ENCHANTÉ – Cable Panel Blues
Fred and Tom meet in de makeup room.
“You know what she’s going to talk about?” asks Tom.
“The same thing they’ve been talking about all the time,” says Fred. “Russian roulette, Watergate 2.0, leaking sewers, deep state, all things that excite viewers of all stripes.”
“It’s the rating game, isn’t it?” says Tom. “I bet they won’t talk about how much better their 401Ks look now compared to just a year ago, though I’m sure they’re happy about it.”
“The old adagio is good news doesn’t sell, sex does,” mused Fred.
“I heard millions of women bought Weiner’s pics so that he could cover his legal fees.”
“She’s not going to talk about that, Tom. That’s her party’s side, and she won’t shoot herself in the foot. Rule number one of the Panel Debating Club, friend. Better take note.”
“You know what side you’re on? They didn’t tell me.”
“Me neither. Doesn’t matter. She’ll look at our face and knows right away you’re right and I’m left.”
“How so?”
“You wear your parting on the right and mine’s left. Simple,” Fred says.
“What if a guy’s bald?”
“All bald guys are right wing. Look at Karl Rove, Giuliani, Gianforte, for example.”
“But James Carville’s left wing, Fred, and so is Jerry Brown.”
“They lost their hair because they couldn’t get it right.”
“What about women pundits then?”
“Come on, Tom, you know. They fake it, whether left or right.”
A program assistant enters. ” OK, guys, you’re on next. Come with me. You, Tom, you sit on Sheila’s right, and Fred sits on her left.”
“You see? I told you so,” Fred says.
WWN’s show The World in Seven Days is on. Sheila introduces her panel members. “Tom, let me start with you. We have these daily leaks from Deep State. Your thoughts?”
“Washington’s leaking like a sieve as it always does, and the stinky dirt left is bubbling up. Washington press cooks take the blubber, make so-called news of it, and nobody cares, except you.”
“Fred, don’t you believe these deep state stories are true?” Sheila asks, her eyes showing bewilderment.
“Of course, they are. Deep state wants to save the country from going down the tube. Under the previous administration, society was changing so nicely to the left until it got criminally stopped by Russian infiltration.”
“Tom, don’t you think too the Russians stole the election from the American society?” Sheila asks with a sneaky smile, fixing Ted’s eyes.
“The Russians are pokers and thieves and have always been,” Tom acknowledges. “Its operatives act like those nesting dolls. You take one out and another one pops out, just looking the same, and before you know it you’ve wasted your money buying the same thing over and over, only getting smaller. Voters got fed up because they wanted real change.”
“Do you agree, Fred, that the election was lost due to those nesting dolls?” Sheila wonders, throwing a helpless glance at Fred.
“Tom is right. The Russian leaks turned the Democrat party into those dolls. Each time the party spoke, the same old same old came out, and, of course, they lost. Ergo, the Russians stole the election from the Democrats and the Republicans helped them doing it. That’s why they are guilty and the Special Counsel will prove it.”
“But why would the Russians do that, Fred,” interjects Tom. “They got twenty percent of our uranium under the Democrat administration. They might’ve gotten the other half too to beat us, if they stuck to them, rather than going for a change in party they can’t be sure of.”
“Well, Fred, Tom seems to have a point. Why would Russia want the Republican party in power?” Sheila asked.
“The Russians are against measures to stem climate change, as is the Republican party. That’s why,” Fred said, stone-faced. “They want the artic to melt so that they can more easily dig for oil and gas, like the Republicans want.”
“Should we not feel sorry for those polar bears losing their habitat, Tom?” asks Sheila, tears welling in the corner of her icy blue eyes. “Is it not clear to you now why the Russians sabotaged the re-election of the Democrat administration?”
“I thought we were talking about the deep state leaks and sieves,” Tom says. “Aren’t we straying off the subject?”
“I am asking the questions, Tom,” says Sheila, giving him her charming cold smile. “There are anonymous reports of Russian attempts to tamper with the election boots in thirty-nine states. Fred, I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“And so is the Special Prosecutor,” Fred asserts. “Anonymous sources tell me he has hired Clinton lawyers to look into each boot.”
