[Shortly after the election, I started writing a three act play, a mashup loosely inspired by Ubu Roi and King Lear. Now, a month into the new regime, I think I saw what had happened and what was coming fairly clearly. So, rather than obsess over the outrage du jour, I am posting the play here, a scene at a time.]
Trumpaboo and Putin in their respective offices. Putin's office has a certain spartan opulence; his almost entirely bare desk is enormous. They speak to each other on cell phones. On a third, very dimly lit section of the stage is a raised platform with an empty lectern.
Trumpaboo:
You're alone? It's safe? No recordings?
Putin:
Da, da, is safe. I got you already on video with nice ladies enjoying refreshing tinkle tinkle shower, why I would need more?
Trumpaboo:
You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, my good friend. See what I did there? You're talking showers, I'm talking back scratching. That's something a person like to do in the shower. Especially if he has company. And you look great with your shirt off, if I may say so. Very scratchable. Not that I admire you in any unmanly way, of course. Just thinking about showers. Where was I? Oh, yeah, help me over the hump here and I'll feed the enemy of your choice to you.
Putin:
So, what you are wanting?
Trumpaboo:
A lot of our younger voters here are pissed off at Lear because of all the towel heads he's been helping Imayahoo kill. Boo hoo. Well, to those beautiful American squidgebrains, products of our great education syastem, the best in the world, Lear equals Cordelia, or vice versa. Maybe you could get your troll farms revved up online to remind them of that.
Putin:
Why you are wanting this?
Trumpaboo:
Lear got them flocking to him, last time. We play it right, they'll stay home, feeling bad about him and good about themselves.
Putin:
Okay, no problem. Easy peasy, like you say.
Trumpaboo:
Thanks, Vlad. Really appreciate it. Regards to Alina - what a piece! You're a lucky man.
Putin:
Is Mr. Putin, Tsar of All the Russias, to you. (Hangs up.)
Lights down on Trumpaboo and Putin, lights up on the lectern. Cordelia enters, mounts the platform to stand behind it.
Cordelia (singing, to the tune of "Joy in My Heart," assisted as indicated by the Turd Chorus):
I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart
Turd Chorus:
Where?
Cordelia:
Down in my heart
Turd Chorus:
Where?
Cordelia:
Down in my heart
I've got that joy joy joy joy down in my heart
Down in my heart today
I've got that love of America down in my heart
Turd Chorus:
Where?
Cordelia:
Down in my heart
Turd Chorus:
Where?
Cordelia:
Down in my heart
I've got that love of America down in my heart
Down in my heart today
As she sings, the light fades around her until her last note dies on a black stage. The remainder is spoken, not sung.
Turd Chorus member #1 :
What have you done for ME, lately?
What have you done for ME, lately?
Turd Chorus (ensemble):
Polls polls polls polls
Turd Chorus member #2 :
What have you done for ME, lately?
What have you done for ME, lately?
Turd Chorus (ensemble):
Polls polls polls polls polls
Turd Chorus member #3:
What have you done for ME, lately?
What have you done for ME, lately?
Turd Chorus (ensemble):
Polls polls polls polls polls polls
Polls polls polls polls polls polls polls
