I run into Ted Cruz while walking around my neighborhood. He is sweaty, t-shirted, and covered in filth. His hair has turned completely white. I become very nervous, thinking he will bring up the article in which I repeatedly called him an idiot. Instead he asks me if he can look at a memo I supposedly once wrote for him about font sizes.
“That was years ago,” I say. “Why do you want to see that again?”
“Because I’m running for President,” he replies, spitting everywhere. It appears he has taken some kind of drug. His eyes are crazed. “A president MUST KNOW ABOUT FONT SIZES,” he screams.
Terrified, I open my inbox to find the memo. But it is full of emails from people congratulating me for writing an article calling Ted Cruz an idiot. He notices, but does not appear to care. Instead he says:
“Let me tell you a joke I’ve been using at fundraisers.”
“Okay.” I have a sense the joke will be racist.
“The proboscis monkey has been contracting a virus that makes its flesh rot. Scientists don’t know the cause, but they say it’s okay because the only ones that die are on welfare.”
I look at him aghast.
“It’s getting huge laughs with Republican donors.”
“I have no doubt of that,” I reply.