In my peripheral vision, I see a good looking man, charming, well dressed. He smiles as he talks.
"Yes. Those are the bonafides we all expect, perhaps demand, for a Trump begat woman, raised in the filth of New York City, denied access to fresh air and the opportunity for good healthcare access."
A conversation starts at the far end of the table. The German woman asks me about the sleeveless dress. A Russian voice asks for more vodka. I smile at the world's leaders. I know where I am. This is the G20 meeting or the G20 minus One. Through the Jasmine haze, I remember who I am. The world stage beckons my Liberal voice, I cry out, "Covfefe!"
They ignore me.
Defeated, even in this dream world, I excuse myself. Wrist Talker 5 helps me from my chair. I rise with a wet butt but the chair had dried. The room smells better. Hands guide me through the door. The Ivanka Trump image confronts me.
"You talk to anyone about this you ... you motherfucker I'll fuckin' cut your fuckin' balls off I'll shove them up your fuckin' ass, I'll fuckin' bury you, I'll put fuckin' ice picks in your eyes, I'll chop your fuckin' eyeballs, I'll send them to your fuckin' family so they can eat 'em for dessert. You understand me?"
"You don't hear the word No a lot, do you?"
"Yeah. I hear it all the time but it's more like, 'No. Please. No.' So here's what I think you're going to do. See Wrist Talker 6? I would do whatever he says. If he wants you to talk, talk. I would get on all fours and bark like a dog. I would do whatever it takes. Smoke some joints! Drink some wine! Whatever it is, ... Where could you run? This is the time to be happy! Life is just too short!"
The world goes black and Jasmine tickles my nose. I wake up on a bench in Lafayette Park. My butt is still wet. The blonde wig slipped to one side. The Jasmine smells like piss. There's a taxi driver waving to he. I struggle over to his cab and lean in the window.
"Don't worry about it," He says. "Happens about once a month. Some straight white dressed like Ivanka Trump, sitting on that bench. Tourists used to take pictures of them. Once the D.C. police arrested one. Nothing happens."
I stutter, "W w what should I do?"
"Don't worry about it. Get in the cab. I'll drop you at a bar. Have a few drinks. And, next time ... ask for the girdle."
My apologies to Paul Vitti and Analyze This.