C.W. and I were talking …
“Did he really say that?” Left Head asked.
“Oh yes. It’s on tape.”
“That he is mistreated somehow?”
“Made to suffer?”
“More than any politician in history.”
“Has he ever been to a Syrian refugee camp?” Middle Head asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Right Head, the happy-smile one joined in. “He feels he’s been abused somehow?”
“Apparently. At least that’s what he told the Coast Guard graduates.
“Has he ever been to a Miley Cyrus Concert?” Right Head wanted to know.
Middle Head stared into space, thought, and spoke. “Or to a poetry jam?”
Left Head: “A Joel Osteen service?”
Middle Head: “Forced to sit in a waiting room with Fox News on the TV?”
Right Head: “Has he ever picked strawberries for a living?”
Left Head: “Sat through a Henry Kissinger lecture?”
Middle Head: "Roofed a house during an Arkansas summer?”
Right Head: “Forced to attend a massed banjo concert?”
Left Head: “Or a Jennifer Hudson one?”
“The horror! The horror!” I said. Please stop. “I get your point.”
“One more,” Right Head said.
“Okay, but hurry.”
“Remember,” he said, looking toward the kitchen, “that cornbread gravy Mrs. Big Dope made from some magazine recipe?”
“The nifrphceenacin! The nifrphceenacin!” said Middle Head, lapsing, in his shock, into Falloonian.
“I think we might better change the subject,” I said. “She has great plans for supper. It is the greatest plan ever made. It is going to be a super plan and we are going to love it. We’ll be winners again, right?”
“Yes, of course,” in unison. “It is good when she cooks. We win when she cooks. We’re almost tired of winning.”