I love Jussie. I believe Jussie! The police are lying about him. You know how much police hate black people.
By arresting Jussie, the police are only emboldening Trump supporters, making it easier for them to target innocent, defenseless, helpless-without-the-government progs like me.
Why, just last night I was in San Francisco, or maybe it was Los Angeles. It was past midnight and I couldn’t sleep because it was pouring down rain and soaking thru my cardboard box. So it had to be Los Angeles. Yeah, I’m camping out here hoping to see some of my favorite celebrities on the red carpet for the Oscars this Sunday night. I might even get to take selfies with them. Maybe Brad Pitt will offer to make me his date.
But I digress.
I was soaked and shivering, so I abandoned my cardboard box and tried to find the nearest open coffee shop. Unfortunately, the only one I found was in the Trump Tower—in which case, maybe I was in New York but there are still always celebrities here, even when it isn’t Oscar night.
Not wanting to be seen by my fellow progs going into Trump Tower and thus denounced for being a Trump supporter, I took a selfie of myself passing it by and posted it on social media to signal my progressive virtue to all, as I plodded on through the torrents of rain in search of some other coffee shop that might be open at two in the morning. Teeth chattering, I finally found an open Starbucks where there were only two other customers seated at one of the tables. I ordered a White Russian Mocha Latte.
The barista asked me for my name to write on my cup. I said “Pinkie.” She wrote “Ivanka” on the cup and proceeded to brew my WRML.
That’s when the other two customers called out to me. “Pinkie? Commissarka Pinkie? So it’s you! We been waitin’ for you to show up!”
I was dripping and shivering so hard that I couldn’t see exactly what they looked like, except they both wore red MAGA hats and didn’t have any teeth save for a single front tooth and maybe a canine or bicuspid but definitely no molars. And there was a laptop on their table open to a Neo-Nazi white supremacist pro-gun website complete with pictures of Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity and Sarah Palin. Oh, and Trump, too.
They said, “You’re in MAGA country now, Pinkie. And we’re gonna get you for it because even if you report us to the cops, they’re eventually gonna accuse you of pullin’ a Smollett just to get guys in red hats to hit on you. And everyone knows how much you like guys in red hats—Pinkie.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “And I’m not Pinkie. I’m Ivanka. The barista even wrote it on my cup.”
“You are too Pinkie. Red nose? Red hijab?”
“It’s not a hijab, it’s a headscarf. I’m not a Muslim—not that there’s anything wrong with that. It used to be a kerchief around Che’s neck, and I took it to blow my nose while he lay dying and I’ve worn it on my head ever since.”
“Oh yeah? Then how do you explain that shovel in your hand?”
That’s when it occurred to me that I should whack them with my shovel. But at the very same moment, the barista called out, “Ivanka, White Russian Mocha Latte!”
I grabbed the coffee and held it up. “See? It says Ivanka. I’m Ivanka!”
Instead they tore my red headscarf off my head. I had to get it back from them, but I had my shovel in one hand and my White Russian Mocha Latte in the other.
“Who cut off all your hair?” one of them sneered.
“Mitt Romney did that years ago at the prom. It was a Sunday feature story on the front page of the Washington Post when he ran for President back in 2012, but of course you toothless wonders don’t read that paper. In fact, you don’t read anything. You don’t know how to read!”
“Then you ARE Pinkie!”
“I told you—and it says so on this cup—I’m IVANKA!” I swung my shovel at first one and then the other, knocking out what few teeth they had left. With my own teeth I picked up my red headscarf. Shovel in one hand and coffee in the other, I ran for cover in the bathroom, but it was already full of homeless people smoking crack.
“Hey, look!” one of them said. “Check out the name on her cup. It’s Ivanka! Ivanka Trump! Get her!”
I fled back into the pouring rain, during which time I somehow managed to pull my cellphone out of my cleavage and call Betinov, but then I forgot he doesn’t get a signal in his jar. So I called Pamalinsky but she couldn’t understand what I was saying because my red headscarf was hanging out of my mouth and I was trying to drink my latte at the same time while running past the Trump Tower to my cardboard box where I’ve been hiding ever since, waiting for Brad Pitt to give me a call after he learns of my ordeal on CNN.
I just don’t know what traumatizes me more—those MAGA hats or being mistaken for Ivanka Trump.
#ibelievejussie #notivanka #shovellife #victimhoodismysuperpower #wheresmyfreestuff
EDITORS NOTE: This political satire column by Commissarka Pinkie originally appeared on The Peoples Cube. It is republished with permission.