I got some work done here at Day Job HQ in a remote location deep in the Long Island Sound so I am logging on remotely to the Caffeinated Jam servers to bring you some annoyed garbage yet again.
Donald Trump, this president of the United States that we have, decided to award the 2020 G-7 Summit to his Doral resort in Miami next June. I don’t think we need to discuss how much this goes against all sorts of ethics. Dave Fahrenthold of the Washington Post said that Trump’s resort is usually about one-third full in June; it will be full during the summit, therefore accounting for a 200 percent increase in occupation from year to year.
So while this move lines Trump’s pockets and causes ethics watchdogs to scream and shout and Congress to race to draw up even more articles of impeachment and all of us to bury our heads in our hands and wonder when this nightmare of leadership will end if it ever ends, I can’t help but wonder:
Florida? In June?
Look, plenty of places in America provide nice locations for major international geopolitical summits in June. You have 1997 G-8 host Denver, a beautiful city high above sea level where fresh air and beautiful resorts not owned by the president of the United States are abound. You have Philadelphia, the birthplace of American liberty according to most problematic textbooks, where Shinzo Abe can treat himself to a nice cheesesteak if he’s feeling freaky. You have San Francisco, a cosmopolitan city where perhaps Macron can enjoy a nice loaf of sourdough and Angela Merkel can shove Boris Johnson off the Golden Gate. None of these places are too hot or humid in the early summer months.
But Florida in June? Nightmare. Nightmare. Nightmare. You ever walk around Disney World in June, if you’re the kind of sadomasochist who would do such a thing? Nightmare. The smell of sweat stings the nostrils no matter where you walk. Poor Mickey’s passed out against the Tea Cups because he can’t breathe in his suit. The line for Splash Mountain is two hours long because everyone just needs to feel that two-second gust of wind and water against their face, and the park’s clean out of Aquafina. You don’t vacation in Florida in June unless you’re a psychopath, and you don’t host a major conference of world leaders in Florida in June unless you are both a sociopath and an inept world leader.
(Disclaimer: I love Florida. I like it more in the winter months. I have never met anyone who disagrees with me on that.)
I can see it now: “It’s Day Two of the G-7 Summit at Trump Doral in Miami, and world leaders are convening for another round of talks. Trump has gathered his guests in the Champions Bar & Grill overlooking the Blue Monster golf course, and is serving what appears to be burgers and fries for a light lunch. Temperatures in Miami today are reaching highs in the mid-nineties, and everyone appears to be feeling the heat. European Union chairs Ursula von der Leyen and Charles Michel have stripped down to their undergarments, unable to cool themselves down enough with the warm iced tea that the Trump wait staff has served them. Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe is casting longing gazes at the two in-ground pools. And of course, everyone is waiting on the American president himself, who woke up early to take a long crap and venture off for a quick eighteen holes with Rudy Giuliani, who is out on bail.”
Also: What if one of the world leaders God forbid dies at the Doral? What if, like, Giuseppe Conti chokes on some undercooked chicken and straight up kicks it? Is Trump responsible? How would Italy respond? Would a major global kerfuffle occur because a business owned by the president of the United States was responsible for the death of the Italian Prime Minister? Would world leaders take sides right then and there? Who’d play Axis? Who’d play Allies? (I can tell ya right now: Given things at the moment, I don’t think we’d be Allies.)
I mean, Jesus Of Nazareth The Christ, if Trump would sit down with a fourth grader who opened up a book about ethics at the library by mistake, he’d know more about what not to do as the leader of a country than he does now. This guy goes out of his way to make things harder for just about everything and everyone because he’s upset that no one will stay in his resort in Florida during one of Florida’s hottest months. He’d build a goddamned biodome around the entire country if and only if it would mean that he wouldn’t have to worry about paying for air conditioning for his resorts. Forget global warming. That’s not why he’d work to cool down the world. He’d want to cool down his estates without paying the HVAC guy. And he’d build a big biodome to do it. A great, big, beautiful biodome with his name plastered across it, so that no matter where you go, you can see the name TRUMP fading into the sky like the Halo from Halo.
But you know, maybe something good can come of this. I wonder what Tiffany and Barron are up to. Those scamps! Those black sheep of the Trump family! They could have some fun. Tiff, Barron, if you’re reading, go sneak into your dad’s G-7 summit next June and mess some stuff up. Put a live frog in Angela Merkel’s soup. Fill Shinzo Abe’s shampoo container with blue hair dye. Pants Boris Johnson and then push him into the pool. It’ll be like you’re in the new wacky Disney Channel Original Movie “President Dad”, coming soon to Disney Plus like just about every other film, apparently. +