NEW YORK—If only my friendly wordsmith Jeremy Clarke had been with me, what fun he’d have had with the ungallant thing I did last week. Jeremy’s writing thrives on such occasions, but alas, he’s in the land of cheese and impressionism. I had just finished lunch with my friend Alex Sepkus, a unique jewelry designer, and a Catholic priest whose name I will not reveal in view of what followed. After all, the Catholic Church loves sinners, but hooliganism is discouraged.
I was walking up 5th Avenue—packed to the gills with shoppers, gawkers, and tourists—when I got to 56th Street, blocked off by armed police and steel barriers, a bottleneck to end all bottlenecks as protesters screamed and shouted abuse at the black glass rock that is Trump Tower. One woman carrying a sign and looking like a 21st-century Mme. Defarge was by far the loudest. Never have I seen such hate, her eyes slits of shrillness and loathing for the orange man lording it over the mob high above.
Just as I brushed passed her, I don’t know what came over me but I politely asked her if she also gave blowjobs. Without missing a beat she swung the sign, trying to nail it on my head, but missed. A cop saw her and tried to arrest her. But when he saw me laughing he thought better of it and only told her to behave. I got lost in the crowd, but for about a minute she forgot about the Donald up high and screamed bloody murder against the poor little Greek boy. Some tourists stopped ogling the black tower and demanded to know who the well-dressed man was for the protester to go so bananas. “She mistook me for Trump,” is all I said.
The ones I feel sorry for are the retail merchants whose stores are now blocked by the programmed robots—paid to protest by George Soros, I might add—whose businesses are now zero, especially during this high-end period of holiday shopping. The irony is that the spiritually crippled protesters are paid to do what they’re doing, while the merchants are offloading nada. The paid protesters are damn good actors. They show a burning intensity, soulful suffering, and haunted brooding, emotions that one no longer can find either on stage or on the screen. None of the imbeciles standing around and watching the protests have much to say about the merchants’ plight. People who work, after all, are the types who voted the wrong way, so the hell with them. The woman whom I asked that rather indelicate question was white, middle-aged, and very ugly. But well-dressed, most likely a possessor of a small fortune left to her by either a husband who committed suicide or a father who also took his own life.
Mind you, had the sign made contact I might not be writing this column. My gray hair saved me, as far as the cop was concerned. I was the only man wearing a suit among thousands of people dressed like coal miners, but without the dignity of those hardy men who go underground. What is it that makes moral superiority such a phony but effective cause for protest? How is it possible for one of the world’s most—in my opinion, that is—evil men not behind bars, George Soros, to mask himself in virtue by paying self-aggrandizing, mostly young well-off people to protest while the cameras are whirling, and they’re sure are whirling nonstop since last Tuesday two weeks ago. Mme. Defarge aside, the protesters remind me of Tony Last, held prisoner by a madman reciting Dickens in perpetuity. They will be yelling the same slogans eight years from now, or for as long as the ill-gotten Soros billions hold out.
Soros is a snake. He operates in the name of virtue instead of in the name of greed, materialism, and avarice—that is his creed. Needless to say, the media is pushing the envelope like never before. The Old Hag, whose majority stockholder is a Mexican jumping bean by the name of Carlos Slim with a fortune close to 50 billion smackers, has abandoned all pretenses of reporting and objectivity and now prints only stories that fit to demonize Trump. (“It’s the apocalypse…”) Even the trained seals have joined in the fun. I happened to be in a theater about fifteen years ago and sitting near Netanyahu during a period he was out of power. If a member of the cast had, during a curtain call, exhorted him to stop building illegal settlements and stop occupying the West Bank, the outrage would have been universal, and rightly so. Although Israel has been occupying the West Bank since 1967, Trump has not occupied the White House, at least not yet, and while the Israelis occupied the West Bank through force of arms, Trump will occupy the White House after a legal vote. Yet a trained seal reads out his concerns and is cheered for it. The arrogance and hostility of the Hamilton cast illustrate why Trump will be moving into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in a few weeks.
They never learn, do they, and they continue to remain under the pathetic misconception that rappers and reality stars and actors and professional grievance-mongers represent the real America. In the meantime, if any of you visit the Big Bagel and suffer even the slightest from agoraphobia, stay away from 5th Avenue and 56th Street.
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