Occasionally, on the shelf, I entertain myself with imaginary scenes and conversations between friends and adversaries. Today’s imagined conversation is between friends. They’re not my friends; they’re friends with each other, buddies from the Broligarchy.
Trigger warning
Some aspects of the following conversation resemble upsetting aspects of life in ‘Merica. Join me in embracing these times by sticking your head in the sand for the next four years, or by reading humorous takes on the news.
Disclaimer
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. Where your imagination takes you is entirely up to you. All speech included below is protected by the First Amendment, at least for the time being.
The BBB Convenes
When I read on Page Six, the source of most reliably absurd news, that members of the highest order of Broligarchs for Better Business, also known as the BBB, planned to convene at Mr. Brump’s Brorida estate, Bore-a-logo, I flew as fast as a bird from North to South in winter, aspiring to sit on a wall like a fly so that I might see and overhear what would surely turn out to be an exceedingly entertaining exchange. Here is what transpired.
Brocade and Bro-Babes
When I arrive at the estate, entering the golden gates turns out to be ridiculously easy. I’d anticipated the need to dig tunnels under the fortress walls, which resemble the barriers along the southern border of Texas. Brump must have made quite a deal to get these!
In preparation, I packed work clothes, shovels, and my newly acquired bro-borer, sold by the Boring Company. Sadly, I don’t get to try it out today, as the gates sit wide open.
It was a good move to drive a rented gold-chromed Testya CyberTruck with tinted windows. The guard waves me through as if expecting me.
The estate, fashioned after a Mediterranean palace, sits overlooking the sea, surrounded by a moat filled with crocodiles from the South Everglades. Reliable sources—which I can’t divulge—claim the bones of disloyal reporters and politicians line the watery floor.
I park in a private area near the exclusive T-Room. The name suggests the Queen’s Tea, perhaps a lunch of cucumber sandwiches. My stomach grumbles in anticipation.
I’ve dressed to the nines—incognito, of course. If they were ever to figure out that I leaked their secret conversations, as I plan to do, I wouldn’t want to end up in that moat.
I walk in as gracefully as a giraffe in high heels, shimmering in my B-logo sheath dress, purchased from Brump’s online store of shiny branded goods made in China. Heads turn.
The T-Room is garish, as if ripped from the pages of a Russian fairy tale—or Brump Tower. Visions of caviar and vodka dance in my head. No crumpets today. I had forgotten that Brump bumps elbows, and possibly other body parts, with the current Czar of Russia. Silly me.
The maître d’ greets me, “You must be part of the Brusk party?”
I lift my sunglasses, look down my nose, and roll my eyes to indicate the stupidity of the question.
“Please,” he says, cowing.
He leads me to a table where several other women sit, each skinnier than the next, seated with immaculate posture as if propped up by rods. Every one of them dons a clingy dress, and blond wavy tresses that fall over their shoulders to symmetrically frame the Bs emblazoned across their boobs. I fit right in—a fly on glimmering brocade wallpaper.
The Bros
The Four Bros—Brump, Brusk, Brennedy, and Bramaswamy—sit on one side of a crystal table on gilded thrones. Heads bowed as if in prayer, they hold hands. I strain to hear Brump’s opening words:
“Dear Lord,” he begins, startling me with, “of Darkness.”
Brusk, Brennedy, and Bramaswamy look at each other and giggle like teenage girls.
“We thank you tonight for blessing the four of us with our significant great fortunes built upon the backs of people we’ve managed to hoodwink into thinking they, too, might one day sit upon thrones as gorgeous as ours.”
Brusk giggles again, “As if they will even have plastic pots to piss in.”
“Definitely not plastic,” Brennedy corrects. “Paper pots. Better for health and the environment.”
Bramaswamy nods in agreement, “ I’ve started building new paper pot factories and instituted a complete disruption in toileting tech—”
“Blah, Blah, Blah,” Brump snaps, face reddening. “Lord, we also thank you for loopholes, tax havens, and offshores which allow our kingdoms to expand without notice by regular bros.”
Brusk snorts. “As if! Everyone knows that I am the richest man in the world.”
Brennedy says, “Lucky for me, nobody knows my name.”
“Guide our tiny hands, Lord, as we break unions, privatize public goods, and monopolize all that remains untapped in this land of the fee.”
“Bro, that was really a good one!” says Bramaswamy.
“Thanks, Bra-man, I’m the greatest comedian on earth, the best to have ever lived, at least that is what I hear—they say I’m a real laughing stock.”
The Bros smile and nod, barely containing themselves.
“Where was I? Oh, Bless our faithful followers, the everyday bros, who believeth us.”
Bramaswamy interjects, “Don’t forget to pray for our continued success in developing disruptive technologies.”
“Big improvements in efficiency are on the way,” Brusk says. “Soon we won’t need to pay anyone to do anything.”
Maybe a little short-sighted, but what do I know? Who will pay for all the stuff?
Brump wraps up, “And, Lord, please ensure that my devoted followers remain loyal, and continue to shield them from inconvenient truths.”
Brusk cracks up. “Amen! You are a funny guy.”
“Namaste,” says Bramaswamy, bowing towards Brump with hands in prayer position.
Brennedy is the only one not kissing up.
“Yeah, none of that woke mumbo-jumbo, please,” Brump says. How ‘bout a little game of golf? I’m the best golfer of all time. I’ve heard people say I’m even better than Tiger. I know I’m better lookin.’ Did you know he’s not really Black?”
The Bros don’t react to Brother Brump’s failed attempt at one of his brilliant weaves.
“Actually,” Brennedy interjects, “I hoped we might talk about the power of Big Pharma?”
“Isn’t it great?” Brump said, “I’m the BIGGEST fan. I love Ozempic. Have you noticed that I’ve lost a few pounds? And look at those beautiful skinny women over there.”
Brump gestures toward our table. “They wouldn’t be possible without drugs. Aren’t they beautiful?”
I squirm as Brump’s eyes meet mine, but relax as soon I realize that I’m invisible; we all are. We’re decorations, just like the wallpaper and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. He gazes beyond us, perhaps admiring himself in one of the hundreds of mirrors lining the walls of the T-Room.
“With all due respect, I beg to differ. Eating carrots and celery work just as well as drugs,” Brennedy croaks.
Poor Brennedy, definitely not a true Bro. Brump brought him in because he’s a prince, the only true American royal of the lot. Like he’ll ever get Brump to eat his vegetables, let alone get the chance to mess with America’s drug supply.
As this thought passes, the four men stand and bump fists.
“See you in the locker room, Bros? If you’re lucky I might tell you about the time I grabbed some P—-.”
That’s my cue to drain my tea and leave, unheard and unseen. Like I was never there. What a shit show.
Here’s to hoping I don’t end up in that moat.
Your cartoon is New Yorker worthy! Fantasatic! Satire pretty funny, too. Thanks for the laugh.