“So where is this heading Tom?” Sheila asks. “Don’t you think too the President must be impeached?”
“I would break this down into three segments, Sheila. ‘Imp’ stands for ‘troublemakers’; ‘Peach’ stands for deep state leakers peaching bad on the President, and ‘Ed’ stands for anonymous editorials in the Washington Post or the New York Times that have no ground, altogether standing for stench stinking to high-heaven.”
Sheila turning to Fred: “Stench stinking to high-heaven, Fred, is this not journalistic overreach?”
“Of course it is. Exactly the language of the radical right. That’s how they have divided our nation. I repeat, during the past eight years, our society was changing so nicely to the left. Freedom of speech only for those who deserve it according to them, violent protests only for those who feel belittled or racially profiled by the right, and healthcare only for those who cannot afford it regardless of the cost. And only black is beautiful and only the rich must be taxed. And Tom wants to change all that back to the right.”
“Last comment, Tom?”
“I love black is beautiful, really do, but I’ll keep changing the left’s downward curve to America’s destruction until I see blue.”
“Thank you both for being here,” Sheila says, and the screen goes to Cialis extra strength.
PS: In the noisy exit room, Tom is left with a blue eye and Fred with a bloody red nose, both in the true colors of the American flag. Neither knows the fight is taped by the insidious WWN, and maybe leaked to the Special Prosecutor for breaking news from anonymous sources. Continuation of the panel is in doubt.
ENCHANTÉ – THE PANEL CRAZE
Hello Everyone: Ever finalized a manuscript? If you did, you will understand why ENCHANTÉ was out of the air for a while. “Francine, The Dazzling Daughter of the Mountain State” will be out soon.
Now we are back with Tom and Fred, this time invited by World Wide Network to form a panel on important daily political matters.
“Fred, how are we going to do this?”
“Simple, Tom, you make a point and I make a counterpoint. We never agree because the opposite side must always be right, whatever side you are on.”
“But if I agree with you because you make more sense, why shouldn’t I say so?”
“Because you get fired if you do. It’s like a sports game, boy. You’re not supposed to kick the ball into your own goal. You must kick me as hard as you can, regardless of whether I’m right.”
“But isn’t that ridiculous? If I make sense, you wouldn’t agree with me?”
“Of course not. That’s how it works. You have fans on your side, and I have fans on mine. Each side wants the other to lose as badly as possible. Scorched Earth. That’s politics. It’s a sports game, the American way. Each side gets paid for making crushing opposite points. Otherwise, the viewers get bored.”
“Which side are you on?”
“The opposite of yours.”
“But which is it, left or right?”
“If you show me yours, I show you mine.”
“But does WWN not want to know first what yours is?”
“They will only tell me if they’ve seen yours first.”
“Can we switch panes when you like mine better?”
“For the viewer, left of the anchor is right, and right of the anchor is left. Don’t confuse people. They want to see which side you’re on.”
“What side is the anchor on?”
“Tom, don’t be stupid. It’s WWN that pays their salary. They talk WWN’s side.”
“How much do they pay?”
“The more they like yours or mine, the more they pay you or me.”
“Do they give equal time?”
“They may or may not. If you crush me or them, they may let me pay back twice.”
“Geez, Frank, this is really like Monday Night Football without referees or line backers.”
“It is, or more like national wrestling or kick boxing, male or female.”
“So this is how people in Congress live?”
“And what tax payers pay for. Your tax money is like buying tickets for the games. And to beat up each other in the streets if you lose.”
“What about those election slogans then, stronger together or America first?”
“Well, Tom, those are essentially sports terms. The political teams fight it out, either to show they’re stronger than the other, or to become first.”
“So we must fight it out on TV too?”
“Sure, if you want to get paid. Not physically, of course, like that guy in Montana, but by blabbing better and faster than your opponent, while keeping a straight but very false smile, as if you are the friendliest bastard or bitch ever.”
