[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.]
A dark and stormy night outside the White House. The building is severely damaged. Trumpaboo and Long Dong scurry out of a gap in the front wall and pause on the lawn. Trumpaboo is wearing the groucho glasses and black wig, neither red tie nor codpiece, and has covered his nakedness with a dirty burlap bag, his arms and head poking out of holes ripped in it and his ankles protruding from the bottom, so that he looks like a big, unwashed Mr. Potato Head. Long Dong, still wearing blackface, is dressed in his judicial robes.
Trumpaboo:
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
Ha-ha, I said cocks!
You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my orange head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world,
Crack Nature's molds, all germains spill at once
That make ungrateful man!
Long Dong:
Sho 'nuff, massa, I gets me de heebie-jeebies, hearin' you talk like dat.
Trumpaboo:
By my green candle, it just comes over me. Shit, I don't even know what a germains is. So, fuck those pissants, is that better? Coming here with their molotov cocktails, after all I've done for them. One day you're God's own little handjob for saving all the unborn babies, the next day they're whining about hungry children. Boo fucking hoo. If they wanted to feed their kids, they shouldn't have any! And that backstabbing Russkie son-of-a-bitch. Tsar of All the Russias, my ass. I just hope I live long enough to suck the jelly out of his eyeballs. Oh! Oh! I feel it coming on again. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a billion; laughed at my losses, mocked my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies, and what's his reason?
Long Dong:
You feelin' right in de head, boss?
Trumpaboo:
Just because he thinks he's got the better of me. Well, that double-crossing snoutpicker's got another think coming. (Shudders convulsively.) Have I not eyes? Have I not hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as some pickled-beet-eating sliver-lipped fartface?
Long Dong:
I likes me some pickled beets, boss.
Trumpaboo:
If he prick me, do I not bleed? Ha ha, I said prick. if he tickles me, do I not shower golden merriment, like that night in Krasnoyarsk?
Long Dong:
Good times, boss. Krasnoyarsk a happenin' town.
Trumpaboo:
If he poisons me, do I not die? And if he wrongs me, shall I not revenge?
Long Dong:
Well, massa, I don't know nuffin' 'bout dat, but I also sho'nuff knows we gots bigger troubles comin' our way effen we don't skedaddle. Dem peoples who was here befo', rippin' up de place an' bustin' up yo' chifforobes an' all, dey sho' was mad, and dey be comin' back.
Trumpaboo:
They can't hurt me, unless one of them was born without a mother to fuck. And then there's that Dunsinane thing. What's up with that? Do you have a clue what's up with that?
Long Dong:
I ain't got no clue, boss.
Trumpaboo:
I'm all messed up in my head, Long Dong. I don't know where to go! You're a Justice, you do the judging.
Long Dong:
Lessee. I had me a house in Boca Raton, but das all underwater, now. An' I got me a place in St. Louis, but it be too hot dere, dese days, summer purely would melt de skin offen yo' bones. Mebbe we jus' should tries our luck headin' north. Ain't nobody gonna cotton on to you dere. Not wearin' what you got on.
Trumpaboo:
Lead on, MacDong! Oh my poor melted little green waxblob. I really think I'm losing my mind.
