The Ace of Stace

I think I may need to cut back on my reality TV watching. Last night I had a dream that I was telling Donald Trump that I was a whole heck of a lot smarter than most of his chosen candidates, because while I possessed an infinite amount of creativity and energy, I was also blessed with practicality. The Donald for all his pomp and circumstance seemed to agree with me, nodding his head in a you're hired sort of way, and motioning me over in his direction.

"You really think you know what you're doing?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper. Taking a moment to consider my answer and conceal my bewilderment over how he managed to flop his hair over in such an odd, feathered fashion, I looked him straight in the eye.

"Absolutely," I said, a look of complete seriousness on my face. "And as a good friend once told me, if you can't baffle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit." Eyes crinkling and mouth twitching as if to smile, The Donald laughed at my forwardness.

"You're quite something, aren't you?"

"You betcha," I laughed. "You damn well betcha."