So. I remember, and it seems like a couple years ago, when I first saw ads for “Trump University”. It appears our boy Donald “Ain’t No Such-A Thing as Too Much Hairspray” Trump was advertising to teach poor folks how to get rich, and quick. Charged the suckers as much as $35,000 for seminars to give them his secrets. I remember that I was wondering how much gall it took to charge $35,000 to tell people that they need to be born rich and then limit their losses on daddy’s inherited fortune, when Mother brought it up at the breakfast table.
“Did you hear that Mr. Trump is giving a seminar here in Austin next week? I was disappointed when he fired NeNe from the Celebrity Apprentice show, but isn’t it nice of him to share his knowledge and good fortune with the unfortunate.”
There was a pause—one of those “everyone stops eating at the same time to listen to Sally’s fake orgasm dealios”—and I figured I’d take the first shot at my right-wing Christian conservative mother’s silly-assed comments. “OK, Mother, I don’t even know where to start with that load of horse shit,” I began. “For starters, how can you have the least bit of interest in a man who is paying to sponsor the slur campaign against the President with that “Birther” bullshit? How can you support that sort of racist behavior?”
My mother took a sip of her hot tea, daintily wiped her lips with her napkin like a proper lady, and took the slow, painful breath of air that has become the prelude to a lecture on her martyred life. “My mother told me not to marry your father, son, but I didn’t listen. I could have married into a sophisticated family from Coastal Virginia, but your father, God rest his heathen soul, hypnotized me with those damned Johnson eyes. I guess it’s God’s will that I’m burdened with teaching my own family about family values. Mister Trump is trying his hardest to find the proof we need to get that Muslim out of the White House.”
It was at that point that steam started spewing from Gram’s nostrils. Her mouth was full of this spinach and smoked pork fritatta I’d made with the Gouda cheese that Sac Ellen had brought me from California. The creamy cheese made the oven baked scrambled eggies chewy and quite tasty.
“Wath tha futh yoth thayinth, Smothr?” Gram managed from her egg-packed maw. “I’mmath slith yerth throth swith thisth spoonth.”
My mother still lacked the good sense to keep some of her shitty ideas to herself even after decades of living under the protection of the Johnson family roof. Her husband—my daddy and Gram’s only child—was a solid man. An honest, hardworking, loving and an afflicted ADHD-addled fuckbrain much as yours truly. Mother can start Gram’s motor on any number of topics, but when she speaks poorly of Daddy, the “slit your throat with a spoon” thoughts fill my grandmother’s head.
“Mr. Trump is an amazing, Christian man. He helps all those talented young women with college scholarships in his pageants, he generates millions of dollars of donations to wonderful charities with his Apprentice show, and he fosters good will and truth in politics by funding the investigations to impeach this Muslim foreigner you people elected President. Why just the other week it was discovered that Obama was married to another gay man and murdered him so he could have a political career,” Mother went on. “How my own family could vote for evil over family values is beyond my ability to comprehend.”
“And how you can be so totally fucking racist and bigoted is completely beyond my ability to want to accept. Are you absolutely certain that you’re my mother? Are you sure that I wasn’t Daddy’s son from a girlfriend or something? I know he was my father, but how can you be my mother?”
I expected a different response, but did so in error. “It’s a good thing that I believe in a merciful God, son. I know that my Hell on Earth is His plan for my salvation. Living with this family will earn me a spot close to God’s right hand when He finally takes me home.”
Now that she’s demented and not living under the Johnson family roof, Mother’s martyrdom hasn’t waned as you’d expect. It’s intensified. I played poker down to the ABQ all day Saturday, so I’d missed all the latest news. Like the news that the State Attorney of New York has filed a fraud lawsuit against Hairbag Trump for $45 million. I was just finishing the paper where I read that the State of New York has solid evidence that Trump University lived up to its name and had bilked millions from the suckers with trumped-up claims. My phone rang.
Me: “Hello, Mother. How’s it hanging, baby?”
Mother: “Where are you, Mooner?”
Me: “Still in Santa Fe and hunting for a giant black pecker to see if I might be homosexual. Just like the last 288 times you’ve asked.”
Mother: “You need to be careful what you say, young man. God will strike you down for even thinking about sodomy. Now shut up and listen. I need a favor.”
Me: “I wasn’t planning on sticking the giant black pecker up my ass, Mother, I was planning to… What do you mean you need a favor?”
Mother: “I need you to go into my bedroom there at the ranch and open my safe. Get out all my jewelry and sell it. Bring me the money. Right now!”
Me: “OK, for starters, I’m in Santa Fe, not Austin, and furthermore, you don’t need to be selling anything. You’ve got plenty of money to live on and most of that jewelry isn’t yours to sell—it’s family stuff that you will pass down.”
Mother: “Why are you in Santa Fe? Did you divorce Roshandra? I knew that wouldn’t last.”
Me: “Mother, Roshandra and I divorced years ago and there’s been five more since. Now tell me why you want cash so urgently.”
Mother: “I don’t have to tell you a thing. It’s my money and my problem.”
Me: “OK, how much do you need?
Mother: “$45 million dollars”
Me: “Huh? Have you lost what’s left of your feeble mind? What inthefuck could you possibly want with $45 million dol… You’ve got to be kidding. Are you planning to pay Donald Fucking Trump’s fraud fines? Really?”
Mother: “Don’t you curse at me, you heathen. God will strike you down.”
Right after that Sister called to warn me to expect Mother’s call. Seems that she and Anna had been to see our shared womb holder Saturday and took her to lunch. Sister told me that when they arrived at the hostess desk to get a table, Mother said to the young girl, “We need a quiet table in the back, and don’t give us a homo-sex-u-al waiter. My system is weak and I can’t risk catching the infection.”
She also told me of the plan our batty old mother hatched to save Donald Trump’s good name and reputation. “She’s getting worse, Mooner. You need to come down and pay her a visit.”
“I’d rather send her the $45 million. How much can you loan me, sis?”
“It isn’t funny, asshole. If you come down I’ll let you kiss Anna on the lips.”
Anna—Sister’s wife and my ex-wife number three—has the ripe natural lips of that former model and actress, Brooke Shields. Many’s the times I’ve been slugged in the arm for moving in on those lips in my sister’s presence. Sister punched me so hard this one time I thought I would lose the use of my left arm.
OK, let’s stop for a grammar lesson. That next-to-last sentence of the previous paragraph has multiples of grammatical pitfalls contained therein. First, what is the contraction for “many was”? Second, might should the phrase be “many were”? And third, why do we say, “Many was the time,” when there were many having had time? OK, many were having had times, unless the many were having had the same time.
It should be, “Many were the times,” right?
I told my sister, I said, “Only way I’m coming down for the torture that is a visit to Mother’s place is if I get full lips, a little tongue action, and a quick squeeze—a two-handed squeeze.”
“You’ll come down for nothing but the knowledge that you’ve done the right thing, buster. And do it before the end of September. She’s slipping, Mooner, and it scares me. I’m still trying to make my peace with her and I‘m worried her mind will go before she gives in.”
I can’t imagine what it must be like to be gay and have your gayness hated by a parent. I know what it’s like to be hated by a parent for my simple existence, but I think gay hatred is much more venomous. My sister has tried to gain Mother’s acceptance her entire life. She needs it.
Me, I need a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, or so, y’all.