NOTE: It is still Ash Wednesday on the West Coast.  And because, at 70 years of age, I may completely forget everything I want to say in this post by the time Yom Kippur rolls around, I ask forgiveness of my Catholic readers for usurping their observance to address my sinful obsession with comics and comedy. 

This evening ended as they almost always do in our household.  I suffer from tinnitus and find it easier to fall asleep by donning earbuds and listening to either music or one of my favorite comedy albums.  My taste in music is stuck in a time warp where the imaginary disc jockey in my head only plays folkies, remnants of the British rock invasion or soundtracks from old movies or Broadway musicals.  In the age of Trump, my preference when it comes to humor tilts toward the politically acerbic ranging from Mort Sahl to George Carlin to Sarah Silverman to Lewis Black to Ron Wood, Jr.

But tonight, for some serendipitous reason, “I dug deep down into the old pack of cigarettes” (a phrase coined by John Denver referring to one of his early hit songs) and chose David Steinberg’s 1974 album “Booga!  Booga!” I was on the cusp of slumber when I reached Track #8 titled, “Prejudice.”  And was reminded why so many of my recent blogs begin with an excerpt from a stand-up performance.  The following is the entire three minute, 43 second routine recorded at the Cellar Door in Washington, DC.

The country doesn’t belong to us.  People who signed the Declaration of Independence, they got the country early and the still hold it.  It belongs to the blond haired John Deans, the short haired Bob Haldemans and the no-haired John Mitchells.  And the cottage cheese and ketchup Richard Nixon.

I want them to loosen their grasp, but I’m no one to look at how terrible they are or corrupt because I recognize my own capacity for evil.  I just put it in a different perspective.  What they did is based on a philosophy and  a theory developed by Plato or Socrates.  It’s called, “Save your ass.”

You know why Nixon and his boys can’t believe what happened to them.  Not because of the reenactment of democratic principles.  I don’t believe so. The reason they can’t believe what happened to them is because they got caught by a black man.  A black who, in their minds, they put in his place years ago.  A night watchman at the Watergate complex.  A night watchman with his lantern, just walking, checking out those rooms.  Meanwhile, they’re in California winning the gubernatorial race, beating Helen Gahagan Douglas and the Washington Post.  And he’s just walking, checking out those rooms, waiting for that mystical moment when the door is left open just a crack.  But it’s enough to see the torn underwear under America’s tuxedo.  And when he closes his hand tight on them, he brings a little bit of America back and gets it out of their grasp.  And I find that exciting.

I want to believe John Mitchell was telling the truth, but then his nose starts to grow.  John Connolly is one of those rare instances of a rat swimming toward a sinking ship.  Nixon has the kind of career that every six years self destructs.

Having read numerous books about the Watergate era, none captures the essence of the times better than Steinberg’s less than four minute recitation.  If only someone could do the same when it comes to the Trump years.  Where is David Steinberg when we sorely need him?  And then I realized this 1974 routine was a template for the future, a political version of Mad Libs.  All I had to do was fill in the blanks.

In 2020, the country belongs to the blond haired Ivanka Trumps, the short-haired Steven Millers and the no-haired Wilbur Rosses.  And the KFC and Diet Coke Donald Trump.

Their disregard for the Constitution and the rule of law is based on the philosophy of Atwater and Ailes, “Protect your power at all costs.”

And why are they so angry.  Because briefly a black man (substitute Barack Obama for Watergate security guard Frank Wills) created a mystical moment, cracking open the door behind which they thought they would always be protected.  A black man they thought they had put in his place years ago.  A too short eight year period which took America out of their grasp.  But brought on another glimpse at the torn underwear under America’s tuxedo.

I want to believe Kellyanne Conway is telling the truth but her nose keeps growing.  And Bill Barr is that rare instance of a rat swimming toward a sinking ship.  And like Nixon, every few years, Trump’s career in business, television or politics does implode.

So let me introduce you to the freshest, new comedian on the American scene William Shakespeare.  Tickets to his 30-city comedy tour “The Past Is Prologue” are now available on Ticketmaster.

For what it’s worth.
Dr. ESP