Excerpt from Praline Goes to Washington

As the limousine pulled up in front of Dump Tower, they couldn’t see much, except the hundreds of protesters across the street, the dozens of Secret Service staunchly guarding the entrance to the hotel, and the Washington, D.C., police out in force. Yolanda opened her purse and took out a pair of large, fashion-forward sunglasses for herself, and a pair of sunglasses each for Jason and Praline.
“Oh, are we going incognito?” Praline asked.
“Of course not, Pumpernickel, I love the paparazzi. No, these are to guard against the glare from the tower. The silver glaze used on the windows causes such a strong reflection that retinas have been detached.”
“He’s been sued over that a couple thousand times,” Jason said bitterly.
“Mr. Dump has never successfully been sued,” Yolanda said, defending her benefactor. “I read that on the Internet.”
“Except it’s not true, he’s lost dozens of court cases.”
“Really? Well that seems just so wrong,” complained Yolanda. “If I click on something I expect it to be true.”
Praline slipped on his sunglasses and could barely see anything. He couldn’t help but agree with Yolanda, though. Things you clicked on should be true. And most of the things that Praline clicked on were true. They were also mainly links to porn. And porn was always true. Wait, was it, though? It certainly looked like guys were having sex…though they could be using CGI. And, of course, when they said they were straight they were being completely honest—oh, maybe porn wasn’t quite as true as he’d thought.
Then Praline had to stop thinking about the nature of truth and reality and porn because they were getting out of the limousine and struggling with Yolanda’s luggage.
As they headed across the sidewalk to Dump Tower, a newsboy—well, newsman, news old man, possibly old alcoholic man—stood in front of the building giving out free copies of The National Inquisitor. Praline took one, of course. His mama loved The National Inquisitor and had also taught him it was rude to turn down free things.
“What are you doing? You don’t want that awful paper,” Jason said.
“But it’s free.”
“It’s also nothing but lies.”
Praline glanced at the front page. There was one of the best pictures of Helmut Dump he’d ever seen. He was so attractive it didn’t even look like him. The headline read DUMP ALREADY BEST PREZ EVER!
The sub-headlines were:
- Wins the War on Christmas!
- Exposes Climate Change as HVAC industry plot to raise prices!
- Sells Air Force One! Promises to take public trans!
- Foils terrorist plot to blow up White House!
“Are you sure Mr. Dump is all that bad?” Praline asked Jason. “Look, it says he foiled a terrorist attack all on his own.”
“Did you read the article or just the headline?”
“What could it say in the article that it didn’t say in the headline?”
“If you read the article it’s going to say that he’s suggested changing the address of the White house to make it harder for terrorists to find it.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
“Except it doesn’t change where the White House has always been. Just because you give it a street address that’s two blocks away doesn’t mean terrorists won’t find it.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I’d have trouble finding an address if I went to another country to blow something up.”
“Praline, it’s a big, white house. It’s not hard to find.”
Praline gasped. “They should paint it blue and change the address.”
Jason was still rolling his eyes when they were abruptly stopped by a couple of perky, teenage pollsters holding clipboards. “Would you mind very much answering a few questions?”
“We don’t really have—” Yolanda said.
“Excellent. Starting with you sir,” the first girl said to Jason. “On a scale of one to five, how do you feel about President-Elect Dump? Do you super-duper love him? Really-really like him? Think he’s amazing? Want to marry him? Or, number five, Think he’s just a really decent guy?”
“I despise the man,”’ Jason growled. “Why isn’t strongly disapprove on option on your survey?”
“Because we want to accurately reflect how much Mr. Dump is liked. Why would we count people who dislike him?” To the other pollster, she said, “Put him down as nonresponsive. How about you sir? Really-really like President-elect Dump? Think he’s amazing? Want to marry him? Or, number five, Think he’s just a really decent guy?”
“Um, well, he’s not bad,” Praline said, not wanting to upset Jason on the one hand but also not wanting to be marked nonresponsive. A corpse is nonresponsive.
“Great!” said the girl. “Put that down as ‘thinks he’s amazing.’ Now, how do you think President-elect Dump will handle the economy? ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’? It’ll be YUGE! Or: It will be challenging to overcome the Great Recession of 2016, but Dump is the man for it.”
“Wait,” Jason said, “The Great Recession was in 2008.”
“Says you!”
“This is a horrible poll. It’s completely biased.”
“Is not. It’s for Box News.”
“You just have to listen to their slogan to know it’s not biased.” The other girl said, before quoting their famous slogan. “Unbiased and untrue.”
“Jason, Pina Colada, come along now. We have a lot to do today.”
“Really? What are we doing?” Praline asked.
“This morning, I have interviews in the lobby. Then this afternoon I have a rehearsal.”
“You have no idea how to conduct a scientific poll, do you?” Jason refused to let it go. “Simply taking the poll in front of Dump Tower skews it. So what is the point—”
“Jason darling, don’t argue with them. You know it will just make you unhappy.” She leaned over to Praline and said, “He’s always been like this. In high school, he led the impeachment effort against their class president.”
“It would have worked, too, but the vice principal perjured herself.”
“Now, now, let’s not rehash the whole experience.”
Praline could see that Jason was still upset, so he decided to change the subject with, “Are we going to get to meet Mr. Dump?”
“Praline! Why would you want to do that?” Jason asked, his blood pressure visibly rising. Praline realized he might not have changed the subject in the right direction.
