HUMOR: The Great Debate

Charles labeled Chet’s new apartment Casa del Liberal, in honor of the prevailing and unerring political winds that blew through his home. Chet gave him his most indignant stare. “You just insulted your way out of an invitation to my debate party tonight,” he told his friend.

“That’s quite all right,” Charles said. “I’ll have my own little party of hardworking and honest Americans.” Chet merely smiled at this.

(NOTE: Hard work and honesty were often invoked by both men, although neither, being the sons of wealth, knew anyone who worked. As for the honesty of the wealthy class, an entire treatise on the subject could here be advanced… which thankfully, we haven’t the time for.)

“Ah, yes,” Chet said to his Republican friend. “I’m sure you’ll have a fine time tonight at Der Trump hüs.” This rankled Charles. Democrats were continually comparing Donald Trump to Hitler. When they weren’t comparing him to Putin.

“You’ve no right!” he shouted. “What if I compared Hillary to Castro?”

“Castro’s done some good things.” Chet was unwilling to concede ground, not on the eve of such an important event. He hoped Hillary would prove as strident.

They stormed away from one another. An observer might have thought they would never speak again, but their haste actually had more to do with getting potato chips than actual anger.

Debate night, Casa del Liberal:

Professor Elliot Bates held forth during commercials on the terror of the ghetto, although he lived on campus in San Hilbert, the prestigious condo tower. Judge Rein Holloway railed against poverty and the indifference of the moneyed class, but certainly didn’t mention his exclusive Sloane Avenue mansion. And Bill Hedge of Hedge Boots swore eternal vengeance against Donald Trump and corporate greed, of course forgetting he had long outsourced his product to tiny Calvonia, where the children were roped to work benches. A patron of the arts, he loved to state that art was an antidote to the cruelty of the world, smiling blissfully as he puffed Punjabi hash.

And as for Debate night at Der Trump hüs:

Charles filled glasses while Donald and Hillary traded barbs. His friends hated Hillary but were not sure of Trump. All this talk about opportunity made them uncomfortable. America had been too easy on the poor. When would the rich be aided? Weren’t we the ones, they argued, who paid all the taxes? Who did all the worrying while the lower classes lounged, drank, and fornicated? Where was the justice? My goodness, what if everyone had a good job? Who would wash the Benz? As it was a man could hardly get decent service at L’Bon Francois. They finished their champagne and departed, congratulating themselves. No matter who won, they won.

Charles was exhausted. A strange feeling had come over him as the last of his guests went home. He dialed Chet. “Can I come over?” he asked, suppressing a sob. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Chet felt the same way. The presence of so much sanctimony had depleted him. “Come on over, old buddy,” he said. “Bring your pajamas.”

Charles may have been a right wing nut, but he was HIS right wing nut. It was good to have friends.

Richard Donnelly

Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. Mr. Donnelly’s first book is ‘The Melancholy MBA,’ published by Brick Road Poetry Press in Columbus, Georgia.