I was windsurfing like the sleekest of sailboats when an agent on shore radioed a wet-suited agent near my side in the sea that I had to leave heaven and return to reality. Upon arriving at the dock, a new aide rushed up and loudly whispered that President Trump had tweeted I tapped his wires during the campaign.
“That’s so ridiculous I won’t even respond,” I said. “Let’s hit the links.”
I hit the ball almost like Tiger Woods in his prime and sank a long par putt to card a hot forty-nine on the front side, and guarantee I would’ve broken a hundred if another assaultive tweet hadn’t compelled me to shout, “Summon all media members in this beautiful town. I’m going to blast the balls of Trump.”
“No, be presidential,” said my irksome aide. “Let others defend you.”
“And who’ll promptly do that?”
“Let me check,” she said.
I took off my spikes, slipped on some tennis shoe loafers, and shadow boxed like a left-handed, right-jabbing, left-crossing panther for a few minutes before she returned and said, “Mr. President, the FBI and numerous intelligence officials have already said Trump’s accusations are fallacious.”
I liked the way she said that, and shook her hand.
“Those folks sabotaged Hillary just like they’ll take down The Donald. I can hear it so sweet, ‘President Pence.’”
“When do you think that will happen, Mr. President?”
“Less than two years. Republicans won’t have his ass around during midterm elections.”