“Do we train for this before we start?”
“Don’t have to. Just look at today’s TV and you get the message.”
“Which side do I chose?”
“Just wait which side the anchor puts you. Then, whatever he or she wants you to comment on, you take the left or right side of his/her point of view. The truth does not matter. Nobody knows what that is anymore anyway.”
“But I don’t know in traffic sometimes what left or right is.”
“Doesn’t matter, as long as you take the opposite side. You’re insured by the media.”
“Fred, I’m going to sign up and hate you.”
“Me too, Tom, I hate you already.”
ENCHANTÉ – BODY FADS AND MORE
Fred and I sit at the counter of our favorite bar, listening to two women arguing.
“Better you follow those TV ads on eating light,” one says, pointing at her companion’s plate full of French fries.
“Do you think I need it? Look at your fat self!” her companion bristles.
“Oh, you! Don’t get uptight. There’re many fat ones like you who do.”
“You believe that TV stuff works?” asks a male friend at her side.
“They’re just selling food,” his neighbor butts in. “You ever watch those ads? Granola bars, dripping cheese, dripping lasagna, everything’s dripping, just to make you feel good.”
“It’s a fad,” Fred agrees. “They only want your money.”
“Like those ads on shaving,” says the woman with the fries. “Another new fad.”
“They want me to shave my mustache, my beard, my legs!” says her woman friend. “My bathtub’s red with blood.”
“You women also have hair on your teeth,” says the male friend. “How do you get rid of those? Look at them wild feminists at those rallies.”
“It’s all Trump’s fault,” says the woman with the fries. “He started it with talking pussies.”
“I’m sure he’d been taking too many testosterone pills,” the other woman says.
“You take those pills?” the male friend asks his buddy.
“Every day, to stay in shape,” he replies. “You take pills?” he asks the slimmer woman.
“Only one, if you’re interested.” She smiles at him. “How many testopills do you take?”
“Only one, if you’re interested.” He smiles back at her.
“Is this a pick-up call?” She eyes him intently.
“Right, but like that TV ad with the two bathtubs, the fine print, and without the blood.”
“You can start by getting me another Bloody Mary.”
Fred asks me, “How many pills do you take?”
“About twelve. You get these magazines how to avoid dying early. I’m a sucker.”
“Do they make you feel any better?” asks Fred.
“I wouldn’t know unless I stopped taking them. And because I’m afraid of dying early, I keep taking them. So I’ll never know until I die.”
“That’s the whole idea, of course,” Fred says. “It’s a billion dollar industry even though the small print always says consult your doctor first.”
“Like those TV ads on medicine,” says the woman near us. “If you see the horror that could happen to you when you take them, you think twice.”
“Are your twelve pills all testopills?” the other woman asks me.
“Your friend over there says he takes only one a day,” I say. “So why should I take twelve?”
“Because you look it.” Everybody laughs at me.
Amy, the blonde bartender, comes by with new drinks and saves me from more embarrassment.
“The news just said the blonde woman lost,” she says.
“Mary The Pan?” asks Fred.
“It’s Marine,” says our pesky woman neighbor. “Trump’s blonde friend. Macaron won.”
“It’s Macron,” I say. “Macaron is a cookie.”
“Whatever,” she says, looking at me as if she’s ready to murder me. “Obama voted for him.”
“Come on, silly,” her fat friend says. “We can’t vote in France since we started calling French fries Freedom fries. Besides, Mackerel is not a socialist, they say, so why would Obama vote for him?”
“The name is Macron, silly, you just heard,” her companion bites back. “Mackerel is a marine fish.”
“So mackerel being marine fish, and Marine’s name being Marine, Macron and Marine must be the same.”
“That’s the most crooked analysis I’ve ever heard,” my neighbor tells her friend. “You should get yourself analyzed.”
Fred and I, having heard enough, are making a move to get up.
“Get your testopills, honey, before it’s too late,” I hear on our way out. “Obamacare is going broke.”
