RON SCHALOW: The Traitor, Tariffs And Toddlers

“SHUT UP, Stan, or I’ll do something drastic, you meathead” screams Orville. “Another one, bartender.”

Stan stands by a stool for a minute, to let his eyes adjust to the low bar lighting. He sits and says, “I like where your head’s at, Orv. Preventative attacks never turn out bad. I’ll take your spasm under advisement. How many quarts of Smirnoff have you drained today? Just curious. Say, did you hear that the president is a traitor? He kissed Putin on the lips, and it went downhill from there. I think Vlad might have a case for assault.”

“The black one?”

“I’m not sure what color this Trump fellow is,” answers Stan. “It varies. Coke please. He has a hunk of asbestos on his head, so the dude isn’t up to code. I know that much. His load bearing walls don’t look like they are bearing the load. His chins are causing downward stress. I’m thinking of being outraged, but this president has been giving me spinal taps. It’s strenuously oppressive. Do you give a rip?”

“Not unless it’s the black one,” snorts Orv. “I think I voted for this Trump guy. Everything is fine. Probably made up by lib!#&*s, like you.”

“Could be. The cameras caught him smooching Putin’s bum in high definition, though. There was some outside the pants fondling. Nothing illegal in Finland, evidently. If Trump had dropped his pants, the whole affair wouldn’t have been more shameful. I hope Putin was wearing protection, so he can be poisoned at a later date, when we hate Russia again. A Trump STD. Can you imagine? Superbug city.

“Vlad still gave the big kid a soccer ball after being groped. Little Donnie was delighted and touched by the gesture. His mascara ran like a mountain stream, polluted with precious clean coal mine dust. The trout love it.”

“I told you to shut up, Stan. That stuff never happened.”

“Oh, it happened. There were 8 zillion witnesses. Some vomited in midtreason but were able to keep Saltines down for the replays and got the whole ugly Trump experience. Would you consider Putin to be unconventionally handsome? I need to know.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” admits Stan. “Ugly, maybe. I was hoping you would know. I think Vlad looks like an Idaho russet. A polished one. Maybe a Yukon gold spud. You look like a unconventional sugar beet, past its prime. You know, Orv, I taste gasoline every time you take a sip of vodka. Ethanol, maybe.

“I could handle high octane corn squeezins when I was younger, during the best unremembered years of my life. but not anymore. My liver goes berserk, if alcohol touches my lips. A half-thimble of pot seems to synchronize my innards and help the pain a little. I have to smoke it in Cheney’s bunker, though. It’s inconvenient to my retirement lifestyle, but my gastrointestinal system demands continuity. Believe me.”

“I don’t want to hear about your stupid insides, you loopy pothead. And I was there for your wonder years, you souse.”

“Too late, dude, and former souse. Say, Orv. Did you ever put your kids in cages and make them eat liver? Kennel up, brats.”

“What!” screeches Orville. “Of course not. Why would you ask me such a thing? Bartender. Stay close.”

“Trump still has thousands of kids in cages, and I was wondering if you thought that was a good idea. Personally, I’m against the practice. Kevin Cramer says chain-link fencing can’t be a cage, but that’s an old timey Russian wives tale. You can’t squeeze through those holes. I should know. You just get diced. Only the jaws of life can get a guy out of a chain-link cage. Or some good metal snippers. An acetylene torch might …”

“We don’t put kids in cages, Stan. That’s stupid talk.”

“Well, we do now. Cocoa-tinted ones only as far as I know. It’s in all of the papers. Their parents are kept in another state, so they can’t speak to each other in code. Some say it’s just Spanish, but I can see Trump’s point. Toddlers shouldn’t be exposed to more languages than he knows. I’m not sure he has a handle on the one, for certain. Anyway, Don has no sympathy for short brown people. It could be his motto, or one of his golf course rules. The Aryans don’t feel comfortable around most types with clubs. A two-iron can open up a hell of a crack in a human skull. Take a look at this scar above my √”

Orv gets twitchy. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Fake news, but if they were Mexican, or the sort, they likely had it coming.”

“Geez, Orv. There’s steam coming off your face. It’s not attractive. Where do you get your news? There’s no reading going on in this light.”

Orv waves his old arm. “From Ed. He’s sitting over there. You can’t see him unless he lights a heater. His Old Spice, mixed with BO, will drop a guy to his knees. He’s very knowledgeable. Ed used to lay bricks, when he could lift things.”

“Ed, huh?”

The bartender butts in. “Now President Trump is saying that everything he said said yesterday in Helsinki, was the opposite of what he actually meant.”

“Of course. The old switcheroo,” sneers Stan. “I should have seen that one coming. I’ve had the old switcheroo pulled on me so many times I was starting to feel stupid. I’ve wasted so much time and money before the switcheroo kicked in.

“This Trumpoodle lie don’t hunt, though, on account of the cameras I was telling you about, Orv. He’s still a traitor, and a poor dinner companion. Butter hogger. You know the type.

“So, Orv, if a traitor put one of you kids in a cage, when they were young, what would have been your measured response? Quick death? Slow death?”

“No one would have dared. And you’re the liar, you stupid Commie.”

“Quick death it is, then, comrade. You own a lot of dirt, Orv. And a bunch of delicious critters, some of them in kid cages. How do you feel about the traitor’s tariffs? Are you hysterical about them, like our congressman says?”

“Tariffs? What tariffs?”

“On stuff like soybeans, pork, steel, aluminum and a thousand other items,” explains Stan. “Evidently, and keep in mind that this is the sophisticated trade expert thinking of the traitor, we’ve been getting screwed by most everyone, including Canada. Anyone familiar with the Trumpanzee would automatically know this is nonsense, but the trade war is on.”

“Canada? Colder America? I don’t believe it. And I don’t care. I’m rich, and the government still direct deposits money into my account. I’m set.”

“And when you die, you’ll already be embalmed. Well, thank you, Orv. It’s good to know how the mind of a Trump cultist works.

“This reminds me of a story. Years ago, a niece and I were riding in the back of a car on heading west on main in Bismarck. She was as spitting mad as a 3-year-old could be over something. We drove onto the bridge, and I said, ‘Look! Look! It’s the big Missouri River.’ She shouted, ‘No it isn’t.’ This went back and forth until we were in Mandan. But the river was there, so I should have won something. She remained irate. And we never put her in a cage,”

“Stupid story, you pinko.”

Well, it’s lunchtime. I’m going to jump blindly into the sunlight and hope my retinas can block a seizure. At least nibble on a lime wedge, Orv. Even mole people need sustenance.”

“Screw you, Stan. I hope you flop around on the sidewalk like a mackerel.”

“Never change, Orv.”

Published by

Ron Schalow

Ron Schalow is the owner of Iceberg Publishing, president of The Coalition for Bakken Crude Oil Stabilization and an amatuer agitator. Among Schalow's writings are two books: a nonfiction book about 9/11 and the movements of George W. Bush on that tragic day called "Bull$#!* Artist”; and a novel about an unlikely group of American suicide bombers who have been dropped into the tribal regions of Pakistan. It is named "Perfect Whackjobs." Schalow lives in Fargo.

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