Celebrate Valentine’s MAGA-Style
Celebrate Valentine’s MAGA-Style
It is common for us in Geezerville to suffer from chronic medical issues. My issue has caused me to visit a clinic on Tuesdays for several months. These visits are generally very pleasant; the nurses are pretty and amiable, and the doctors kind, competent and efficient.
I also struck up an acquaintance with another elderly Tuesday patient, Donna, who had a culinary background similar to mine. We loved to trade stories about our dining adventures and misadventures.
She told me of the time she proudly took British guests to a wine bar, only to watch the bar’s employees deftly step over the bar’s owner, who was passed out drunk on the floor. She was mortified, but her laughing guests roared: “It’s bloody just like home, it is!” I described sitting in a smoke-filled burger place in Berkeley, its grill ablaze, with fire trucks arriving.
The frantic owner was trying to extinguish the conflagration while loudly trying to convince an annoying young man that he couldn’t cook a cheeseburger because the grill was on fire.
“Are you insane?” he bellowed. “I cannot cook! Cannot you see that the grill is on fire?”
The young man thought for a moment, then said, “Cool! No problem, dude. Can I get fries too?”
Our conversations were enjoyable until the Tuesday after the Capitol insurrection. That morning, she burst thorough the clinic’s doors, mask-less, a bright-red MAGA hat pulled tight over her small gray-haired head
“Uh- oh!” I mumbled.
She plopped her frail frame into a chair six feet opposite mine. She generally wore attractive make-up that belied her age, but today she was pale, old, cranky and belligerent looking.
The clinic’s receptionist approached. “Donna, where’s your mask?” she asked.
Donna glared at her. “I’m not wearing a mask anymore,” she snapped. “The COVID virus is a Liberal hoax, and as fake as the election and this so-called new President, Sleepy Joe.”
The no-nonsense, busy receptionist was stunned by Donna’s rant and unseemly hostility, but quickly recovered.
“Donna, you’ll have to leave,” she ordered.
“You know the clinic’s mask protocols. No mask, no service. I’m canceling your appointment and your patient acceptance. You’ll need to seek treatment else¬where.”
Donna angrily and stiffly struggled out of her seat; but the logistics of her foolish behavior suddenly hit her. She sat down, fished a “Trump Won!” mask from her purse and snapped it on. The receptionist gave a curt “Thank you” and turned away.
Donna stared at the clinic TV and CNN, mumbled “fake news”, then looked at me.
“I can’t believe our king lost to that socialist creep, can you?” she asked.
“Sure I can,” I answered. Like 82 million others, I voted for the socialist.”
“Why?” she implored.
“Because your king is a demagogued”
Donna looked confused “ What’s food got to do with it?” She asked to my greater confusion.
Grateful for Donna’s poor hearing- she thought I said demi-glace, a sauce- and the miraculous segue she handed me, I ran with it.
“Speaking of which,” I said, “Valentine’s Day is coming up. What would you serve your king for dinner?”
Donna snickered and smiled for the first time that day. “Oh, you liberal socialist America and freedom haters are so naïve,” she hissed. “My king has no patience for silly affectations like love, romance, courtship or dating. He would approach me, grab me.”
“Basta!” (Enough) I yelled.
“Exactly! “Said Donna, her hearing getting worse. “I would make my king some pasta! He loves Queen Melania’s spaghetti!”
“That’s fake news,” I gleefully interjected. The spaghetti Melania’s famous for is the “Diamond spaghetti” necklace she was twirling like spaghetti on an old cover of Vanity Fair magazine. According to reports, Melania is far too busy to cook.”
Donna looked appalled. “Twirling a diamond necklace like spaghetti, with so many poor people in America? That’s insulting and amoral!”
I kept the miracle segue going. “Well, you could cook your king’s real favorite, a rib-eye steak, pan-fried till well done, then drowned in ketchup.”
Donna’s culinary instincts kicked in. She howled, “Who in their right mind would cook such a fine cut of beef well done, then destroy it further with ketchup?”
“Exactly,” I smirked. “As the old saying goes, you eat what you are.”
Then, a nurse called my name, and I left Donna in the waiting room.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I laughed.
“Right.” Donna grumbled.
When I returned the following week, Donna wasn’t there. A nurse told me that she had quit the clinic because it was “too liberal.”
Loving the return to sanity at firstname.lastname@example.org