ENCHANTÉ – One Hundred Days
Fred and I sat at a cocktail bar on the Champs Elysées in Paris talking with Napoléon. He had agreed to a four hundred thousand dollar fee to come back from hiding and talk to us about his one hundred days. Our funding was sponsored by anonymous Wall Street backers.
“Mr. Napoléon, thank you for being here. It’s a pleasure seeing you again after we dumped our history books.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Napoléon said. “It’s pretty boring up there in St. Héléna. This comeback gave me the opportunity to frolic with Robert Branson on one of his Virgin Islands. As you know from history, I adore virgins. But I loved Josephine.”
Virgin and Josephine
“We do remember that, your highness”, Fred said. “We also remember you were beaten by the Russians in 1812 and sent to St. Elba. You know we still have problems with the Russians. Our opposition party says they meddled in our recent elections. What’s your view?”
“Meddling in someone else’s business has been Russia’s prime sport during the centuries. Nothing new. Remember Raspoutin? It surprised me that your opposition party kept their doors wide open for them to walk in and take all those pictures and listening in.”
“What would you have done?” I asked.
“I can’t speak for your opposition party but we solved these issues by marrying a Russian princess. Or for your opposition leader having a liaison with a Russian prince. She could have prevented all that. I heard Mr. Putin was available. He has a load of testosterone. Didn’t she give him half of your uranium? That’s a nice dowry.”
“But the opposition party is accusing the other party that it was their good relations with the Russians that made them lose the elections, ” Fred explained.
“I was also told that the losing party had fireworks planned accompanied by Tchaikowsky’s 1812 overture. That’s a major Russian piece of music and composed after they beat me. Mr. Putin may have put a stop to the music because he didn’t want to publicize his laison with the leader of the opposition party. Maybe that’s why they blame the other party now.”
“You know there’s much talk about the first one hundred days in American politics,” Fred said.
“So I’ve heard. My one hundred days coming from St. Elba seem to have gone viral once more. But as usual the American media gets it backwards. My one hundred days came at the end of my illustrious career.”
“Why do you think that 200 hundred years later this is still so important?” Fred asked.
“Because I didn’t achieve anything in those days. You remember I had my Waterloo.”
“But here in the US they want politicians to achieve everything in their first one hundred days. All the media are making that their sole news story,” I said.
“It only shows that in two hundred years you guys have learned nothing,” Napoléon said. “My final one hundred days were only meant to firm up a legacy to be remembered. As you see, I’m still remembered.”
“But here they want a list of major achievements,” Fred tried to clarify.
“Oh, I had achievements all right. I first beat the Austrians, the Prussians, the Russians. Then Wellington got me because I suffered from hemorrhoids in my saddle.”
“So what do you think of our first one hundred days?” I asked.
“The concept has been bastardized. Except warfare, you shouldn’t achieve anything serious in those days. What would you have to show for in the next one hundred days? And the next? All you have to do is sit quiet and blame your opponents for making your country look bad.”
“You think we look bad?” Fred asked.
“You sure do. Everybody in the world wants Obama back. He talked but did nothing, that’s good politics.”
“But when the monarchy took over, they banned you to St. Helena,” I recalled. “And nobody wanted you back.”
“I went there on sick leave,” Napoléon explained. “Then my premiums went through the roof, so I couldn’t pay for them anymore. Otherwise, I would’ve been back again. To fix Napoléoncare.”
“Couldn’t you use your Veterans Care? As the Commander in Chief?” Fred asked.
“I would have to ride a horse for forty kilometers before reaching a hospital or doctor. I couldn’t because of my hemorrhoids. And they couldn’t come to me because they were too busy taking care of the dying and the burying. After two hundred years, you still have the same problem in the US.”
“It seems hard to get things done in one hundred days,” Fred philosophized.
“You said it,” Napoléon agreed. “The previous reign in France gave me a mess! Think of my achievements in the fifteen-some years of my reign! Catholic religion reinstated; monks were no longer suppressed; people got their land back; I reinstated law and order, created the Napoleonic laws and established a Constitution; I modernized education and got rid of common core; I revitalized the sluggish economy and improved agriculture; I sanitized taxation, and rebuilt the military! I made France great again. Vive la France!”
