The True Blue Conservative Club-Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York

“I say Will old man I believe we have a problem” huffed David Brooks as he sipped from his sherry. He was sitting in the book lined study of his club. The True Blue Conservative Club of the Upper East Side. Founded by the original Henry Cabot Lodge and John Jacob Astor at the dawn of the Republic it is the epicenter of the Conservative movement in the United States. “I fear we might have fallen out of touch.”

“Not all of us. I know that Denny Hastert is in touch. In fact he got convicted of touching. What exactly do mean Brooks?” George Will adjusted his bow tie. It was his trademark. He first wore it when he was a young whipper snapper on the McLaughlin Group when he was hired to condescend to Carl Rowan without seeming to be racist. It is an art. “Not this damnable Trump fellow.”

“I fear that we must take into account what the hoi polli think my dear fellow. We cannot simple pish and tosh at them. He did in fact win the nomination.”

“We need not listen to them. Peasants. They are revolting.” George rearranged his copy of the Economist and his collected works of Edmund Burke. He had not read the book since college but it was a very serviceable coaster.

“I know that they are somewhat odious but still revolting is a little strong. If you soak your cravat in a strong toilet water you will not have to endure their odor of hot dogs, beer and nationalism. I know it works for me.” Brooks shifted in his chair. His legs have always bothered him since he first glimpsed the perfect creased pant leg of Barack Obama. He could never really sit still since that fateful day.

“I will not submit to the whims of the mob. I agree with young Ben Sasse. He is young but quite sound in his views. It is more important that we stay true to our principles than that we win an election. Most importantly that only the right sort get power. Not a short armed vulgarian reality television star. Never.”

Brooks sighed. “Well I can’t live off my wife’s salary like you or John McCain George. I need to protect my sinecure at the Times. So I think I have to go and rub elbows with the lower orders who support Trump. Although I don’t know what will do since I have heavy leather patches at the elbows of all my Burberry sports coats that I wear if I go out on Safari. So I won’t feel anything if I rub elbows.”

“Oh on Safari is it? Where will you go? Kenya to search for another black man to support in lieu of a native-born American?”

“No. I was thinking of……Pittsburgh. I have never been. Perhaps I can get a sense of what the lower 47% thinks. I need to at least have an inkling if I am going to keep faking it. I know I can lose my gig at PBS. Gwen Ifill knows when a man is faking it. It happens to her all the time. Nobody has ever touched the sides so she is very angry. Even angrier than these ridiculous white males who have lost their jobs and who cling to their guns and their religion. Oh why don’t they just die already?”

“Capital Idea old man. A safari. To deepest darkest Amerika. We need to put together an expedition. Young Sasse of course. Bill Kristol. Jonah Goldberg in case we run into a bear. And Native bearers. We can get Ben Carson and Herman Cain and JC Watts to carry our belongings on giant baskets on their heads just like their forefathers did. Tradition. It is the conservative way.” George Will sat back in a satisfied slouch. He had not been this self-satisfied since he had divorced his first wife to marry that Asian honeypot.

“That is slightly racist George. I don’t think we can expect prominent African Americans to serve as our native bearers. Plus they all are supporting Trump anyway.  I am afraid there is only one answer.”

“Mexicans!” they shouted simultaneously.

“I will call Carlos Slim. We leave at high tide.”