NEW YORK—If only my friendly wordsmith Jeremy Clarke had been with me, what fun he’d have had with the ungallant thing I did last week. Jeremy’s writing thrives on such occasions, but alas, he’s in the land of cheese and impressionism. I had just finished lunch with my friend Alex Sepkus, a unique jewelry designer, and a Catholic priest whose name I will not reveal in view of what followed. After all, the Catholic Church loves sinners, but hooliganism is discouraged.
I was walking up 5th Avenue—packed to the gills with shoppers, gawkers, and tourists—when I got to 56th Street, blocked off by armed police and steel barriers, a bottleneck to end all bottlenecks as protesters screamed and shouted abuse at the black glass rock that is Trump Tower. One woman carrying a sign and looking like a 21st-century Mme. Defarge was by far the loudest. Never have I seen such hate, her eyes slits of shrillness and loathing for the orange man lording it over the mob high above.
Just as I brushed passed her, I don’t know what came over me but I politely asked her if she also gave blowjobs. Without missing a beat she swung the sign, trying to nail it on my head, but missed. A cop saw her and tried to arrest her. But when he saw me laughing he thought better of it and only told her to behave. I got lost in the crowd, but for about a minute she forgot about the Donald up high and screamed bloody murder against the poor little Greek boy. Some tourists stopped ogling the black tower and demanded to know who the well-dressed man was for the protester to go so bananas. “She mistook me for Trump,” is all I said.
The ones I feel sorry for are the retail merchants whose stores are now blocked by the programmed robots—paid to protest by George Soros, I might add—whose businesses are now zero, especially during this high-end period of holiday shopping. The irony is that the spiritually crippled protesters are paid to do what they’re doing, while the merchants are offloading nada. The paid protesters are damn good actors. They show a burning intensity, soulful suffering, and haunted brooding, emotions that one no longer can find either on stage or on the screen. None of the imbeciles standing around and watching the protests have much to say about the merchants’ plight. People who work, after all, are the types who voted the wrong way, so the hell with them. The woman whom I asked that rather indelicate question was white, middle-aged, and very ugly. But well-dressed, most likely a possessor of a small fortune left to her by either a husband who committed suicide or a father who also took his own life.