Little Old Ladies in the Pool–Redux
There are a few of us who are diehard liberals–we know each other and we float in packs like a wrinkled raft.
One of my diehard liberals was beating the water in a frenzy today. She was furious. She’d spent the weekend with in-laws who were staunch supporters of the pustule in the White House, and she’d given herself sciatica working out too hard to vent her rage.
I raged a little with her. “My one consolation–ONE consolation,” I told her, “Is that he appears to be rotting from the inside out. I hope it’s syphilis.”
She gave a harsh bark of laughter.
I asked her, “Do you know how people die of syphilis? Shit literally rots off their body, like their noses and tongues and cheeks fall off, and they’re in agonizing pain. And since he refuses to get a real doctor to look him over, and since we all know he’s a horrible abomination of a human being who treats women like trash, he could very possibly have syphilis.”
And this lovely woman–this beautiful grandmother, this staunch advocate for civil rights, this kind person who worries about the welfare of everybody in the pool–lights up. Completely. As though a flame had been ignited within.
“Really?” she asked, so very hopefully.
“Yeah. It’s totally possible.”
She gave me a serene smile. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in three years. Seriously. Namaste.”
Namaste, y’all. Poetic justice lives.