Infinite Jeb


“Good morning everyone. Good morning.”

He doffed the cap he wasn’t wearing to the woman pouring fresh-squeezed, Florida-grown orange juice for those assembled around the large oval table.

“El zumo de naranja, por favor,” he said with exaggerated exactitude of pronunciation.

“Si, señor,” she said concealing the slightest of eye-rolls. She was third-generation Greek.

“You’re smart to have her pour it now, Jeb. When I’m el presidente she’ll be back in Mexico growing smokus pokus on the family marijuana plantation. And not the medicinal kind, Doc. The real stuff.”

She never lifted her eyes as she poured Carson’s juice.

“So the media has had a field day with my soon-to-be-validated theory that the Pyramids were grain stores created by Joseph. Jeb, ask Conchita there who created those smaller pyramids in the Mayan Riviera. I can tell you one thing, it was not the Incas. Those savages were too busy offering up human sacrifices the Sun Gods. They didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. That’s why they’re no more. Smote. To build something like that, you’ve got to be on team Carpenter— get it?”

“As the only Jew at this table,” Sanders paused dramatically for effect, holding his hands wide open without evident reason, “I can tell you CONCLUSIVELY, that no Jew would use the pyramids to store Grain. Salt yes. But not grain. That’s more crazy talk from the heart surgeon who ironically has none.”

“But now, if you’ll ALLOW me to tie these two stories together— Trump’s xenophobic, homophobic, misogynistic and arguably moronic plan to kick more than eleven million hard-working residents of America to the curb, with Carson’s baffling, bewildering, anti-science, ahistorical, fundamentally fundamentalist gibberish, I’ll say this: have you ever been SO STONED on Mexicali herb that LITERALLY every SINGLE fuck left your body? Have you? Rubio, don’t tell me you haven’t.  Anyways, I was walking down the Burlington Mall when a homeless guy— who deserves as much dignity as anyone else, I might add— offered me a hit of his blunt. WHO AM I to say no? You wouldn’t, Cruzer, I can tell you that much— not being a fucking Canadian in the first place. So I hit off this thing, which BASICALLY looks like French baguette wrapped in toilet paper— it’s this big, Carly, I’m telling you. So I hit this thing like it’s Woodstock and the next thing I know something deeply profound happened. Now, I am ONE HUNDRED PERCENT COMMITTED to the separation of Church and State, but I tell you, this level of being stoned was religious. Talk about ‘feeling the Bern.’ And it was at that precise moment, on that beautiful Burlington Mall just in front of The Gap, that every SINGLE fuck left my body. And with no more fucks to give, I made the decision that legalizing marijuana would be JOB ONE as soon as this old Jew’s tuchus gets tucked behind the big desk in the oval office.”

“Bernie, I may be from Texas by way of Canada, but I know a batshit crazy American when I see one. You do the nation of Israel, our single greatest ally in all the wide world that God himself made in just six glorious days, I might add, you do that fine and noble nation a great disservice with your loose morals, socialist and scandalous beliefs, and heavy, heavy weed consumption. Not only do I not like green eggs and ham, said Sanders I am, I do not like green cards, border fences, or even sensible marijuana legislation. Nooo, it’s no rules for Bernie. Bring your weed. Bring your guns. Rape our women. Soak up all our resources. Drive up the cost of wages for hard-working American whites.”

“You fucking dog, Cruz. You stole my stump speech. I was looking all over for that.”

“You left it in the shitter, DT. Sloppy. Not very Presidential. You’re no Simon Cowell. Just another reason you’re not fit to be the leader of the free Christian world.”

“I’ll fit my Bruno Magli, not made in the U-S-A incidentally since we can’t make anything here any more, I’ll fit it right up your ass. You know what you are? You know what we call you on The Apprentice? We call you “Bread Face”. You’re born up north and look like you’re from Mexico. You’re like the bread top and bottom. I’m THE FUCKING MEAT!”

