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Trump's Golf Caddy Tells All 

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As sabers rattle and bird-brained POTUS' tweets echo around the globe, the "stable genius" in the White House has conceived a remarkably rational long-term plan. So, here it is, straight from his confidant-golf-caddy, Bruce Schtikelmeister:

"As his golf caddie, I've been privy to some of Trump's deepest thoughts. Indeed, he has shared some remarkable off-the-record remarks. For instance, we were on the second hole tee box at the Trump National Golf Club, when he turned to me and said, 'You know that little bimbo that works in the pro-shop? Pretty fucking sexy, huh? I nailed her in the clubhouse after hours last Easter, and, frankly, it was even better than the second coming.'

"I tried to suppress my shock, but my mouth was stuck wide open. 'I can see you're horrified,' he added. 'You should try her sometime yourself—best lay you'll ever have.' Then, as a sort of afterthought, he noted, 'You know, a little strange ass is good for your marriage.'

"Besides his advice on spicing up my sex life, Trump has occasionally taken me into confidence on his strategic plans for our nation. Each time he does that, I feel more than a slight rush of fear. He's tried to legitimize his sharing of state secrets by ordering the State Department to give me a top secret security clearance. He was turned down. Anyway, just the other day, he turned to me as we headed out to the course. 'Bruce,' he said warmly, 'I'd like to bounce an idea off of you. As my caddy, I have great respect for your opinions—not just about golf, but about international affairs as well. I trust your judgment, almost as much as I trust Jared's.'

"I was gob-smacked; here I was, a mere caddy, and the President of the United States was, essentially, making me part of his family. 'Sir,' I beamed, 'I'm overwhelmed by your confidence.' Then his tiny little mouth opened into an almost perfect circle, and he started: 'Bruce, I've given a lot of thought to the environment—particularly the threat of greenhouse gasses on our world—and I've come up with a brilliant solution. I guess you've seen the latest news on tankers in the Gulf of Oman being blown up? (You can't say anything to anyone else, but those were my people who did it.)'

"My sense of privileged elation hit a wall, and a sick feeling enveloped me. I always knew the boss was a complete SOB, but this was the worst. 'You, know, Bruce, we're going to be attacking Iran and blowing it off the map.' My nausea worsened. 'That means in order to save face on my previous threats, it will have to be 100% annihilation.' I gasped; I couldn't believe what he was saying, but his serious look morphed into a devious smile. 'That,' he beamed, 'is what I call my own Green New Deal. With 81 million less people on the planet,' he paused as he pulled out his pocket calculator and punched its keys, 'that will lower CO2 emissions—at 2.3 pounds per person per day—by over 32 million tons per year. Even my most vocal opponents will understand that I have done something truly great for the world.'

"As Trump's caddy, I had a role to play. It didn't matter how appalled I was; my job was to agree with everything he said. I had advised him to use a nine iron on his 13th hole approach shot, but he insisted on his eight. As his conscientious advisor, I had a duty to make sure his erratic game came together, so I took a moment to reason with him. 'President Trump, it's only 80 yards to the hole, and we have a nasty tailwind.' Almost apologetically, I added, 'I'm just helping you to win this round.' His orange face turned a bright red, and he barked like a rabid dog. 'Don't ever question my judgment,' he yelled. Realizing that there were other people close by, he toned it down to a whisper. 'It's an eight-iron; you'll see. Remember, I'm a lot smarter than you.'

"He leaned over, addressed the ball, did a perfect backswing, and did the shot. The ball was still exactly where it lay. 'Oh, fuck,' he blurted, 'I'm going to have the pro-shop manager fired. He's the one who re-gripped my clubs, and the new ones absolutely stink. They're too damned slippery; that's why I missed the ball.' I did my conciliatory nod of reverent acknowledgment. Once more he addressed the ball and swung, overshooting the hole by a good 15 yards. 'Damn it, Bruce, you picked the wrong club.'

"I almost whispered because I sensed it to be a mistake, 'Sir, you didn't take my advice.' Once again his face turned beet red. 'Any caddy worth his salt would have had me play the nine. You're fired—but could you stay on at least for the rest of this round.' I let his golf bag slip off my shoulder and dropped it at his feet. 'With all due respect, sir, you can carry your own fucking bag from now on.'"

The author is a former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and one mongrel dog. Send feedback to comments@cityweekly.net

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