By Larry Kirwan
President Trump should be catnip for a columnist with an interest in politics.
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Problem is I write for a weekly and with the current administration you risk being old news a long time before the Echo hits the stands on a Wednesday morning.
So, one is resigned to writing about Trumpian trends, feelings, prejudices – anything that steers clear of hard news or predictions.
With presidents Obama and Bush what you saw is what you got. Apart from turning grey they basically didn’t change much.
One could spend a column wondering if President Trump will ever turn grey, but such speculations are better left to the National Enquirer. The Irish Echo has bigger fish to fry.
Still and all, I predict that anyone above the level of janitor in the Trump administration has by now “lawyered up.”
Oh, how I love that term!
It makes me feel like Jimmy Breslin when I casually murmur it across the bar of my local.
Though I may not wear a trench coat, or speak with a Queens accent, the clientele definitely looks at me in a different light.
Lest you think I do my drinking in some liberal, trendy environment, I’ll have you know that my local has been serving booze since 1847 and all manner of views are bandied about therein by civil servants, construction workers, yuppies, feminists, old punks, and the general detritus and riff-raff of Lower Manhattan.
One opinion offered recently by a retired postal worker is that the 45th president has begun to remind him of Homer Simpson.
While this caused initial gales of laughter, the discussion that followed was deep and insightful.
I have to say that I was a little upset at first, as Homer is one of my favorite TV characters. However, the retired postal worker – a Trump voter – made some cogent points until finally silenced by a grizzled punk I’d once seen fall off the stage in CBGB’s.
“No way!” He snarled like Johnny Rotten. “Trump don’t imbibe, Homer downs Duff Beer!”
Whereupon, an inebriated Goldman Sachs employee bet $100 that Duff Beer was really Miller Lite in disguise since Homer never seemed to gain weight.
With much dark mutterings about “him and his $100 bill” and vows to drain our local swamp we passed on to graver concerns, like who would be the first member of the Trump administration to go up the river.
The smart money appeared to be on Lt. General Mike Flynn.
Speculation then broke out as to why so many Irish names are dominating the political news? Comey from Yonkers, Pence from Tubbercurry, Kellyanne from New Jersey, not to mention Paul Ryan, whose budgetary projections are so out to lunch, a New York City detective opined, “That guy couldn’t balance his check book.”
The waitress took a dim view of any criticizing of Ms. Conway’s and the guilty chauvinist blushed – his long hoped for chance of a date finally crushed.
But really, what was President Trump thinking?
Flynn was already in trouble for taking money from Turkey, he had retweeted the suspicion that Mrs. Clinton was a child sex trafficker; and even more damning, President Obama had already pink-slipped him and warned the president-elect to keep his distance.
A bitter Rangers supporter, still wearing the same vintage shirt on his two-week-bender, suggested, “Flynn got the gig ‘cause he’d heard something about Trump in Russia. The whole Garden was talkin’ about it!”
The retired postal worker countered that the president’s only mistake was leaving New York for the swamps of D.C. where a man couldn’t tell his posterior from his elbow.
“To make matters worse,” the grizzled Punk snarled, “With all the fake-news flyin’ around, we’ll never know the truth?”
“Truth is relative,” the NYC Detective groaned as his wife, a Melania lookalike swept in, and we hastily changed the subject.
Still, my money is on Mike Flynn to throw light on the whole Russian imbroglio. He just doesn’t look like the type who’ll go quietly into that dark night.
I just hope his people didn’t come from Wexford!
It would put a fierce dent in the celebrations when we win this year’s All-Ireland Hurling Final!
Fake news, how are ya!