Meet Donald Trump’s newest challenger.
That’s right. You read it here first.
Look at the facts. The candidate leading the G.O.P. pack right now is a megalomaniac who bleaches his hair bright orange. He’s blundered his way through several failed businesses and has filed for bankruptcy four times. He rambles incoherently without a script each time he steps in front of a camera. What he says often offends millions of people. And, he’s wasted half of his life hanging out inside casinos.
If those are credentials for the most important job in the world, then I don’t just have a fighting chance. Hell, with my resume that should make me the frontrunner.
Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby announce my candidacy for President of the United States….as a Republican.\
I woke up this bright Sunday morning to the following question:
“When are we going to paint the house?”
Huh? What? Am I having a nightmare?
“When are we going to paint the house?” Marieta asked.
Indeed, this was a nightmare. Only real.
I was inclined to answer “sometime this century,” and then roll over and go back to sleep. But I knew I couldn’t get out of the discussion so easy.
“The walls look perfectly fine to me,” I replied. “Look, there’s not a scratch on them. Why do we need to paint the walls?”
With poker commentator Dave Tuchman on our fast boat to nowhere, out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
My morning began with a mouthful of ants.
By mid-afternoon, on a fast boat to nowhere out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, I rescued a dead fish.
Ten hours, one bottle of cheap wine, and a dozen overpriced cocktails later, by 2 am, I was pacing the sidewalk out in front of a downtown art gallery like a vagrant, screaming profanities through a plate-glass window at shitty paintings being sold at mind-numbing prices.
None of which has to do anything to do with poker, of course.
Just another day on location at “Poker Night in America,” this week in Florida.
I hate small talk.
I fucking loath it.
What’s the most annoying string of words that stream from the human mouth, other than “Can I borrow money?” Consider these three words: How are you? Other variations of this persistent irritation include the following — How’s it going? What’s going on? You doing okay?
Quit it. Just stop. I’m begging you.
What’s the point of all this worthless time-wasting drivel? Do you really want to know my current state of affairs — about how furious I am right now with Nevada State Bank for hitting me with those overdraft charges, the car leaking oil, my plantar fasciitis killing me, the bookies wanting their money, and current the state of affairs in Syria?
How am I, you dare to ask? Look at me. I’m working from noon until 3 am every day inside a building that’s so cold it could refrigerate meat. I’ve got bronchitis and it’s 109 degrees outside. Oh, and one of the companies I work for is $22 billion in debt and in bankruptcy. How the fuck do you think I am?
Fact is, you don’t really care. So, don’t ask. Clam up and snap it shut. Unless you have something really important to say to me, stand clear and keep quiet. Got it?
When you do approach me, there are certain rules and procedures to follow.