For the Godfarter, a gag order might as well be a gulag.

Trump Whine is very much still a thing.

Don’t get me wrong, it INFURIATES me to listen to DonSnoreleone drone on and on about how “hard” he has it right now. And I will expound upon that fury of mine in short order, believe me, but there’s also this part of me which can’t help but laugh at the pathetic fuck, because he doesn’t have the first clue about what “hard” looks like (no one who has ever been with him does either, cue rim shot), and he’s so fucking miserable right now over literally nothing it’s endlessly amusing, while also bang my head against a metal locker rage inciting at the same time.

But with that said, if it’s wrong to find a small sliver of satisfaction in someone historically awful having to contend with a seemingly trivial “difficulty” in a very public way, I don’t wanna be right. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember.

Allow me to provide some context, as you know how direct and to the point and not at all meandering my stories can be, so let’s travel back in time… to the late 1990s. I was a cute little thing if I do say so myself, thin and somehow perpetually tan, with great big eyebrows and a mop of curls because flat irons were still the stuff of the Jetsons and not yet real life. In my infinite wisdom I had decided to move to the Big Apple to be with my then boyfriend/decades later ex-husband, who didn’t really want me there, but accepted my offer to split the rent, and so he allowed me to move in just so long as it didn’t interfere with the long hours he was “working” which meant having sex with other women I didn’t yet know about, but I digress…

(Me in 1998).

So, the year was 1998, and I was working as a waitress in a swanky seafood joint on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The hierarchy of the waitstaff was such that the newest servers got stuck with the worst sections and the worst shifts, until someone above them got fired for stealing or sleeping with the boss, or getting drunk on the job, or in at least one instance, all of the above.

But that didn’t happen often enough unfortunately, for yours truly was stuck on mid-week lunch shifts for what felt like an eternity. Those shifts were so god awful that on the day I ended up in the ER after badly burning my hand with scalding hot, expertly frothed might I add, milk for a cappuccino, it felt like a fucking vacation.

A parade of extremely well-to-do middle-aged women of NY society would saunter in daily, each one expecting “their” banquette to be ready for them and “their” perfectly chilled bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé to be waiting for them. “Is it ICE COLD?!? I need it to be ice cold. And you know I’ll need a big side of ice too.” They’d say as if I’d suffered a bout of amnesia since the last 468 times they’d essentially said they wanted their wine to freeze their tongues off like they were readying them for transplant transport via helicopter.

Typically, they would dine in groups of no more than 4, although more often they came in pairs so they could speak harshly of their peers with fewer ears around. Their nannies would make the requisite appearance, the women would oooh and ahh over “how big” and “how many new words”, before the nanny would get the look, and shuffle out of the restaurant so they could trade notes on whose hard-to-find help was closer to being replaced by someone else they could ridicule.

These women were awful, truly awful, and they demeaned the staff for sport, but there was one particular woman I will never forget, and her treatment of the waitstaff was nothing short of appalling. She snapped her fingers, belittled her servers, and constantly complained that we had somehow managed yet again to fall short of her expectations in every possible way, all while speaking loudly and condescendingly as if she was the only patron in the entire joint. She was so rude, so cutting and so cruel, she’d made more than one of my coworkers cry. And I despised her.

One day she was dining with her husband, an unsurprisingly lifeless shell of a man who sat and listened to her prattle on and on about whatever hateful nonsense she needed to unleash upon the world on that particular day.

And so he sat there and listened while this woman yapped in between and often during, forkfuls of her chopped salad, one which she demanded repeatedly, could not contain a single ingredient which began with the letter C (and no I’m not fucking kidding). And then he watched her as she stabbed a hefty bite, put it to her lips mid-rant, and…

I had just turned the corner towards the service station when I heard the scream. We ALL heard the scream. The entire busy restaurant came to a standstill because of the scream.

Had someone been murdered, I wondered. Heart attack? Stroke? I was afraid to move. Suddenly the busboys were running in the direction of the scream. The manager, not yet fired for sleeping with the not-so-bright aspiring actress waitress with the giant cans, went sprinting past me.

In the chaos of the commotion the woman could be heard hyperventilating. Her husband kept saying, “It’s alright darling. Calm down. It’s alright.”

Finally, I made my way to the dining room, just as the busboy shuffled past me with a full bowl of chopped salad. So, I followed him into the kitchen, and as he stood there explaining to the Chef what had unfolded while pointing to the salad, I saw it… a giant cockroach, still wiggling, only, it appeared to be missing about half of it’s body.

“Did she cut it? Where’s the other half?” I asked the busboy.

“No.” He said grimly. “She bit it. She… swallowed it. The other half, is…” he pointed to his stomach and began to wretch.

I bust out laughing. I couldn’t help it. The evil bitch didn’t want any ingredients that began with the letter C in her chopped salad, even the hint of a carrot would send her into absolute fits, only to end up eating a motherfucking cockroach.

And yes, maybe this makes me a horrible person. Maybe laughing my ass off at a truly terrible person chomping on and full-on swallowing half a cockroach in the middle of a restaurant is wrong… but then again, maybe I don’t give a fuck if it is.

Just like I don’t give a fuck how “hard” it is for Donald Trump to have to sit in court for a trial of his own making.