PUTIN AND TRUMP WALK INTO A BAR
DECEMBER 24, CHRISTMAS EVE
A CROWDED BAR IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
It’s Christmas Eve, and everyone is celebrating. The bar is hopping when Putin and Trump arrive in separate chauffeured town cars. Political bigwigs from around the world have converged on this small D.C. bar: Angela Merkel from Germany, failed presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton, plus Melania and Ivanka Trump, Huma and Anthony Wiener, Bill and Chelsea Clinton and Putin’s press secretary, Dmitri Petrov.
Melania who, like Putin, grew up in a Communist country (the small, mountainous country of Slovakia, not to be confused with the small, mountainous country of Slovenia) is strikingly beautiful, yet lonely. She towers over Putin in her model-chic outfit: a cashmere cape, matching silk blouse and wool pants, all in champagne cream. She’s wearing Louboutin stiletto boots. Suddenly, she presses her tight body against Putin and tongue kisses him. “I’m in a loveless marriage,” she tells Putin in perfect Russian. “Please, save me from this life of sadness,” she pleads. Her face remains expressionless from all the Botox, but she sounds desperate.
Putin doesn’t respond. He is secretly in love with Wendi Deng. Tragically, he is no longer allowed to see her by his security forces as it’s rumored she’s a spy. But he still carries a torch for her. The week they spent together on a friend’s glamorous, James Bond-type of yacht is etched forever in his memory. Putin’s love life hadn’t been this hot since his gymnast lover Alina practiced her Olympics routine in his bed. Putin, his head buried in a mound of cashmere from Melania’s cape, discreetly motions to a member of his security team with his hands. He needs rescuing.
Just as Putin is freed from Melania’s grip, her husband Trump quickly appears and just as quickly makes another foreign policy gaffe: “The Ukraine! I love the people of Ukraine! Great people. I can do business with Ukraine. We’re going to do GREAT business together. I just love the Ukraine!” Putin’s eyes narrow. His silvery blue eyes turn hard as ice. He takes great offense at this! The Ukraine is a thorn in Putin’s side. Ukraine broke away from its parent/child relationship with Russia and nearly became part of NATO and the EU in one fell swoop! Putin puts the blame for this squarely on the CIA. He thinks they installed a puppet president loyal to THEM. The angry leader gives orders to one of his advisors: “Move more troops and missiles to our border with Ukraine. STAT.” The official scurries off to do his bidding.
At a small table, Hillary sits across from Huma. Hillary is hunched over a plate of hot wings with blue cheese dipping sauce. Also on the table is an order of fried mac ’n’ cheese bites. And an order of chili cheese fries. Hillary likes to eat greasy Southern food when things are not going her way, a holdover from her days in Arkansas with Bill. There were plenty of rumors of affairs involving Bill to keep her up at night and, luckily for her, a local barbecue place that delivered until 3 am. She still has fond memories of their Damn Hot! wings.
Over the bar’s speakers, Prince’s “Purple Rain” starts playing. “Purple rain, purrrrr-ple ray-ayn. I only want to see you dancing in the purple rain,” Prince sings from beyond the grave. Putin weeps. He is secretly devoted to Eighties music. He cries out, “It’s too soon! Too soon….” Tears stream down his face.
“Is he CRYING?” someone asks Putin’s spokesperson, Dmitri Peskov. “No, it’s just windy in here,” he replies with mock sincerity. He’s used this line before, when Putin was re-named president of Russia and was photographed crying at an outdoor celebration. A girly cry, not a manly cry. Thus, the “it was windy out and it made his eyes water” coverup.
Huma, Hillary’s VERY personal assistant, the tall and skinny model-type with big doe eyes, is dressed for the holiday party in a Ralph Lauren outfit: cheery bright red turtleneck and wide-legged wool pants in a trendy camel color and gold strappy sandals. She sits next to Hillary, glaring at anyone who dares approach their table. She angrily swats away questions sent their way. Huma won’t let anyone talk to the failed presidential candidate. She wants Hillary all to herself!
Meanwhile, glamorous Ivanka Trump and homely Chelsea Clinton huddle in a corner of the bar, chatting. An oddball pair of friends on the surface, the two actually have a lot in common. Tonight, they trade mortifying stories about their dads hitting on beauty queens (Trump), flight attendants (Bill), young actresses (both), hot waitresses (both) and college interns on Capitol Hill (you all know it’s Bill).
At the polished wood bar, Anthony Wiener sits alone. A pariah, no one wants to be seen sitting next to him. He’s hunched over his cellphone. It’s very likely he is sexting inappropriate photos of himself to random women he meets online, showing them his wiener. Eeks! (Appropriate last name, isn’t it?) Even after a stint in sex addict rehab, Wiener can’t stop sexting. It’s a sad fall from grace for the talented politician.
