I got a call yesterday from my college frat buddy, now successful pollster and political consultant, Phil A. “Buster” Mignon. Buster, who is a real-life doppelganger for White House Chief Strategist, Stevie Wonder O’Bannon, said his new client, the Obama community organizers group, OFA (Organizers Fighting America), was building a new tunnel connecting New Jersey and Staten Island. He wanted me to join him at the groundbreaking the next morning on the Perth Attaboy waterfront.
He couldn’t have called at a worse time.
Secretary of State T. Rex Tillerson and I were pinned down behind a rusted-out 1978 Volkswagen Beetle on a side street near the capitol building in Mexico City, taking heavy fire from Mexican President Enrique Pequeño Nieto and Mexican cell phone magnate and New York Times cartel operator, Carlos Slim Fast.
“Where’s that frackin’ General?” T. Rex demanded, his eyes searching for the armor-plated Mini Cooper transporting Homeland Security head General John F. Kelly. “He was supposed to pick us up a frackin’ hour ago.”
T. Rex, General Kelly, and I were in the Mexican capital for bilateral talks on US/Mexico relations in general, and specifically whether Mexico was going to pay for Big D’s beautiful border wall in pesos or dollars. The talks ended poorly, but prior to ambushing T. Rex and me, our hosts did arrange for an eight-piece mariachi band to surround our table, place a giant sombrero on the General’s head, and sing “Feliz Cumpleaños” while delivering a rum-soaked flaming sopapilla and flan dessert.
“I’ll be at the groundbreaking if I can, Buster,” I yelled into my cell phone, just as an RPG exploded against the wall of the quaint adobe building behind us decorated entirely in Chiclets.
“There he is,” T. Rex screamed, pointing at an Exxon tanker truck barreling down the narrow street. “About frackin’ time.”
We jumped into the cab of the transport truck and General Kelly gunned it, easily outrunning Carlos Slim Fast waddling after us, shaking his meaty paw.
“Too frackin’ close for comfort,” T. Rex said.
After the General drove the Exxon tanker truck into the belly of a C-5 transport on the main grass landing strip at the Mexico City airport, we took off for home. I caught a few winks in my condo on exclusive Plum Island and joined Buster in Perth Attaboy for the tunnel groundbreaking the next morning.
There was a large, angry crowd of thousands at the waterfront location. Some wore masks of Sacco and Vanzetti, others of Bill “O’Bomb’em” Ayers. There was a sprinkling of Demagogue Party celebrities—massive Michael “Feed Me” Moore; Demagogue National Committee chairman and former Labor Department head Thomas “Red” Perez and deputy chairman MN Congressman Keith “Muhammad” Ellison; and Anthony “All Beef” Weiner, wearing nothing but sheer tighty-whities and a “HUMA for DUMA” bumper sticker on his hairless chest.
Buster nudged me when a slightly-built man with a Vladimir Lenin goatee and rimless glasses stepped up on the riser and held a bullhorn to his mouth.
“That’s Sol Relentsky Jr.,” Buster said. “He’s a big deal with OFA.”
“Welcome, comrades,” Relentsky said through the bullhorn, eliciting a furious chorus of boos and catcalls.
“Are they mad at him?” I asked.
“They love him,” Buster said. “But they are programmed to react to everyone with artificially stimulated conflict, no matter what the person says. It’s one of the principles in Sol’s dad’s book on well-being, Rules for Free Radicals.”
“Did anyone here bring a shovel?” Relentsky barked through the bullhorn.
“Racist!” the crowd roared. “No shovel! No peace.”
“Do we have an engineer in the crowd?” Sol asked. “Any tools?”
“Engineers are misogynist racist fascists!” they yelled. “Say no to capitalist tools!”
“Anyone here today ever made or built anything?” he asked.
“Earth rapist!” the crowd screamed. “Hell, no! We won’t hoe!”
“How are they going to build their tunnel?” I asked Buster, pulling him out of the crowd. “They don’t have any equipment or plans.”
“That’s the beauty of OFA,” Buster said. “These organizers don’t produce anything. They’re parasitic, just like trial lawyers, college professors, and lobbyists. They’ve never invented, built, or developed anything. George Sore Loser, the former Hungarian, BowelMoveOn.org, the ACLU (American Crackpot Lawyers Unhinged), or Black Knives Matter pay these gangsters to show up and protest and scream, then bus them out. For most of them, it’s the only paying job they’ve ever had.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a black Tesla speeding silently toward us. I pulled Buster out of the way just in time.
“You saved my life,” Buster sputtered as we watched the Tesla sail off the waterfront into the icy water of Arthur Kill. “Who was that? Who would want to run me down?”
“Looks like…,” I said, watching three men climb through the floating Tesla’s moon roof, “It is. It’s….”
Stay tuned for the next episode: The Axis of Weevils