It’s easy to be smarter than the next guy when the next guy’s so much stupider than you
LEAVING THE AUDITORIUM with the rest of the crowd at the end of the Trump rally, waving their MAGA flags and wearing their MAGA hats and pins (not to mention hauling all the Trump souvenirs for which they shelled out fortunes, souvenirs like gold-covered Trump sneakers, and framed Trump mugshots), Bubba and Buford bumped into each other.
They hadn’t seen each other since graduating from high school in 1995, the year Bubba stole Buford’s girlfriend Candy and Buford slashedthe tires on Bubba’s F-150 at graduation. After 30 years, however, they’d forgiven and forgotten. Candy gained sixty pounds and graduated from Hooter’s waitress to manning the counter at Burger King. And Bubba had traded up to a three-quarter ton pickup and had blown out so many tires hauling moonshine from Oklahoma to Dallas that he’d long ago forgotten about the tires.
With one of the few remaining Hooters just across the street, the two men dropped in for three platters of Lots-A-Tots and a half-dozen pitchers of Coors Light. To their delight, they discovered they shared the same concerns, just like they did in high school. Of course, the concerns had changed. In high school, they were concerned with getting laid, football, and buying beer. Now they were concerned with NASCAR, football, getting laid, and making America great again, or, more specifically, immigrants, elitist liberals running the country into the ground, and gun rights.
Bubba and Buford hadn’t seen each other since graduating from high school in 1995, the year Bubba stole Buford’s girlfriend Candy and Buford slashed the tires on Bubba’s F-150 at graduation.
To affirm their belief in gun rights, both sported .50 caliber Desert Eagles in their waistbands, even though the sign on the Hooters’ door said, “No firearms on these premises.” And, as always happened in conversations between two MAGATS,1 the topic leaned heavily toward Trump and how only he could save the country from immigrants, liberals, the Chinese, baby murder, and the CDC.
At one point, however, halfway through their sixth pitcher, Bubba leaned on an elbow confidentially and lowered his voice enough so that no one at the surrounding tables could hear. “You gotta admit, though, Buford. At times, Trump can be a bit of a windbag. And what’s with that hand thing? Like he’s jerking off two guys at once.”
Buford lowered his eyelids until they were little more than slits covering his eyes lest they unleash lasers like Cyclops in the X-Men. “You got a problem with being a windbag? The man’s a trillionaire businessman whose empire’s under attack by money thieving liberals. He deserves our respect, not belittling.”
“You gotta admit, though, Buford. At times, Trump can be a bit of a windbag. And what’s with that hand thing? Like he’s jerking off two guys at once.”
Bubba waved him away. “Come on, buddy. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m a hundred percent for the guy, but you gotta admit he’s running a bit of a scam using our donations for his legal fees. And that rug. He’s a gajillionaire, and he wears a rug cheaper than a Halloween costume?”
Buford reached across the table and threw the first punch. Bubba pulled Buford across the table. The empty pitchers and empty platters crashed to the floor as the two tumbled like brothers arguing over whose turn it was with the X-Box. By the time the bartender broke up the fight, they’d pulled their Desert Eagles and aimed them at each other’s heads.
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