“That’s impressive,” Fred said. “Did you copy that from the Trump Administration?”
“You got your timeline wrong. The Trump Administration copied it from me.”
“How did you do all that?” I asked
“Executive orders, my friend. If they weren’t executed, I executed the non-executors.”
“I wish we had that system here,” Fred said. “Too many chefs in the kitchen and half of them don’t even know how to cook a simple omelet without breaking eggs.”
“Do you think America needs a border wall?” I asked.
“I solved that differently. I conquered my neighbors left and right and made them my soldiers. That’s how I got rid of them.”
“What’s your advice to America now?”
“Ask your Democrats to hire me. They need a leader. At four hundred thousand dollars a consultation I’m cheap.”
ENCHANTÉ – HAIR AND POLITICS
Fred and I sat at a bar drinking beer overhearing other guys drinking beer.
“I bet that that Mary The Pan wins the French elections,” one said.
“How so?” asked his buddy.
“’Cause she’s blond. Trump’s blond too.”
“But Hillary’s blond, and she lost,” his buddy said.
“I bet she wore a wig when she did,” the other guy said.
“No, that’s Maxine Waters, she does.”
“You mean if she put on a blond wig she’d become President?”
“She’d bleach it, then impeach it,” the other guy said.
“Noticed Putin’s hair’s blond?”
“I hear he’s auditioned for Fox News.”
“No kidding! Fox’s women are all blond; the men are bald or black-haired.”
“That’s racist,” a blond fellow butted in.
“Why? They all paint it, black or white,” someone else said.
“So to become President, you must be blond or paint your hair?” his friend asked.
“If you look at the primaries, only the blond ones made it.”
“But the former POTUS hair was black,” another guy said.
“Yeah, but he was black,” his neighbor pointed out.
“That’s racist,” the blond fellow repeated.
“You must be a liberal,” his neighbor said. “Only liberals call everything racist.”
“And you must be a white supremacist,” the blond fellow sneered, his voice rising.
“And you must keep your mouth shut,” his neighbor shouted, hammering his empty stein on the counter.
“Hey, guys, cool it, let’s have another blond!” Fred said.
Fresh blonds came along.
“I’ll have a black stout,” I asked the bald bartender.
“You must be a racist!” the blond fellow gibed.
“I knew you’d say that Blondie,” I said. “Go paint your hair somewhere else!”
“I stay right here,” the blond fellow said. “Free speech.”
“Free speech your ass!” Fred said. “You guys get always rude when you lose an argument.”
A blonde waitress behind the counter joined us arguing men.
“Gentlemen prefer blondes,” she said, handing me my black stout, staring down the blond loudmouth. “But for that, you must be a gentleman first.”
The blond fellow blushed and shut up.
“Hi, Amy,” one guy greeted her, glad that the ruckus abated. “We got an issue here.”
“Yeah, who wins the French elections?” Fred’s neighbor asked her. “I bet it’s Mary.”
“We just had elections, didn’t we?” Amy said.
“I mean that Mary The Pan in Paris.”
“Isn’t she a boxer?” Ami asked, holding up her arm and flexing her biceps.
“She wants to be French President, and she’s blonde like you,” Fred clarified.
“Like Hillary?” Amy said. “Then she must win.”
“But she’s extreme rightwing,” Fred’s neighbor said.
“I never eat wings,” Ami said, “left or right. Bad for your hormones.”
“Fred,” I said, “now she’s talking! I’m getting hungry.”
“I got nice spicy wings for you; just a minute,” Amy offered.
“But what about my hormones?”
“You’ve got white hair,” Amy said. “You won’t know the difference.”
“Right,” the blond fellow came back. “With that hair, you must be rightwing.”
Fred and I looked at each other.
“We’ll offer you another blond, Blondie,” Fred growled. “If you stop yammering. You guys lost.”
“Right-o,” Blondie cheered. “Blond trumps.”
