Having drank too much eggnog again for Christmas, sleeping that night was a bit of an issue. At one point, I awoke to remove the CPAP mask from my ear to put it back over my nose. Finally managing to grab a few "zzzz's," I experienced the most horrible nightmare.
Evidently, in my alcohol induced stupor, Jacob Marley visited. Scrooge’s former partner was there to “persuade” me to succumb to the media hype of the evils of Donald Trump. When I balked at being infected with Trump Derangement Syndrome, he violently shuddered, then demanded I come back from the "dark side,"…or else. I wondered how he was going to get that message to the other 63 million of us, but was afraid to ask.
Marley spent the night indoctrinating me of the merits and shortcomings of the various candidates among the Democrat party. Like everyone else, he ignored Richard Bennett, Julian Castro, John Delaney, Deval Patrick, Tom Steyer, and Maryanne Williamson, wailing they have about as much chance as being nominated as me. He pointed a meaty finger at me, but I was too frightened to protest. Then he muttered something about wasting valuable time and money.
Next, he brought up Bernie Sanders. Surprisingly, we were equally repulsed. Neither of us were about to endorse a socialist.
Having never had a job before in his life, the 78-year-old "Bern" thinks and acts like a Socialist. Me and Marley agreed…we don't like people who won't work. Being British, it boggled Marley’s mind that a Yank would consider socialism over good ‘ol American capitalism.
Marley was on a roll again, shrieking, chains rattling. “Nearly everyone in the world is jealous of this country, warts and all, and yet there are folks willing to risk losing what they have!” Frowning, Marley shoved a meme from Face Book under my nose. It read: "You can vote in socialism kids, but you have to shoot your way out." Quite poignant, if you ask me.
When I chimed in that "Bern" voters should go live in a socialist country, like Venezuela first, then come back and tell us about their experience, Marley eased up some. But, as best as I can recall the rest of the nightmare, Marley had many more messages:
“Joe Biden,” Marley screamed mockingly. “Bah humbug! At 77-years-old, with dementia breathing down his neck, and having been in politics for 46 years, there’s nothing left from him! Everybody realizes Joe's faults, but as he's the only politician remotely representing the Democrat party of old, mainstream Dems have no other option but that old coot.” Marley showed me scenes of Biden's past, coming down on every side of every issue during a long political career. “Never trust someone been on the government dole that long!” he moaned.
“Plus,” Marley continued, “Mark my words, boy. Joe will not make it to the Oval Office due to the skeletons falling out of his closet. That drug-addled son's escapades and those shenanigans in the Ukraine and China will come back to haunt him.”
I thought to myself, I might have a few skeletons of my own, but methinks Joe's guilty as "h, e, double hockey sticks, too." However, I wasn’t about to share that with Marley…in fear he’d show me my skeletons.
Marley next mentioned Michael Bloomberg, although in a softer voice. “You know, he might be 77-years-old but this guy might just buy his way in.” Marley obviously thinks Bloomy’s a heavyweight. “He seems to be in charge of all his faculties, despite that stupid "Gulp" debacle. You know, he’s worth $56 billion?”
‘As compared to that dastardly Trumps mere $3 billion,’ I thought but dared not mention. Instead I said, “Bloomberg ran New York City somewhat successfully, especially compared to their current mayor,” I chimed in. Marley blistered me with curses horribly at the mention of Mayor DeBlazio. I quickly apologized for bringing it up.
“Just like your boy, Trump, Bloomy’s a businessman first, a politician second,” Marley sniffed. “I find that attribute admirable. You put him on your short-list,” he demanded. I didn’t know I had a list.
About this time, I awoke from my nightmare in a cold sweat, feeling sick. Halfway to the bathroom I remembered the CPAP hose still attached to my schnozzle, pulling the machine to the floor and awaking the Missus. I jumped when she bellowed, sounding suspiciously like old man Marley. As she was already upset about my earlier prodigious egg nog consumption, the contraption clattering to the floor certainly didn’t help her disposition. After forty-years, I probably should have known that.
While in the lavatory, it occurred to me though, it must have been a dream, voting against by beloved Trumpster. Instantly, I felt better, my nightmare was over and Jacob Marley was gone.
Or so I thought. To be continued...