Column: How I got Trump knee; a semi-satirical, self-deprecating, self-dialogue
OTHER ME: Holy crap, Scott, what happened to you?
ME: You are obviously referring to my knee brace and crutches.
OTHER ME: Knee replacement?
ME: Why does everyone assume I’ve had a knee replacement? Just because I’m 60? I’m 100% the same old me. Heart, hips, teeth and all. Trust me, what happened to my knee could have happened to me at 18.
OTHER ME: Trick knee, then?
ME: Trump knee.
OTHER ME: Trump injured your knee?
ME: Not directly, but if not for him, it wouldn’t have happened. I’m thinking of suing. Suing seems to work out well for him.
OTHER ME: So, Trump indirectly pulled a Gillooly on you?
ME: Ha. A Tonya Harding reference. Love it. Here’s the deal. This year, I went to my first-ever political protest. One of those “not my president” Presidents’ Day marches. Coldest week of the year, if not the coldest day. But it was beautiful, man, uplifting, to see fellow citizens forgo the creature comforts of home to peacefully save democracy, waving signs with sentiments like “No Kings In America,” “Stop Stealing From the Poor to Support the Wealthy,” “Don’t Buy a Swasticar,” and my favorite, “So Many Issues, So Little Cardboard.”
It was so cold that when people marched, they looked like stop-motion cartoon characters. I wore long underwear, gloves, a Snoopy beanie, a hoodie, a parka, and a scarf. It took about 10 minutes to properly suit up. Then, unfortunately, on my first lap around the Indiana Statehouse, I encountered ice.
OTHER ME: Wait . . . what? You squared off with ICE?
ME: No. Not ICE. Ice, as in frozen water. There were ice patches on the sidewalk. I was walking backwards, filming the marchers just behind me, and slipped. My right knee popped inward, and down I went. Later, I learned I tore my meniscus. Marchers asked if I needed help getting up. Martyrish, I waved them off. “Don’t wait for me. March on, brave resisters! Something wicked this way comes—the perfect name for J.D. Vance’s autobiography. Democracy needs you!”
OTHER ME: Scott, I’m sorry, but your story would be more exciting if your injury involved federal agents . . . or sharks.
ME: I’m not messing with federal agents. Did you hear about that dude in D.C. who assaulted a Customs agent with a Subway sandwich? At first, I thought someone had videoed a DoorDash guy having a meltdown. Not only was The Sub Slinger arrested, but he also lost his job with the Department of Justice. “Terminated due to food fight” will not look good on his future resume. Too bad he didn’t just give the sub to a homeless person. In the Sub Slinger’s defense, though, maybe the agent looked hungry, and he was only trying to help. A lot of homeless and hungry on those streets.
OTHER ME: Customs! DOJ! Interesting that both parties involve government paychecks. This whole thing reeks. I love the smell of conspiracy in the morning, man. There’s no way it was the work of a Lone Sub Slinger. I bet others were on the scene too, positioned at varying angles, holstered with legally concealed sandwiches to help ensure that a successful hit was caught on film in case the first guy missed.
ME: Wow! Multiple Sub Slingers! Sandwich artists turned sandwich assassins.
OTHER ME: Why not? There’s no such thing as too many crooks in the stew when it comes to the current administration’s band of bullies, butthole-ness, and buffoonery. The incident was another exercise in deflection and distraction, coming from the top as usual. Think about it. The incident netted tons of headlines and social media clicks. It was yet another short-lived news cycle item distracting the American public from Trump’s aspirations for an autocracy. The federal agents’ reactions seemed too well-rehearsed, their looks of surprise were unconvincing, and once the sandwich bounced off the agent’s chest, they were on the Sub Slinger faster than you can say Lee Harvey Oswald. You’ve got to hand it to Trump, though, the skit did what he’d set out to do in D.C. The footage did show his agents cracking down on crime—well, in this case, crime involving the weaponization of a 12-inch Subway sandwich.
ME: The Art of the Shrill!
OTHER ME: Subgate!
ME: The gassy knoll! We are living in The Terrible Twenties. Truth is dead.
OTHER ME: This self-dialoguing is bringing me down, man. How did we get on this subject anyway?
ME: You asked about my knee, remember?
OTHER ME: Oh, right. You failed at your first-ever protest.
ME: I let my fellow patriots down. Sigh.
OTHER ME: And it resulted in surgery! What a personal letdown, as well. Trump wins again!
ME: And he keeps on winning! The recent defunding of PBS cost me the only dependable paid gig I had for my writing, and I have four LGBTQ+ family members who are thinking about leaving the grand old land of Mike “Whirlybird” Braun, the state they’ve lived in their entire lives. One of my favorite heritage events, a popular Latino festival, was canceled due to a fear of ICE. But I’m not surrendering, Other Me! As soon as I shuck these crutches, I’ll return to the Statehouse. As my favorite protest sign says, “So Many Issues, So Little Cardboard.” I might even stop by Subway first, if you get my drift.
