I Go to Work for the American Future

These are unprecedentedly difficult times, times that try men’s souls, and women’s, and even those of children whose parents don’t insulate them from news that every day gets more terrifying . In such times, it’s not enough to clutch one’s pearls and murmur, “OMG.” We must each of us, in such times, do everything in our power to forestall the advance of evil.

With this in mind, I contacted the southwest London office of MAGA International last week to see what I — one dilapidated old Jew with multiple orthopedic implants and a lifelong tendency toward immobilizing depression — could do to help President Trump realize his vision for a re-greatened America. I was thrilled to be told that the movement’s need for volunteers was inexhaustible, and encouraged to come in for an interview.

A pretty young woman of the sort one might expect to see on Fox News, presiding over press conferences in the White House, or even heading up the Department of Justice, greeted me with a warm smile that betrayed perfect teeth and a firm, but in no way masculine, handshake. She wore impractical shoes and said her name was Lucy, which I of course understood to be spelled LuCeigh.

She gave me an aptitude test. I was to compose responses to my choice of five Truth Social…truths (Twitter used to be call them tweets). What fun! I picked a truth from True Patriot Not the MAGA Kind in which he asserted that President Trump is a stupid, incompetent, infantile, delusional, corrupt, hateful, petulant, vulgar, treacherous, soulless fascist whose economic “policies” [True Patriot’s quotation marks!] were “characteristically ill-conceived…and will cause universal suffering”). In my proposed response, I suggested that True Patriot was a traitor and a malodorous puke puddle, and wondered aloud how one achieved his level of stupidity. “Do you take night classes in clueless wokeness or something?”

LuCeigh seemed delighted with my work. She loved “malodorous”, which she believed to be the sort of word an ivory tower woketard wrongly imagined to be the sole province of high school graduate elitists. Her only criticism was that I’d neglected to accuse TP of pedophilia.

She then gave me the name of another apostate and said I had 15 minutes to find out as much about her as I could. Within nine minutes I had ascertained the apostate’s husband’s and children’s names, her employer, and the names of the two “besties” with whom she’d spent a week in Cozumel 11 months before. I couldn’t get her smartphone number for the life of me in the remaining six minutes, but I did secure that of the dog grooming business of which she was a co-owner.

LuCeigh could hardly have been more delighted. “You are a find!” she exulted, beaming. We went into her office and chatted. Was she trying to hit on me? Was it true that some women, even those with perfect white teeth, expensive-looking gorgeous blonde hair, and shoes of the sort in which Melania Trump is never not glimpsed value wit and charm and erudition over thick, lustrous hair of its original color, fat wallets, and magazine-cover abs? Oh, may it be so, I thought, using the English subjunctive, which, unlike the Spanish, is indistinguishable from the indicative.

It turned out, though, that what was turning LuCeigh on was my soft-spokenness, which she thought made me a wonderful candidate for phone work. What I would do as one of the office’s “phone-icians” (apparently LuCeigh’s own coinage, and wasn’t she proud of it!) was call apostates like the Cozumel-visitor I’d researched, tell them I knew where they lived and where their children went to school, wonder pointedly if maybe they’d like to be less vocal about their dissatisfaction with President Trump, and then hang up when they shrieked in horror, outrage, or whatever.

It sounded like fun, and 46 hours later, I sat down in my own dedicated cubicle, in which I was advised I was allowed to display a single photograph of a loved one, and multiple images of President Trump and Attorney General Bondi.

A dream come true!