yustyoking

My Night at à la Margo

The main ballroom is a sea of irresistible blondes. Only the constant clatter of helicopters overhead reminds us that this is basically a political gathering. I am the guest of Fred Limerick. Since Palm Beach County limits the number of country club memberships to 500, I am damn lucky to know someone who got in at its founding, when memberships cost a paltry $100,000 each. After January 20, the price for one of the four available slots will be a cool million. Fred, an investment banker par excellence, could pay even that amount without blinking, but for me, it’s flat-out great getting to see the ravenous denizens of Grumpworld up close and personal.

Who knows what may come of it? Fortune favors the bold. After all, Richard “Swinging Dick” Gates has become Grump’s choice for Attorney General and his chief qualification is his fawning adulation of El Grumpo.

Because so much liberal mouthwash is written daily about the 45th / 47th president, Fred has created a second persona for yours truly. Not “writer,” God forbid, but “Kevin who owns a jet ski franchise.” Interestingly, I even find myself taking orders for jet skis! I hadn’t realized how hot the jet ski market is right now. Since Kawasaki, Yamaha and Sea-Doo are manufactured in Japan, Canada and Mexico, they can all look forward to heavy tariffs in 2025. The situation will be even more dire for Chinese jet skis whose luxury and horsepower hit above their weight. Price quotes available.

“Mah name’s Pamela. Ah’m the guest of Franklin Pierce Jenkins,” a delectable blonde dish assures me, twinkling before my eyes. Me like!

Excitedly, I confide that “I have actually hung banners from highway overpasses together with a descendant of President Franklin Pierce.” I am careful not to reveal that the banners in question were for Kabala Hrdass.

“I expect to get appointed acting principal assistant under press secretary,” Pamela assures me, smiling ferociously and rubbing up against me. She smells of jasmine.

May the force be with us! May the odds be ever in our favor!  Audentes Fortuna frivoli, in a world where Grump has nominated Tulsa Oklahoma as Director of National Intelligence, anything is possible. The president has 4,000 political appointments to review and fill, of which only 1,200 require Senate confirmation. A sordid game plan quickly forms in my head: There is an island in the Caribbean which housed a Swedish colony from 1784 to 1878 and maintains vestiges of Sweden even today. I want to be named ambassador to Saint Barthélemy!          

A paid videographer takes our picture.

“Kevin! Duty calls!” Fred declares, leading me away. Having rescued me from the cheetah, he hands me a flute of champagne. “The man in the gray suit is Sandor Granger, chief headhunter for the Grump team,” he instructs me. “For him, you are a conservative speechwriter. Sandor! Here’s the dude I mentioned to you.”

Opportunity knocks. Mr. Granger and I exchange pleasantries and just as I provide a sound bite of serious commentary— “The deportation of illegal farm workers will drive up the price of fruits and veggies”— he abruptly hands me his empty glass and napkin, excuses himself and rapidly joins some people on the other side of the room.

Laughing, Fred comes over and says “Well, that could have gone better.”

I hand the glass and napkin to a waiter who is passing with a silver tray of bite-size canapés.

Fred and I went to college together. “Seriously, Kevin,” he warns me, “everyone here is on the make, so you really need to come up with a conspiracy theory or three that sing loud enough to be heard above the background noise.”

Shit! That’s gonna be hard. Going out to the lounge, I take a seat in an overstuffed chair, pull out my phone and google “Chinese malware.” I definitely like the sound of “CryptoLocker ransomware” from 2013. My adaptation: “The FuckYou virus is programmed to overload and shut down all cell phone traffic worldwide on January 22nd. It will replace your account with an AI-generated clone, running up your monthly phone bill ten-fold.”

Reentering the ballroom, I reconnoiter my surroundings. “Hi!” I greet a cluster of happy campers in tuxedos. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but overhear what you just said. The FuckYou virus is programmed to overload and shut down all cell phone traffic worldwide on January 22nd. It will replace your account with an AI-generated clone, running up your monthly phone bill ten-fold.”

“You’re kidding!” the ladies gasp. “Are you joking?”

“I got it direct from a source at the Pentagon and confirmed by yustyoking.com. The virus is expected to do $50 billion in damages and block Starlink until a heady ransom is paid to Black Bear, the Russkie hacker collective who have created it. If our government doesn’t pay up within 24 hours, the virus will unleash drone attacks on our infrastructure. Or so I’m told.”

“Sounds serious,” one of the men agrees, taking out a cigar and rolling it between his fingers. “We can make you National Science Advisor in charge of kinetic energy development. Now If you’ll excuse me, I’m going out on the terrace for a smoke.”

“Yeah, sure, great!” I tell him and suddenly, I am the life of the party, as more and more people come over to hear my predictions for the republic. “The Internet of Things is our future,” I instruct. “Repeat after me, I will not post personal data on TikTok.” Serving up platitudes and ever more outrageous B.S. by the second— latex space helmets, North Korean mind control, Eon Muskrat for president in 2028— I can feel the sweat droplets running down my back.

“Take me home,” a bitchy voice brays in my ear. Turning, I find it’s Pamela, guest of Franklin Pierce Jenkins. Standing next to me, she sparkles, laughing luxuriously. An easy way out of my new-found, risk-filled popularity, I ask everyone’s forbearance and march her to the hat check. “It’s a mink stole,” she exclaims, handing me her ticket. Pamela’s wedding ring is an enormous gold band encrusted with many diamonds. Impressive.

I tip the hat check girl behind the counter $20 and help Pamela into her stole. “Where duh y’all live?” she drawls, wrinkling her nose knowingly.

“I’m staying with a friend. George,” I tell her.

“Wish I had somebody named George offering me to stay over,” she replies meaningfully. “Where is this place you’re staying?”

“On the other side of the intracoastal waterway,” I tell her. Since Fred isn’t charging me room and board, I tip the parking attendant a cool $50. Taking the money, he grabs my ticket and hustles to deliver my late model rent-a-car.

“Ah’m vurry happily married!” Pamela chirps, hopping into the vehicle like a teenager.

“I’m glad to hear it,” I agree.

“Still, now that you’ve aroused my curiosity, I wanna see for myself where you’re stayin’.”

“This I can do,” I assure her, only to be stymied by the bridge which is up, stalling traffic. Brown and impenetrable, it looks as insurmountable as the Berlin Wall.

A local, Pamela isn’t surprised or annoyed. Turning in the bucket seat and draping a leg in my lap, she leans against her door and laughs, rubbing my crotch with her foot. “Take off my shoe,” she suggests.

I unstrap the shoe. Squirming, she twists her foot for maximum traction and velocity. Definitely fun AF, she has my full attention.

Eventually the bridge returns to Earth. Using the GPS, I drive us to Fred’s place and park on the street. “Why don’t you park in the driveway?” Pam asks.

“I want to avoid blocking the driveway. For when Fred gets home.”

“I thought his name is George.”

“George, Fred, interchangeable,” I suggest, making her laugh out loud.

“Show me the guest room,” she declares bossily.

For someone who looks like a Christmas tree decked in ornaments, her hair is like a Brillo pad and her skin feels hot and clammy. All this and we are not canoodling.

When Fred gets home, he finds us in the kitchen, drinking red wine. “Oh, yeah, you again,” he observes, only slightly amused. Later, when I prepare to drive her home, Fred tells Pamela “Once is plenty enough. Don’t come back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she huffs angrily.

I cannot say the two of them like each other.

Not among the chosen for a cabinet position in the new administration, I fly home to Maryland the very next day.