“I still feel like there’s something you aren’t telling me. Some vital bit of information about human psychology that would explain the twat.” Regret the cat was on about Trump again. He sneaks out early to steal my neighbor’s newspaper before my alarm’s gone off. So by the time I’ve poured my first cup of coffee he’s jacked up and pissed at the world.
“You shouldn’t use that word.”
“Twat. I shouldn’t call him twat? How about cunt. Can I call him that?”
“I think,” I said, picking Regret off the kitchen counter and tossing him gently to the floor. “I think women would ask why you feel it necessary to refer to a man using crude terms referring to women’s bits. Why drag them into this at all?” I grabbed coffee for both of us and headed to the kitchen table. “You want milk?”
“I’m a fucking cat. Do I want milk. Yes. Yes, please. Bourbon too, if you’ve got it.”
“I don’t. Wouldn’t give it to you if I did. You’re bad enough with just coffee.”
I watched him take a long drink then wipe his face with his paws.
“How about scrotum. Ok if I call him that?”
“I like that.”
“You like scrotum? I’ve long suspected that you are queer.”
“I meant I like it as a description of our president. More than I like descriptions about him that involve twats or cunts.”
“Right. Wouldn’t want to offend any women who are never here. You should try being gay. Maybe you’d have more luck.”
“This is all,” I said, wishing now that I had some bourbon for my coffee, “This is all funny coming from someone with no balls at all.”
“Not my choice. And a low blow anyway. Beneath your dignity.”
“I apologize. Didn’t mean to drag that into the conversation. Fixing you wasn’t my call, lest you forget. That was your first owner.”
“She was a cunt.”
“She was my girlfriend,” I said.
“So you would know better than anyone.”
“Anyway. We’re in the weeds here. You were saying something about Trump.”
“Right. I don’t understand. What the hell is wrong with you people? What did you hope to accomplish by voting that twisted old prune into office?”
“I expect that they’ll be asking that question for decades.”
“Who’s they?”
“PHD students, cable news nitwits, middle aged men and their literary devices talking over coffee in the morning.”
“Fuck yourself,” he stood up, stretched and knocked the coffee off the table. The mug bounced across the floor. A wise man does not give his cat coffee in a ceramic mug. “I’m going to go take a shit.”
“Not on my neighbor’s doorstep again, please.”
“No, I’m going to take a shit in his paper, wrap it up night and THEN put it back on his doorstep. He probably won’t notice. I’ll take it right on the scrotum’s picture.”
“You’re a cunt,” I say, kicking him out the door into the cold autumn morning air.

“What’s lost in all this,” he said, taking another drag from his cigarette, “is the end game question.”

“It’s all a con.”

“Well, yeah, but what kind of con? There’s one school of thought that he is just a short term con artist, and he’s just bumbled his way into the presidency.”

“Likely.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He paused to blow out a perfect smoke ring that rose towards the ceiling, fought a brief losing battle with the fan, and disappeared. “But what if it’s the long con? What if he isn’t done yet?”

“That would mean that he needs to be president for a specific reason. That he was thinking ahead. He doesn’t strike me as a think ahead kind of guy.”

“Yeah, but what if that’s part of the con?”

“Like a Manchurian candidate.”

“No. I don’t buy that. I don’t think anyone would have looked at Trump before this whole thing kicked off and said to themselves ‘That’s the guy we want to base any long term nefarious plans around.’”

“Unless they were comically nefarious plans.”

“Right.”

“So what’s the long term goal? If it’s a long con, what’s the goal?”

“Bugger me if I know,” he said. “Here’s a thought I had though. What if a few months in he held a news conference declaring that he’d been briefed on Area 51 and that all the stories about aliens are true.”

“Again. Doesn’t seem like something he’d be interested in.”

“But he would like the attention. And here’s the thing. It doesn’t have to be true. He could say anything he wanted, tell everyone that the top, top people in Area 51 gave him the info. And if they went to the press later. You know, saying that what Trump said was all bullshit, who would believe them?”

“Right. They’re part of the conspiracy.”

“Exactly. He’s got the spotlight, the chance to be taken very seriously saying whatever kind of bullshit he wants, for the next four years.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Four years of comedy I’m guessing. Not like I have any vested interest in the long term welfare of this fucking country. That, as they say, is your problem.”

“Hold on,” said Regret the cat, flicking his cigarette in the toilet. He giggled, stopped himself again. “Hold on, wait,” he shook himself all over, then flicked my toothbrush into the toilet as well. “Ok. Now I’m ready.”
“Goddamn it,” I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him gently into the hallway.
“Hold on,” he said, indulging in a little post toss grooming. “Wait, OK, I’m ready. Do it again.”
“Do what again?”
“Explain Trump to me. I can handle it this time.”