Joy: “Humphrey, tell me the rumor isn’t true!”
Humphrey: “I’m afraid it is. This is the smallest table to ever appear in a nightclub. I don’t know how it’s holding up my bottle of hooch. I better drink more before the table collapses.”
Joy: “Oh, I’ve already emotionally accepted the tininess and moved on. No, I’m talking about what I just overhead in the powder room.”
Humphrey: “Did it involve retching? I told Ingrid to stay away from the braised lamb. Never trust the meat in a place with baby tables.”
Joy: “You can be so exasperating, Hump. These are trying times, but for the sake of humanity we must always strive to do the right thing.”
Humphrey: “The right thing? I don’t know anything about morality. I went to a charter school, where the only thing I learned was how to take a standardized test. Still, I’m somewhat intrigued by your urgency, probably due to the high-octane rating of this low-grade moonshine. So tell me, what did you overhear in the squat station that has you and your hair in such a tizzy?”
Joy: “Well, as I was sitting there and minding my own business and wondering why some countries don’t have decent toilet paper, Ivanka Trump squatted in the stall next to me. She’s apparently in town attending a convention for over-privileged offspring who have never done anything important in their lives. Anyway, during a surprisingly gaseous episode, she had a speaking-in-tongues moment and bellowed that her father is actually the love child of Joseph Stalin and Ayn Rand. This seems like something that should be shared with the world.”
Humphrey: “Oh, the world already knows it. It’s the Americans who voted for him that refuse to see the writing on the wall. Assuming they even know how to read.”
Ingrid, wandering near the table but not actually appearing in the scene due to contractual issues: “Oh, they know how to read. They just refuse to read anything that hasn’t been approved by the Republican party. And that’s the scariest part of it all.”
Waiter, unable to get to the table because that wretched Ingrid woman was blocking his way: “Did someone order this steak tartare? It’s undercooked, it might kill you with the festering and racist bacteria, and it has no idea that decent people don’t want to eat it.”
Ivanka, finally staggering out of the loo and weakly trying to disguise another belch of privilege and ignorance: “Oh, that’s for my father. He’ll be along in a minute, once he signs out of his Twitter account and continues to not reveal the true source of the income that he doesn’t really have.”
Joy: “Why is Donald Trump coming here? This is Casablanca, not Moscow.”
Humphrey: “Well, I’m not surprised that he’s confused. The man has no idea of what’s really going on in the world.”
Ivanka: “I can have you fired for saying that.”
Joy: “Girl, you did enough firing in the powder room. Go somewhere that the useless people go. And stay there.”
Waiter: “This tray is really heavy. Does someone want to eat the Trump steak or not?”
The entire restaurant screamed in horror.
Except for Ivanka. She merely let loose with another toxic belch.
Then she appointed the belch as Trump’s next press secretary.
Previously published. Modified and extended for this post.
Categories: Past Imperfect