Donald Trump is everywhere. He’s sitting at my bar. Right now. He’s drinking from a tumbler of whisky and dipping his entire hand into the bowl of bar nuts, then licking his fingers, then dipping, then licking, over and over again. Instead of just putting some on a plate he’s contaminating the entire bowl and that’s kind of like our Republican Presidential Nominee.

You’re like my 84 year old racist grandpa except you’re not my grandpa thank God I have enough trouble with my grandmother using the term “Oriental” every time she sees an Asian walking by. You seem to think that everyone at the bar shares your political views kind of like Mr. Trump…just “ask the gays”.

You take a deep breath and I’m preparing for the worst. You sit up a little straighter and you clear your throat and you’re standing on the bar stool aka your soapbox. “I don’t mind the Mexicans,” you say. And that’s one hell of a start. Keep going. Can I get you a tostada? Or would you rather me serve you up a piping hot bowl of White Supremacy?

“I don’t mind the Mexicans. The ones that work hard. That contribute. But those drug addicts, the gangsters in the Barrio. The rapists. The criminals. They’re just bringing us down.”

And I have to say I’m surprised you even know a single Spanish word. You’re so culturally advanced in that little melting pot of a mind you possess. And listen, I love America. I love the fact that you have the freedom to sit here and say this stuff it’s what makes this country great. You are completely entitled to your own opinion and I respect that. I’m not even going to fight you on it. But would you mind doing it somewhere else? Unlike Trump, I can’t build a wall to shield myself from your wicked ways. Because I can’t leave and you can, and that just doesn’t seem very fair to me.

And you start talking about how hard it is to be white and how we are the new minority and how the key is to always get a good lawyer. That’s what you did when your first wife tried to have you put away for abuse. You didn’t really do anything, of course. She’s so clumsy she fell on a doorknob and that’s how she got the black eye. She accidentally ran into your fist; what a klutz. But you got a good lawyer and you didn’t go to jail for “allegedly” beating your wife and if that’s not white privilege than I don’t know what is.

Hey Glenn Beck, stop making your life out to be harder than it is you’re sitting in a bar on a Tuesday at one in the afternoon in your Tommy Bahamas shirt which means you probably don’t work and you’ve already racked up a $60 bar tab which means you definitely have a handsome retirement fund no one here feels sorry for you. In a forty-five minute period you’ve already slandered both Mexicans and women and I’m a little nervous regarding the direction in which this conversation is headed.

Oh wait, you’re not done slandering women, yet. You still haven’t mentioned Hillary. You’d think there was a caucus going on in this bar with the amount of political propaganda being voiced. I’m not a fan of Hillary and Trump is Satan and choosing the lesser of two evils is still choosing evil but if my choices are the Man-Eater or the Anti-Christ I’m going to pick…wait. Is there a third option?

“I should run for president.”

Oh, that settles it. My ballot is cast you have my vote, good sir. A man who loves whisky, upstanding Mexicans, and beating women? What could possibly go wrong?

My momma taught me that you don’t discuss politics or religion and you sure as hell don’t discuss them when alcohol is on the table but apparently you were raised in a barn. Actually, scratch that. My chickens are better mannered than you. They don’t shit from both ends.

Unless you’re preaching love, don’t use my bartop as a pulpit. Sit down and drink or get up and leave but don’t make the rest of us listen to you spew back everything you heard on Rush Limbaugh this morning. You’re a fraud, just like Obama’s birth certificate. And you’re as nutty as the bowl you’re eating from.