“I have to say, as the son of Spanish-speaking immigrants, I find this entire breakfast highly offensive. From offending the staff, whose name is ‘Rosa’ incidentally, to judging the Cruz book by its admittedly Mexican sounding cover, to speaking offensively about the older folks and Jews who are every bit as American as you and me…”

“Even an old hippy Jew is more American than you, Rubes. You’re like eleven, and seven of those years were probably spent rolling cigars in Havana.”

“Donald. I’m going through my old blackberry emails from you, and in this one dated January 14th you say you think Rubio would be an ideal running mate for you. I quote, ‘he’ll bring out el vote in the South where they don’t speak English anyway’. And the best part is, it’s a PS in a note you sent asking if you could develop a golf course resort inside the Kabul green zone.”

“It’s a great idea and could make you millions, Dragon Lady. Millions you’d then give away to every lazy dog that lines the street all the way do your door— starting with your skirt-chasing husband (whom I like a great deal, incidentally). Hillary, I knew Margaret Thatcher— very small teeth– and you’re no Margaret Thatcher. Doc, you’re good with your hands. So’s my masseuse. So’s Eddie Van Halen. None of you will be President. Carly, I’m genuinely sorry I made fun of your face. Truly. I should have definitely just focused on how you cut the value of HP in half virtually over night. ‘You’re Fired!’. Rand— the closet called. It wants you back. Kasich- a moderate Republican is an oxymoron. You’re the only Moron who doesn’t see that. Marco, you seem like a nice, earnest kid. Not get your fucking shine box! Gramps— I mean Bernie— I love that you just love weed. I just hope you don’t die skiing stoned when I’m in the White House. I hate Vermont in the winter. Or summer for that fact. Terrible Ted. You’ve got game. You could win on The Apprentice. You can look people dead in the eye and smile as you turn the blade. Don’t make plans for the next four years. You’re riding shotgun.”

“Who have I left out? Oh, yes. Hillary. Not sure what says more about you, that fucking Benghazi— a place I could not find on a map if my life hung in the balance and you circled every place that begins with a ‘B’ and ends in ‘azi’— brought you down or that you still rock a Blackberry! You’re pathetic! You know what else is pathetic? That me or even Cafe Cubano Rubio will get more of the women’s vote than you will. Sleep tight thinking about that fact.”

“Last but not least, dear Jeb. To shit the bed even more than your brother… Wow. I don’t have anything to add. If your heart wasn’t in it, you should have stayed retired in Florida with all the other zombies.”

“To you all, let me remind you—this is not a test. It’s just a game. Play the goddamn game! Look at this hair. Not one of you has had the balls, including you Hillary, to call me out on it. ‘Shut your hole, Uncle Fester. Eat shit cue ball.’ Nothing. I’m ridiculous. It’s teed up for you. And all you can do is stutter about itemized deductions and shit nobody really cares about. It’s a game. Give the people what they want. They want shock and awe. Fire and brimstone. Loudmouth soup. Name calling. Finger pointing. Back biting. This is political Survivor and I’m the only one pulling in the ratings. My back’s killing me from carrying you around. Get with it. Release the hounds! Come out swinging. It’s earnings time. Maximize. Marginalize. Trivialize. Snap-to. It. Is. On.”

“That criticism aside, it’s been a blast. A few housekeeping notes before we adjourn. One, this is on me. My treat. I’m putting it on the production company tab. Second, all of this has been recorded. All of it. The guys back in the truck will work something up and I’ll get you a link to a roughcut and the teaser. Sorkin’s looking at optioning it as a ten-part series. You won’t believe this, but the Koch brothers are scoring it. One plays viola. The other plays congas. Can’t remember which is which. Should be interesting.”

“However much loot you thought you’d make in office pales in comparison to what fucking Rainn Wilson makes each season on The Office! The Donald is going to make you flush with cash— all for getting a little flushed in the face.”

“That’s a real fair trade agreement. Am I right?”

“You’re fucking gross. I hope you die,” Rosa said, dropping the OJ pitcher as she left the room.

She gets it. What’s wrong with you people?”

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