The last time I was at Mar a Lago, my twin (Donald Trump) came to my room, my book on presidential elections in his hand.
“Which president am I like today?” he bellowed. He randomly thumbed through the book and came to the Election of 1856. “Tell me how I’m like James Buchanan,” Donald demanded.
“Let’s not do that one,” I suggested, but to no avail. Donald Trump wanted to know how he was like James Buchanan. I knew what was coming, but I couldn’t stop it. I opened the page to the Election of 1856 and began.
The Democrats nominated James Buchanan on the 17th ballot, which was actually a sign of unity during that period. If it only took 17 ballots and nobody shot each other, that was a successful convention. It was an angry time.”
“I am an angry time, too!” Donald stood up, his eyes bright with joy. “I am James Buchanan! Show me a picture of James Buchanan!” (Somebody did.)
“Look at that. I’m going to cock my head like he does,” Donald said thoughtfully. “I like that. He does it to look smart.”
I said, “Well, he was blind in one eye, too. That was part of the reason.” I continued, like a sheep to slaughter. Donald was not going to like this.
With all the hatred going on, it is surprising that the Republicans didn’t bring up Anne Coleman to get back at Buchanan.
“OH! Anne Coleman! I’ve got me an Anne Coleman or two!” I shot Donald my meanest “don’t interrupt” look. I hated to be so stern with him, but it was for his own good. It didn’t work, though, as Donald ignored me and went on. “I’m James Buchanan.”
I kept reading. It seems that years earlier, Buchanan had found himself a female to wed. Just before they were married, though, Buchanan told her something secret about himself (wink, wink) and they had an argument. She killed herself over the news, and her father refused to let Buchanan come to the funeral.
Donald stood silent. He read the writing on the wall. He stammered, “Was Buchanan…”
I completed the sentence for him. “Gay.” “But Donald-”
“I’LL KILL YOU!” Donald screamed. “I’m not James Buchanan!”
“Donald,” I said calmly. “We’ve been through this before. Having a similarity to a gay person won’t make you gay.” I was speaking in slow, measured tones, which don’t work well in these situations, but they work better than anything else. “Strawberry ice cream won’t make you gay. Neither will the Gilmore Girls or Diet Pepsi or poodle dogs.”
I was getting through. His skin was turning from a fiery red back to an incomprehensible orange and things were back to abnormal. Finally, he asked “What about Bette Midler? Will Bette Midler make you gay?”
“The jury’s still out on that one,” I answered honestly.