I had a dream that Donald Trump had himself cloned 57 times so that he would fill every speaking slot at the convention that would nominate the Republican candidate for President of the United States. "Why would I want to share the stage with a bunch of losers," he asked the assembled delegates, "when I can share the stage with myself?"
Somewhere in a dark corner of the Quicken Loans Arena (what? The Shady Loanshark in a Back Alley Arena was booked that weekend?), Ted Nugent energetically nodded his head and said to nobody in particular, "Yeah. Un hunh. Right on!" Nugent was under the impression that Trump was talking about the other losers in the party.
"Yeah, yeah, enough about you," Trump said. "I would now like to introduce somebody who is well qualified to talk about the awesomeness that is me - me!" One of the clones strode onto the stage grabbed the microphone and started braying.
Then, because dreams can be contradictory that way, Speaker of the House Paul Ryan took the stage and said, "Donald Trump has said some racist things." Then, he put his right foot over his left shoulder and said, "But, he has been chosen by party members in the primaries to lead us in the presidential election, so I will support our candidate." Then, he looped his left arm between his right foot and left shoulder and touched his right shoulder with it as he said, "And, the statements he has made about policy are either unworkable or make no sense." Then, he put his left foot over his right shoulder and, levitating three feet off the ground, he said, "But, he won a majority of delegates in the primaries, so I will support our candidate." Then, he looped his right arm between his left foot and right shoulder, saying, "To be honest, many of the things he has said are at odds with long-standing party objectives and policies." Then, he put both hands behind his head and said, "But, for the good of the party, I will support our candidate."
Somebody salt that man. He's done.
Meanwhile, on another part of the stage, two Trumps were arguing about how high they could build the wall along the Mexican border. "Ten feet tall!" one of the Trumps shouted. "How will that keep out ten foot tall Mexicans?" the other Trump demanded. "The wall has to be at least...20 feet tall!" "Twenty feet?" a third Trump ran onto the stage. "Pft! That's nothing! I would build a yuge wall! Yuge, I tell you! At least 30 feet tall!" A fourth Trump appeared out of nowhere and said, "Only 30 feet tall? That wall would be smaller than your tiny hands! If you want to build a big wall, it has to be at least..."
Taking over from where Ryan left off, Ted Cruz (not to be confused with Tom Cruise, a Disney cruise or you snooze, you lose) was booed by many of the Republicans on the floor. You might imagine that somebody eager to play Dracula to Trump's Frankenstein Monster would be welcome at this convention, but he had the poor taste to argue that Trump was a danger to a little blind girl in a white dress, and it was clear that he wanted to be the danger to the little blind girl in a white dress. The Republican tent is big enough to accept fear, loathing, anger, hatred and irrationality, but it absolutely cannot abide jealousy.
Cruz pulled his cape across his face and proudly skulked off the stage.
For a moment, I was outside the arena (because dreams can be contradictory like that, too), watching people stream in. As Andre Agassi walked up to a gate, a police officer screamed, "Tennis balls!" and he and several other officers piled onto the game's great. Meanwhile, a grizzled young man with crazy eyes and an assault rifle on his shoulder tutted as he walked past and muttered, "That dangerous maniac should be locked away for the rest of his life!"
Somewhere in another dark corner of the arena (they really should have vetted the lighting before they held the convention - this place has more dark corners than a Stephen King novel!), Vladimir Putin threatened to open his tattered grey raincoat, cooing, "Wanna know a secret, little party? Come with me and I will show you things about the Democratic Party that are so dirty, it will make you sick...with delight!"
Turning my attention back to the stage, I saw at least 40 of the Trumps arguing with each other about the proper height of the wall along the Mexican border. "As high as the moon!" "As high as the sun!" "As high as Venus!" "A wall as high as the sun would be higher than a wall as high as Venus!" "Not in my solar system, it ain't!" Then, they started throwing about the names of distant stars and galaxies that I'm pretty sure don't exist, the assembled crowd cheering louder for every one.
The platform articulated at the convention was even thinner than the Benghazi accusations against Hillary Clinton; it amounted to, "Let's put more cops on the streets (so we can kill blacks faster - shh) and trust our leader for everything else." As I contemplated the kind of country that would emerge from such an agenda, a little voice in my head said, "Donald Trump is just Richard Nixon by other means."
Then, things got weird. One of the Trump clones tried to burn down the stage, but he couldn't get his lighter to work. Melania Trump started to give a speech, but cut herself on her high cheekbones and had to be rushed off the bloody stage on a stretcher. Chris Christie wandered around the auditorium in a wedding dress, muttering, "I stood by my man. I should be the one on the stage with him. Me! I mean, what does Mike Pence have that I don't have?"
Although I hadn't realized it, the whole time the dream was going on the logo for the RNC had been slowly morphing:
That's when it all started to make sense.
