Palsy Walsy
[A banquet room at Mar-a-Lago. Lights are low but the tables are all set up as if for a function. The only occupants — sitting at one table, eating fried chicken and potato salad out of Styrofoam containers and drinking large soft drinks, plastic bibs tied around their necks, with piles of paper towels and wet-naps — are DONALD TRUMP in his Jackie Gleason outfit and CHRIS CHRISTIE, wearing a rumpled and oversized grey suit with a burgundy turtleneck shirt, and a WAITER who stands about 20 feet away.]
CHRISTIE: Tastes good like this.
TRUMP: It’s always good.
CHRISTIE: No, I mean out of the container like this. We used to eat like this growing up. Go down the seaside, get chicken from some cheap place on the boardwalk, but we were always excited and happy to bring it back to a picnic table or to a car and, y’know, just dig in.
TRUMP: Well, that’s why.
CHRISTIE: That’s why what?
TRUMP: That’s why you’re a slob. You never got over it, these times you had at the beach. That was the height of heights for you.
CHRISTIE: [A little truculently] Yeah, so?
TRUMP: All you guys, that was as good as it gets for you. After that nothing is as good. They put you in a mansion, the Governor’s mansion. Everything the best. Chefs, bone china, three spoons. But you, you don’t like it, not like you liked the chicken shack and a station wagon.
CHRISTIE: I like nice things too.
TRUMP: No. You know they’re nice. But this is still what you like. That’s what makes you a slob.
CHRISTIE: Yeah, and the slobs voted for me.
TRUMP: What are you, senile, I beat your ass.
CHRISTIE: I mean in Jersey.
TRUMP: A slob state.
CHRISTIE: Maybe I’ll run for president next year.
TRUMP: Go ahead.
CHRISTIE: You know, people are getting sick of your gold toilet shit. Maybe they want someone who knows what it’s like to get their hands dirty.
TRUMP: Hands dirty. You got your hands dirty wiping your ass. You never had a job.
CHRISTIE: I was studious.
TRUMP: You were a pussy.
CHRISTIE: I had to excel, because I had people counting on me.
TRUMP: Because you were a pussy.
CHRISTIE: [Shrugs] You say pussy, I say a good kid who wanted to please his parents. If I had to go to military school they’d have died of shame.
TRUMP: You know I didn’t want to go. When I got there though? I got it right away. You just say the right things, act like they want you to act, that’s like five minutes out of your day. The other 24 hours you can do whatever you want. No one cared. I had a great time, killed a guy. Some bum in Cornwall. Killed him with a rock. No one cared. Best education you could get.
CHRISTIE: You know you told me that story before, and it doesn’t check out.
TRUMP: You know what they say. Take me seriously, not literally.
[Pause. CHRISTIE gets a sour look, shakes his head violently.]
CHRISTIE: You pig! Ugh, Jesus! You’re killing me here. Ugh!
[CHRISTIE stands up, unloosens his bib.]
Ugh! I can’t breathe.
TRUMP: [Yells to the waiter] Julio.
WAITER: Yes, sir!
TRUMP: Christie farted. Get a fan and some Febreze.
WAITER: Yes, sir!
[WAITER runs off. TRUMP wipes his mouth, shoves his Styrofoam aside.]
CHRISTIE: You’re lying to the waiters now. Nice.
TRUMP: See, you think because you’re a slob the slobs’ll vote for you. But they don’t want a slob. They look at a fat load like you, they’re disgusted, you know why? It’s like they’re looking in a mirror, by mistake, like in the bathroom, you’re not expecting it, you go in and shut the door and there’s a mirror there and suddenly you look and you look just, like shit.
CHRISTIE: Because you don’t have your wig on.
TRUMP: Sweaty, fat, just disgusting. But it’s not a mirror. Know what it is? It’s them, looking at you. It makes them sick. They don’t want a slob. They want a guy who shits on a gold toilet.
[WAITER runs in with a box fan and a bottle of Febreze, sets the fan up, sprays the Febreze on Christie’s chair.]
CHRISTIE: [To the WAITER] Hey, that wasn’t me, you know. That was your boss, you should spray his chair. You should soak that chair.
WAITER: [Smiling, still spraying CHRISTIE’s chair] No inglés, señor.
CHRISTIE: [To TRUMP] And by the way, nice, that post you made about me ‘consoling’ myself at the buffet. Very nice.
TRUMP: Yeah, I thought you’d get a kick out of it.
CHRISTIE: Yeah, classy. Did someone help you? What’s c-o-n-s-o-l-e spell?
TRUMP: Whattaya mean?
CHRISTIE: From the post.
TRUMP: What are you saying?
CHRISTIE: Ha! You didn’t even write it, you can’t even spell the words!
TRUMP: CON-sole.
CHRISTIE: [Laughing] CON-sole! It’s con-SOLE, dummy.
TRUMP: Con-SOLE, what’s that, French? [To the WAITER] Hey, kid, set up the dessert buffet.
[WAITER runs off.]
I could go for a Belgian waffle.
CHRISTIE: Yeah, me too. But no pictures.
TRUMP: Don’t worry about it.
[BLACKOUT.]
Wow. Really nailed the deep down fecalness of Disgusting Donnie.
The relative break from the Trump pieces and vacay from Twitter seems to have done Roy some good.
I agree, “trying to console himself” is too much of a complex concept and too recognizable as part of an actual phrase in the English language to have been written by Trump himself.