The man removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. He slowly tries to focus on the TV again but the running headline is still the same: President Elect Trump. For once, he is stunned silent. They really did it. They really did. After weeks of telling his wife that the great US of A couldn’t – wouldn’t succumb to the 2016 crazy virus like the Brits did, he was proven wrong.
The man shakes his head slowly. Which idiots should he embrace? Does he flee his adopted country and find his way back to Britain? He tries to weigh them. Is he willing to trade in one orange buffoon for the likes of Theresa May, Boris Johnson or Nigel Farage? The man runs his hands through his dark hair as perspiration forms on his brow. He had launched a one-man campaign against the man who would become President Orange One for the better part of a year. He takes a sip of his Bud Light lime, marveling that it was heaven’s nectar compared to the bitter pill the American public has forced him to swallow.
Would the Orange One take revenge for the little hand jokes now? He reaches for the remote but his Casio watch catches his eye so he grabs his cell phone instead.
“Hi,” he says matter-of-factly when the call connects. “This is John Oliver and I am willing to offer Drumpf the one thing he wants in exchange for not being carted off to Guantanmo Bay.”
There is silence on the line so he continues, “My Emmy. I am willing to trade him my bloody Emmy.”
Rilzy Adams, 2016