Every time I listen to Donald Trump speak , the same question pops into my head: How did this guy get through middle school? Did he have, even back then, bodyguards to escort him from the schoolhouse to a waiting limo? Or did he not attend the same public school that I did?
Where I went to school, if you were to bad mouth Mexicans, you’d be obliged to clarify your position later—most likely in the schoolyard where you would be knocked about like a human piñata. After you were released from the hospital, you’d be a changed man. You’d think before you spoke. You’d understand that insults have consequences. You’d be humbled.
I was lucky. I never had to undergo such a corrective interview because I knew my limitations, as Dirty Harry would say. I was small and could barely make a fist. I imagine even Rosie O’Donnell and Meghan Kelly could kick the crap out of me. So I lay low and waited patiently for school to let out, at which time I would take a circuitous route home in order to avoid running into a couple of classmates who had it in for me, if for no other reason than they knew I was destined for greatness, whereas they would never amount to anything more than what they were in middle school.
These two guys—let’s call then Kenneth and Cameron, because those are their real names—had nothing better to do than to write hurtful things about me on little slips of paper, which they would then drop from an airplane over Price Junior High School. One such slip of paper was recovered by a teacher, Mrs. Cromar, who decided to take action. Holding the missive in one hand, she addressed my homeroom class:
“Whoever is tormenting little Richard Menzies, will you please stop? He’s sensitive, and you’re hurting his feelings.”
Thank you so very much, Mrs. Cromar, for signing my death warrant!
Fact is, adults should never become involved in bullying. It does no good whatsoever. Better to let the poor victim sort it out for himself. Either he will stand up to the bully and thus earn some respect, or else he will take the coward’s way out, content to die a thousand imaginary deaths as opposed to one real one. Down the road he may become a writer of stories in which he inevitably casts himself as the triumphant protagonist. That’s what I did, and that’s what The Donald has done. He’s become a legend in his own mind.
Amazingly, there are people in this country who believe Donald Trump should be elected President. Let us pray that never comes to pass! Imagine a future in which we become involved in still another endless war—because, why the hell not? In order to seize control of Alberta oil fields, Commander-In-Chief Donald Trump orders our troops—a good percentage of whom are Latino—to invade Canada. Would they follow orders? Well, I should surely hope not. Because it happens I have some friends who are Canadian, and I wouldn’t blame them one bit for building that wall.