“No reason,” Praline said casually. Somehow he was going to have to get to the new president and convince him to start being nice without letting his boyfriend know what he was up to.
“I’m sure we’ll see him at some point,” Yolanda said, not too confidently. She led them to a line of people standing behind a series of metal barriers in front of the hotel.
Jason looked at his mother curiously, and asked, “Mother, who else is performing?”
“I don’t know. I’m told it’s star-studded.”
“But they didn’t give you any names?”
“Not exactly. I was told there’d be someone like Jerry Seinfeld and someone like Tom Hanks and someone like Beyonce.”
“But not any of those people.”
“No. Entertainers like them.”
Praline felt bad. As much as he loved Yolanda Grimes, he knew that she had fallen to the D-list as celebrities go. He had hoped that performing at the Inauguration meant she’d be rising to at least the C-list. Though it wasn’t looking good.
“Oh, I’m sure there will be lots of famous people here,” he said optimistically. “President-elect Dump used to be a television star and he won Ohio so I bet the cast of True Wives of Toledo will be here, and, um, that actor who said all those mean things about Jews to the police when he was drunk—and those duck-shooters maybe, and, um, well…”
“Todd Nugget,” Jason said, dryly.
“Oh yeah, isn’t he the old rock ’n’ roll guy who threatened to shoot the president for being a liberal?”
“Why isn’t someone like that in jail?” Jason asked.
“Free speech?” Praline guessed.
“That’s exactly the kind of speech that’s not protected, though. Death threats aren’t legal.”
“Maybe no one believed him.”
“Just because a death threat is far-fetched doesn’t mean it should be legal.”
Then, an incredibly gorgeous man in a navy suit, crisp white shirt, gray tie, dark aviator sunglasses and a chiseled chin walked up to them and said, “Good morning. Can I ask your business at Dump Tower?”
“I’m Yolanda Grimes. I’m performing at the Dump Ball tomorrow night. We have reservations.”
Turning to Jason, “And you are?”
“He’s my son. He’ll be with me the whole time.”
“And you?”
After waiting a moment, to see if Yolanda would explain who he was, Praline said, “I’m with them.”
The man, who was obviously a Secret Service agent, glanced back at Yolanda and raised his eyebrows in a question.
“Yes, he’s with us. Butter Brickle is a, uh, friend of my son’s.”
“Can I see identification from each of you?”
“Even me?” Yolanda asked.
“Sorry ma’am. Policy.”
She took her driver’s license out of the little red handbag she carried. Handing it to the agent, she said, “The lighting at the DMV is always so very harsh and unforgiving. And my date of birth is a typo. The numbers are transposed. Obviously.”
He glanced closely at it, handed it back to her and then took Jason’s. After a cursory glance, he returned it. As he took Praline’s license their eyes locked—well, as much as eyes can lock while both people are wearing sunglasses. Still, the look the agent gave him was enough to make Praline squeak and send a jolt of testosterone coursing through his body.
The agent read Praline’s license, then looked him up and down. Twice. He said something into his lapel, apparently that wasn’t just an American flag pin, before gesturing to Praline. “You’re going to need to come with me.”
“What? Why?” Jason immediately insisted.
“I’m just taking him to a private area for a routine pat down.”
“No. No, you can’t do that.”
“It’s all right, Jason. I’ll be fine with—what is your name, sir?”
“Carlyle. Agent Carlyle.”
“See, there’s nothing to worry about?” Praline assumed that he couldn’t be doing anything wrong if he was willing to give them his name.
“Praline, there isn’t any reason in the world for him to search you.”
“Apparently there was a shooting incident six months ago? Among other suspicious activity.”
“We were shot at,” Jason nearly yelled. “This is outrageous.”
“This won’t take long. I’ll have your friend back to you in just a few minutes.”
And with that, he whisked Praline away as Yolanda called out, “We’ll meet you at check-in, Taffy!”
Just inside the lobby door was a makeshift room made of burlap-covered privacy panels. Pushed up against one panel was a bare, folding banquet table with a gray plastic tub sitting on it.
Agent Carlyle took Praline’s duffle bag and set it on the table. Deftly, he rifled through the contents, quickly determining there wasn’t anything in the bag to concern him. He turned to Praline, “I’m going to need you to empty your pockets.”
“Yes, sir.”
Praline emptied his pockets of his keys—to Jason’s dad’s condo, Jason’s car, and his mama’s house in Lumpkinville, Georgia—his wallet, a half a dozen caramels, his Simsang Universe X with its Hollywood Hospital slipcase and impossible to remember passcode, and the triple-action pepper spray his mama had sent for Christmas—she still thought Los Angeles was the most dangerous place in the world and he could not dissuade her.
“Now I’m going to need you to remove your clothing.”
“Oh, um, well, all right. If you think that’s absolutely necessary.”
“I’m afraid it is. You have quite the Homeland Safety file. You’re marked ‘most-likely to cause an international incident.’”
“In high school, I was voted ‘most-likely to need dentures.’ I have a sweet tooth.”
“Yes, I know, that’s in your file.”
“Wow, that file is, um, detailed.”
“It also says you frequently engage in sexual relations with virtual strangers.”
“Frequently is a very judgmental word,” he said, as he folded up his jeans and set them onto the table next to his T-shirt. He cupped his hands in front of his Notty Boy briefs to hide any traces of last night’s wet dream and this morning’s semi-erection.
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Published on January 20, 2017 08:20 Tags: comedy, gay, humor, inauguration, satire
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