Socially awkward Angela Merkel, the chancellor of Germany, has a girl crush on Hillary. She eyes her closely as Hillary chews on a chicken thigh bone. Huma is on guard duty as usual. Put off, Angela scans the room. She has remembered her manners and brought a Christmas gift from Germany for each of the world leaders at the party.
She finds Trump near the crowded bar and hands him his gift. It’s an alt-right t-shirt that says, “Heil, Trump!”
Trump stares at it in disbelief. “Angela, where did you get this?” he bellows.
Angela tells him it’s a big seller in Berlin, and readily available. She looks at him quizzically. Does he not like his gift?
Next, she gives Putin a “Putler” t-shirt. It’s a cartoon drawing of him with a thick Hitler mustache.
“This shirt is not funny, Angela,” he tells her dryly in German (“Diese Hemd ist nicht Spaß, ahn-gah-la.”). Putin knows German from his days living in East Germany and working for the KGB, the Soviet version of the CIA. Everyone thinks he was a super-successful, high-level spy trading Top Secret secrets and that’s how he rose to power. In truth, he was a nobody, a lowly office worker. He sat at a typewriter and wrote reports that nobody in the KGB ever bothered to read.
“It’s the only shirt I could find with your face on it,” Angela explains. Putin rebuffs her and walks off. Angela is hurt and confused. Does no one like their Christmas gift? She has one more gift to give out. She has saved the most special person on her list for last: Hillary. Angela is excited at the thought of presenting her gift to Hillary. She bought her a t-shirt, too.
Huma gets up from the table for a bathroom break. Angela sees her chance and rushes over. She unfolds the t-shirt with a dramatic flourish in front of Hillary’s face. It’s a campaign t-shirt. Hillary’s seen this design a million times over. It’s from her 2016 presidential election campaign. It says, “I’m with Hillary” and has a red-white-and-pale blue “H” logo on it. Hillary is instantly bored with this gift, but she is a seasoned politician and knows a big thank you is in order. “THANK YOU!” she exclaims while smiling widely, arms flung open for a hug.
Angela REALLY enjoys the hug. She rubs Hillary’s back. She squeezes Hillary’s shoulders. She pats her sweetly. The hug seems to never end. Hillary wonders how to extract herself from this l-o-n-g, weird hug with the plain Jane German. People give her s*%$ for her hairstyles, Hillary thinks. They should really look at Angela’s hair. It’s a bowl cut. She sees Huma out of the corner of her eye and breathes a sigh of relief. Huma is back.
“Heraus!” (Get out!) Huma growls at Angela, teeth barred. Like all good guard dogs, she knows commands in German.
Frightened, Angela pulls away from Hillary. She teeters mid-stride in her sensible black pumps. She doesn’t want to leave Hillary’s side. She’s had a tough year, with her poll-numbers sliding into oblivion. The last time she did a press conference, someone stood up and pointedly asked her to resign. All because she opened her heart and her country to migrants from Muslim countries. She needs a little comforting. And she thought Hillary would provide it. Angela snaps.
“Das ist nicht recht!” (“That is not right!”), the German leader yells in Huma’s face. Enraged, Angela picks up Huma in her meaty arms and throws her. Light as a feather, Huma sails through the air and lands with a sickening thud against the bar, right next to her wayward husband. Wiener doesn’t even notice. He keeps on texting.
A nasty gash on her forehead starts bleeding down Huma’s face. She moans. How much worse could this year get? Her husband is likely going to prison for sexting underage girls (there’s an FBI investigation) and Hillary failed (after her own set of FBI investigations into her emails) to become the most powerful woman in the world: the U.S. president. Still, she knows her boss will soon come to her rescue, and this comforts her. But Hillary is busy angrily confronting the much bigger Angela. When Chelsea sees this, she speeds into action. Grabbing glamor-girl Ivanka by the arm, Chelsea heads straight for the commotion. Girl fight!
Soon, Donald Trump and Bill Clinton jump into the fray. Bernie Sanders and his wife arrive late to the party and walk straight into the fight. His wife, aiming for Hillary (who she thinks played dirty in the Democratic primary), accidentally slugs Wiener hard in the face. He falls off his bar stool and hits the ground, his cellphone skidding across the floor. He’s out cold.
As the bar brawl rages on, Putin and Melania crawl out of the crowd unseen. They emerge on the city sidewalk, holding hands. The Russian leader has had a change of heart. Melania is a stunning woman, and Wendi is far away. Melania quickly orders an Uber and the two sneak off without their security details. They soon arrive at an upscale D.C. hotel bar where they settle into a cozy leather banquet for two. Putin orders champagne cocktails, caviar with blinis and cream, borscht and an assortment of fruitcakes and bread puddings displayed beautifully on a silver tray.
It’s been another memorable Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas!
©Ellen Auchter 2016