The Diaries of Saint Sozzled Scribbler #21

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

16 November 2020

In an exclusive interview with CNN’s silver-haired cutie-pie Anderson Cooper, Saint Sozzled Scribbler talks in a sonorous voice through a burning bush about Donald Trump.

AC: As a saint of the Catholic Church, how do you feel about the Trump defeat in the recent elections?

SSS: I’m disappointed, oh my child.

AC: Why?

SSS: I’d hate to see Melanoma homeless and sleeping under a bridge with her brood of starving children.

AC: I hardly think they’ll be homeless. Donald Trump is a millionaire.

SSS: That’s where you’re mistaken, dear boy.

AC: I am?

SSS: It’s a front. The Trumps are prostitute—I mean destitute—poorer than the poorest money lender in the Temple. Oh, when I think of that sweet dear boy Barlow Trump—

AC: You mean Barron Trump, of course.

SSS: Baron who?

AC: Barron Trump.

SSS: Yes, but what’s he baron of, my boy? What’s he baron of? You must be a baron of something, like my dear friend the Baron of Zouche, or the Baron de Strabolgi and let’s not forget Le Baron Etrange. Your dear Mama knew him you know.

AC: Really?

SSS: No, not really. I just mentioned her to open fresh wounds. Did she jump out of a window like your brother?

AC: You go too far.

SSS: Toughen up, fag face. You’ll never survive the apocalypse.

AC: There’s going to be an apocalypse?

SSS: Yes, as a saint of the Holy Catholic Church I have the power to start the end of world.

AC: Oh my God.

SSS: He won’t help you. You’re gay. And we all know what God thinks of buggers. Now where was I? Oh, yes, dear, sweet Balderick Trump. If he’s not a real baron I’m afraid his mama and papa will have to sell him to a boy bar in Budapest to barter his bum in a backroom. You don’t want him, by any chance?

AC: No.

SSS: He could clean your penthouse naked.

AC: I have a child. I don’t want another.

SSS: How did you manage that if you’re into peccatum Sodomiticum?

AC: Surrogacy.

SSS: Rich gay man uses poor woman as incubator. Interesting…

AC: What’s that supposed to mean?

SSS: Nothing. Just saying…

AC: Yeah, well, don’t.

SSS: Oh, when I think of my poor dear Ivanka Trump, penniless, lacking in the essentials of maquillage. She will look a fright. She’s a real intellectual, you know, especially when she’s had a few tequilas. She has a wonderful saying about tequilas.

AC: I’m sure you will tell me what it is.

SSS: I like to have a tequila, two at the very most. After three I’m under the table, after four I’m under my host.

AC: Dorothy Parker said that about martinis.

SSS: I didn’t say Ivanka is original. I just said she’s smart. I suppose she’ll have to go back to selling her kidneys to the Russians.

AC: Ivanka sold her kidneys to Russia?

SSS: Sure, thankfully she has an inexhaustible supply.

AC: How come Ivanka Trump has an inexhaustible supply of kidneys?

SSS: Harvests them from Republican voters when they pass out from too much banality after her father’s rallies, don’t you know. Nothing quite like skimming the cream from the milk pail, aye?

AC: Are you pulling my leg?

SSS: I swear to you on the Virgin Mary’s beard, it’s all true. She’s trans, you know.

AC: Ivanka is trans?

SSS: No, you idiot. Mary is trans.

AC: Mary, Jesus’ mother, is trans?

SSS: One of the first. Had the full operation in old Judean stable. But things didn’t quite work out internally, so to speak. That’s why it was an immaculate conception. Angels intervened because Joseph couldn’t do anything about it. Est voila, la Sainte Vierge.

AC: Surely you jest.

SSS: Not at all. Now that I’m a saint of the highest order I have access to the Apocrypha, the secret or secrets, of the Holy Family. They make the Carringtons in Dynasty look like The Brady Bunch.

AC: We’re getting off the topic.

SSS: Suit yourself, pretty boy.

AC: How can Donald Trump to be broke? He’s worth 2.5 billion. He owns property around the world.

SSS: He doesn’t. It’s mine.

AC: You own the Trump Tower and Mar-a-Lago, and—?

SSS: Yes, but I had to pretend to get rid of them when I was beatified. Vows of poverty and all that…

AC: But you didn’t really sell.

SSS: Of course not. I’m not dumb.

AC: What arrangements did you make with Trump?

SSS: The Trumps stay in my luxury homes as a tax dodge. They don’t own a thing. Except for the silverware Melanoma stole from the White House, of course. I suppose she’ll have to go back to pole dancing in a Slovenian sausage shop. Oh, my poor gorgeous Melanoma. (Sobs volubly.) How will she cope? I will send thoughts and prayers, and we all know how much they help.

AC: Why can’t they go back to living in your homes?

SSS: I kicked them out.

AC: Why?

SSS: Because they disgraced themselves before the entire world. No one will have a bar of them. Not even that lovely sane Rudy Giuliani. They are a laughing stock, worse than the monster in Tobe Hooper’s Funhouse.

AC: What’s next for the Trumps?

SSS: I see a triumphant Trump return in a reality TV show about an ex-president who runs a crematorium, an ex first lady finding redemption in a nursery, and their capricious children who dally in a dildo shop. It has smash hit written all over it.

À bientôt, mes amies.

The Sozzled Scribblerwas born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker and a Greek bear wrestler. He is currently stateless and lives on gin and cigarettes.

Dmetri Kakmiis the author of Mother Land (shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia), and the editor of When We Were Young. His latest book is The Door and Other Uncanny Tales. He does not endorse the Sozzled Scribbler’s views.