“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.”
