Dinner last night found me in tears.
Terrible news for the economy, Bernie. Scaramucci was kicked out. The unemployment numbers have shot through the roof, I wailed. At last count 2,220,954 people were brushing up their resumes to send out for all those jobs out there impersonating the Mooch, and now it’s down the tubes, their hopes dashed to smithereens. Think of all those brilliant careers that will never happen!
Tsk tsk, says Bernie. How about I give my plate with a little of the turkey meat loaf to Stanley to lick?
Good idea, says Stan.
Don’t even think about it, says I. You think the coal industry was a catastrophe? How about the ending of Mooch Inc.? The jobs were wide-open, anybody could do it except for New Englanders, you didn’t need a college degree or nothing. And it was true-blue American, it couldn’t be manufactured in China or anywhere else in Asia. Japanese tried to copy it but gave up. Did Jeff go after the job?
Dude’s too cool for that, it needs somebody from New York.
Anybody from the Bronx or Staten Island.
Brooklyn! Bernie reminds me. I got the hand gestures, but the right won’t cooperate. These are the times when I really wish I didn’t have the stroke.
Of course, the Mooch was so New York! He brought the city back to me every time I put on the news. The only Mooches you find in New England are with the Red Sox. Bernie, what are you doing?
I want to give him the plate with a little meat loaf so that he could lick it off.
Don’t do any such thing. Stanley’s become a beggar. He never used to beg at the table before.
It’s never too late to learn, says Stanley.
He’s hungry! says Bernie.
He’s not hungry, he needs to lose some weight. Since the stroke you’ve become so tenderhearted, but where’s your tenderness towards Mooch? Even though he was so New York, everybody loved him. He brought this country together. Raising the debt ceiling, Obamacare, Ryancare, immigration and LGBT bans—they’re splitting us apart, but who didn’t love Mooch?
He reminded me a little of Israeli politicians, and all the names they call each other in public.
True, I say, but he was as American as apple pie.
I love apple pie, says Stanley.
When you think of all the screw-ups in the White House, you have to hand it to Mooch. In ten full days of work the only real damage he did was getting rid of Spicer. Rence Priebus, too, only nobody noticed. I miss Spicer so much I was thinking about changing Stanley’s name to Spicer. How would you like that, Stanley?
Better than Mooch the Pooch, opines Stan..
Bernie looks to the side. Hey, he whispers aloud to Spicer-I-mean-Stanley, as soon as she turns away to do the dishes I’m going to slip it to you.
They smile conspiratorially at each other while I continue my grief process. John Kelly! A marine general in the White House!
Stanley sits up straight. The few, the proud, the—
Homeland Security was nothing like the White House. A million terrorists coming in every day from Mexico to blow up civilization to bits—big deal, Kelly can deal with that with one hand tied behind his back. But guarding the White House from fake news inside and out? Fuggedaboudit.
Marines like dogs, Stanley reminds me.
Wet blanket. Spoilsport. Just when we were sitting back and starting to have some fun, along comes John Kelly, thrusts his bayonet into the balloon, and no more Mooch. Party pooper. We don’t need more marines, we need more moochismo! I say, pounding the table with my fist. And then the tears flow. Oh hell, and I turn away so they don’t see this girlie crying.
Bernie and Stanley grin at each other and I see a plate moving as if by itself.
Anybody who f****** leaks food from this table is fired!