Last week – couple of long walks, short book – the old man had listened to Animal Farm. If you’ve heard much current campaign rhetoric, George Orwell’s classic might resonate. The old man reminded himself he hated practically everybody who said ‘resonate.’ The old man switched back and forth from one news channel back and forth to another news channel. In between sports, real sports. None of this cricket shit. Ladies tumbling wasn’t bad but you had to be in the mood.
This week he covered six miles daily listening to Stephen King’s Cujo. The old man thought it was a dog story. You know like Lassie maybe. And then he remembered he had seen the movie when it first came out. He thought maybe 1983. The old man was young and single and rich then – three good things to be – and he liked taking beautiful women to scary movies where they might pretend to be frightened and hug him tightly. Worth a try and he liked scary movies and dogs.
Cujo, it turns out, was a lot like the dog who now slept snoringly by old man’s big leather recliner. So, a couple years ago now, he had decided they should watch Cujo. Must’ve been a weekend. Couldn’t have been ten minutes into the film, he looked at the young redhead and said, I can’t watch this. The movie takes on a whole different meaning when there’s a gigantic huge mountain dog a couple feet away.
And he tended to root for the dog. Always would.
Trump, a new name for terror. Really, who would do more damage to America? ISIS or The Donald?
It might’ve been the cognac. But he had this dream and it was scary. A pastiche, if you will, of pigs taking over the farm, MSNBC, Channel 10 and as much Fox as the old man could tolerate. And a huge rabid dog.
In the dream, the old man is in Cleveland, a town he tended to avoid, at the Republican Convention. Donald Trump is about to be nominated as the GOP’s Presidential candidate. Trump doesn’t know what the initials stand for and anyway wants to change them to something different. He can’t tell us yet what that is.
He’s a huge boar with stinky pink skin and a curly tail, just so you know he is one twisted pig.
Trump got to twelve hundred and thirty-seven delegates by making some deals. To Lying Ted Cruz, The Donald promised to nominate him to the Supreme Court.
You know how dreams are. Next thing, Trump says, when hell freezes over. Ted thinks – ever the sly debater – so I have a chance.
Marco Rubio gets to be El Ambassadore to Cuba. With dancing girls and a salsa remix. John Kasich got a scholarship to the Kardasian Academy, where he’ll be brought up to speed about how ridiculous one must act to get primary voters to pull your lever. Next thing there was Kasich dancing the salsa with a satiny tube top and maracas.
Of course, numerous fights erupted and that was inside the convention center. Have you ever seen two old white fat brokers get into a slap fight?
Corey Lewandoski got beat up by Carly Fiorina. That’s one high heel he never saw coming.
Oh, yeah, Justin Bieber sang the national anthem and gave the keynote address. He’s young and telegenic. Maybe there’s a Senate seat in Kentucky.
Trump names Cujo his running mate. The Donald has come to rely on the rabid dog’s judgement.
Outside, things were ugly. Chihuahuas were apparently all worked up about the wall. Signs everywhere. FREE THE SPCA 47. All the protestors were dogs and they were foaming at the mouth. Of course, there were the counter-protestors. CATS LIVES MATTER! It’s America. If somebody is for something, you know there is somebody else who against it.
Just like the old man had heard predicted on Fox News. The foaming mouth part. MORE KIBBLE IN EVERY BOWL
He tried to calm the crowd. The old man spoke dog. But they couldn’t hear him. Maybe the words didn’t leave his mouth loud enough to be heard. All that dumb howling.
All that damn dumb howling.
And foam.
The old man completely understood how the big dog felt.