“Trump’s butler, reputedly one of the people closest to the business mogul (yes, a modern presidential candidate actually has a butler), posted Facebook rants urging the lynching of President Obama.” –from “Make America hate again” by Sasha Abramsky, New Statesman, 29 October 2016
Our scene is set in Trump Tower, where the Republican candidate gets the unwelcome news that his butler has left to work as a Facebook poster for an alt-right think tank called Lynched-In. A new man has presented himself and is waiting to be interviewed.
Trump: Okay, send him in.
The man enters, doffs his hat, and stands in a respectful attitude.
Trump: So what’s your name?
Jeeves: Jeeves, sir.
Trump: And you wear a hat?
Jeeves: Yes, sir. A bowler, sir.
Trump: You’re a bowler, eh? What kind of accent is that?
Jeeves: I am English, sir.
Trump: Not Scottish? I have golf courses in Scotland. Big, beautiful golf courses. Fantastic golf courses.
Jeeves: So I am given to understand, sir.
Trump: But no bowling alleys. Should I have bowling alleys in Scotland?
Jeeves: Bowling is not a sport that has found any great favor in that locality, sir.
Trump (a bit baffled): Right. Well, tell me about your experience, Jeeves. And let me tell you, I’m liking the “sirs.”
Jeeves: Yes, sir. Mr. Bertram Wooster of London has been my employer for many years, sir. He has written a letter of reference for your perusal.
Trump: For my—I don’t have a perusal.
Jeeves: I was attempting to convey that you may read it, sir.
Trump: I don’t read, Jeeves. At my level, who has time to read? I have people to do that for me.
Jeeves: Very good, sir.
Trump: So, listen. You know I’m running for President.
Jeeves: That fact has come within my purview, sir.
Trump: Within your—right. Well, Jeeves, let me tell you, I’m gonna win this thing. I’m gonna win it bigly.
Jeeves: Indeed, sir?
Trump (slightly irritated): Like I just said! So, you think you’re good enough to be a butler in the Wide House?
Jeeves: I believe the cognomen is “White House,” sir.
Trump: “White?” Are you sure? Well, okay. Good color. It is wide, though.
Jeeves: It does enjoy a considerable horizontal amplitude, sir.
Trump (not really listening): Not as wide as most of my houses, though. I have houses that make the White House look like a chicken shack. But you know what it does have, Jeeves? It has prestige. Think of all the women who’ll want to make it with a guy that’s living in the White House for five years.
Jeeves: I believe that four years is the constitutionally stipulated term, sir.
Trump: Is it? Well, I can change that. So, you think you’re man enough for the job?
Jeeves: Yes, sir. But, with respect—or rather, with a wide-ranging and depth-plumbing lack of respect—you are not. My employer, Bertie Wooster, an affable preux chevalier whose mind has never been disturbed by an intelligent thought, is more qualified for the Presidency than you are. Mr. Wooster’s Aunt Agatha is far more qualified: if that lady met Mr. Putin at breakfast she’d have him tamed by tea-time. Mr. Richard “Bingo” Little, who falls in love with every attractive girl he meets but would never dream of grabbing them by any part of their autonomous anatomies, is more qualified, as is Mr. Gussie Fink-Nottle, noted newt fancier. In fact, much as it pains me to say this, Mr. Trump, for I am not attracted to the subfamily Pleurodelinae, any one of Mr. Fink-Nottle’s newts would make a wiser, better prepared, and certainly more principled President of the United States than you.
Trump: What the—
Jeeves: My offer to work for you was a mere ruse. My admiration for your country, for the great work in progress that is your democratic experiment, compelled me hither to address you thusly. Let not the land of Chief Joseph, of Sojourner Truth, of Abraham Lincoln, of Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, and of Martin Luther King, be besmirched by your election to its highest office. That is all I have to say to you. Good day, Mr. Trump.
Jeeves walks out. Trump stands baffled.
Trump: I’ve never heard of any of those people.