Truth Or Dare
'You're right,' replied Dean McCoy. 'We write what he says but we know he's lying.' He leaned forward for comic effect. 'We live in a post-truth world, you know.'
Gail laughed; this had become Dean's catchphrase since the inauguration. 'Post-truth journalists, that's what we are. And what does that mean anyway? Have we lost the truth forever?'
Dean sat back, locking his hands together in resignation. 'Perhaps we have. George Orwell will be turning in his grave. Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed: everything else is public relations. We're PR monkeys for liars.'
'But what if we could find the truth?' Gail's eyes lit up. 'What if we found a way for Trump to tell the truth?'
'Holy grail, Gail, holy grail now. It'll never happen.'
'I have an idea.' They leant closer and Gail whispered whilst Dean started to smile.
Gail had managed to bag a front row seat for the press conference. She'd had to arrive early, pull a few favours, and make some promises she might not be able to make good on later. But it would be worth it. She smoothed her skirt, made sure her collar was even and adjusted her lapels. Later, when the cameras were all focused on her, she wanted to be immaculate. She wanted to make the most of her moment.
Her turn came quickly. For a second she hesitated, but what is life without a few risks? What is life without a dare? What is life without the truth?
'Good morning Mister President'.
'Good morning Gail, can I rate you a nine this morning?'
She shrugged off the daily remark, although noting that he had increased her rating by one point. 'Mister President, this might be an unusual question, but I hope that you will appreciate that sometimes journalists need to try unusual methods in this new and positive world we find ourselves in.'
The President pushed his lips together to spread the corners wide in his trademark self-satisfied smile.
'Mister President, will you play a game of truth or dare?'
He laughed, but it was clear to the whole room that he could not turn down the invitation. In the same way a schoolchild cannot turn down a dare to steal a chocolate bar, or to run across a busy road, when faced with the threat of disapproval of their friends, the President could not weaken in the face of the media.
'Sure,' he replied confidently. 'Fire away.' Was that false confidence, or was the President somewhere else? Perhaps in a college party amongst drunk students playing a reckless game that required only one skill. The ability to be convincing.
Gail had discussed at length with Dean what she should say if she got this far. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Would it be truth or dare?
'If I said dare,' the President said, 'you'd probably challenge me to press the button. Which of course I would have to do if it was a dare. Because Donald Trump never backs down from a dare. So under those circumstances I think it'll have to be truth.'
Gail looked down at her question and knew only one thing. For the first time in his political career, Donald Trump would have to tell the complete truth.
I am a man, too.
I’ve given up.
I’m one of those guys who never wins.
I have no backing.
I’ve never been in the right place at the right time.
I’ve never been elected.
I’ve never been called to the microphone.
My shoes are often left untied.
I forget to zip my fly.
No one has ever said to me, “I love you.”
I missed out on disco-mania.
I still use too much salt.
I hit my children.
I ate canned ravioli as a kid.
My life is almost over.
I won’t let my wife serve instant rice.
I often forget to lift the seat.
I don’t know how to tie a tie.
I never take down my Christmas lights.
My mother called me stupid.
I bite my nails.
I have a pimply ass.
I forget to flush.
I voted for Richard Nixon.
I make my wife take out the garbage.
I can’t catch a ball.
My wife makes me sleep in the den.
She says I smell like a dead mouse.
My first grade teacher said I should be ashamed of myself.
My high school coach said I was full of shit.
My father beat my ass.
I have no friends.
I hate the snow.
I used to eat Lucky Charms.
I love baseball.
I’ve changed a lot of flat tires.
I never look at porno.
I used to like cutting the grass.
I joined the boycott against Coca Cola.
I’ve never been out of state.
I voted for Ronald Reagan.
I voted for Bush.
I once hated the Soviet Union.
I hated communists like Jane Fonda.
I hated the Viet Cong.
Now I love the Taliban.
I’m not into hate.
I didn’t take Watergate seriously.
I didn’t vote for Obama.
I always order broccoli beef and spring rolls at the Chink’s.
I drive a Chevy.
I’d like to retire to Panama.
I laughed when my brother got hit in the head by a fly ball.
I’m a goner.
I won’t let my wife shave her pussy.
I prefer sunflowers to roses.
I am an alcoholic.
My wife had her left tit removed.
I’ve always wanted to see the Pyramids.
I think Pete Rose got shafted.
I voted for Trump.
I’ve never been to a French restaurant.
I never go to church.
I think Margaret Thatcher had balls.
God bless America.
Colouring like a child
Outside of blurred lines, whirls and swirls,
Threading thoughts tightening the noose around his neck.
Fiction or myth, fine inventions to escape fate,
Destiny has a way of luring man down a winding road,
Taught to do as we are told,
Following with faith or foolishness?
Meanwhile is melting while procrastination poses like a French girl,
Seductive in its smile and hips,
Promising another day, an easier way,
Lies licking rouge lips.
A man can run, escape at the hand of a gun,
Fight or flight or flee?
A once ignorant man discovering
The truth does not always set you free.
Intuition burrows its head,
Claustrophobic in a crowd of reflections.
An innocent man, half saint, half sinner,
Does guilty or not guilty make?
Man dares not to tell the truth,
Humiliation is an easier pill to swallow.
Choking tongue forgets its purpose,
The muscle that cannot be moved.
It is fear that makes the world run scared.
Cat and mouse, truth or dare?