It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Our president, Dr. D. Trump, has denied permission for Dr. Fauci to speak to news outlets so he will be the only source of COVID-19 information. That’s good news because The Donald has said the 99% of COVID cases are harmless. There may be a few victims who disagree with him, while they wait for lung transplants, or, face having to live the rest of their lives toting around an oxygen tank, but they’re just being petty and trying to spoil the president’s golf game.
As our foreign affairs expert in the White House, Donny said he doesn’t believe his buddy, Vladimir Putin, paid bounties for the Taliban to kill American soldiers. It’s just fake news. Thank goodness for that. It would be unconscionable if it were true and The Donald and his administration did nothing about it, and especially devastating for the murdered soldiers and their families. The New York Times broke the story based on our own intelligence reports and The Wall Street Journal recently verified it, just to make our beloved president appear to be an inept, uncaring fool. Those persons at The Journal should know better, especially because The Journal is owned by Rupert Murdoch who owns Fox News television station, from which the president relies on Sean Hannity, Tucker Carlson, and others to receive his counseling to make informed decisions of national importance. Rupert could have Journal heads rolling in the aisles for verifying such fake items. These news organizations should realize that the president already has priorities, for instance, raging at his staff members for his rotten poll numbers, even from polls he’s paying to produce.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing but respect for our president, and very little of that.
According to Trump because we no longer have pandemics and bounties on our troops to concern us, I feel free to write about things from the fun-filled, carefree days of the past: Riding an elephant, for instance. I know, I know, I’ve written about elephant escapades in the past from the time my sister and brother-in-law were in various circuses. But I’m intrigued by the elephants. I was never close to such big living things except for my ex-wife. Riding one is a unique experience (not an ex-wife, an elephant). I had my opportunity when I tagged along with my sister’s circus. The show staked itself in a town in rural Florida, and you’d have thought The Beatles had just arrived. Crowds were everywhere and all the shows were sellouts.
The first order of business was a circus parade through the town. My sister, Beverly, who was Tiffany in the circus, was dressed elaborately in costume and ready to perch on top an elephant for the parade, along with the rest of the young ladies in the show, each on a large beastie. I told my brother-in-law, the ringmaster, that riding an elephant looked like fun. He asked if I wanted to ride one. How’s that, I asked, thinking audience members would wonder who the dork is on the elephant? He knew that I’d been a movie extra, so he said he’d announce me as a famous film actor. That was too good to pass.
So, Esther, the oldest, largest, and most docile of the girls (that’s how they referred to the elephants) was in costume and fitted with a harness. When the parade was ready to leave, the trainer gave a command and Esther crouched down and put out her left foot, or paw, or whatever you call an elephant’s walking things, so I could step on her forearm, grab her harness, and pull myself up on her neck. Then she stood. I’m glad I was holding on tight because when she got up she leaned one way, then the other. I could hear my sister on the elephant behind me, laughing at me trying to hold on for dear life, while I wondered how my head would sound when it hit the ground from 12 feet in the air.
Our parade of performers, elephants, musicians, clowns, lions, tigers, camels, giant snakes (who had trouble marching), man-eating hamsters and me wound through the human-lined streets of the town. I did my best Miss America wave to the parade watchers, until it was back to the big top where the stands were already filled with audience members anticipating the start of the first show. We circled the center ring, my ringmaster brother-in-law announcing each parading performer and me…the famous movie actor from Chicago and the film I was in. I cringed and plastered a big, phony, smile on my face.
Outside the big top, it was time to get off Esther. She crouched down, held up her forearm and I jumped off. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how your joints feel when you’ve been riding on an elephant and your legs have been stretched apart at a 110-degree angle for about an hour. Sore. My girlfriend, who’d been on the elephant in front of me (and the real reason I tagged along with the circus) and my sister both got a kick out of my pain.
So if the opportunity to ride an elephant should present itself to you some time in the future, remember this: Elephants don’t wear facemasks and the coronavirus might not be fake. You don’t want to be in front of them when they sneeze.