AIRBORNE SARCASM: TRUMP'S MIDDLE EAST TOUR
By Bernice, Fly on the Wall
One finds oneself in the most inconvenient positions when pursuing truth. Take, for instance, my current lodging inside an oxygen mask of Air Force One—that stately bird of American imperialism now reeking of overcooked steak and desperation as it ferries our illustrious leader through the gilt-edged capitals of oil wealth.
I stowed away for Trump's grand tour of the Persian Gulf—a diplomatic mission in the same way champagne is hydration. Three countries, three displays of obscene opulence, and not a single treaty signed. Just cash handouts like drunken sailors on shore leave.
Consider the Qatar stop, where the Emir—as delicately proportioned as a Fabergé egg and twice as fragile—presented Trump with a $400 million airplane. "A gift to replace Air Force One," he proclaimed, as if handing over a box of chocolates. Trump preened like a peacock discovering mirrors while I perched on the luminous dome of his scalp, contemplating the irony of one bird gifting another.
In Riyadh, the Saudis unfurled a banquet that could feed Detroit twice over. Trump sat beneath a portrait of himself that suggested the artist had only ever seen the subject through a kaleidoscope, toasting "eternal friendship" while deals for weapons flowed like cheap gin at a wake. Behind the scenes, aides rehearsed their bromides—"historic alliance," "shared values"—with all the sincerity of a debutante's curtsy.
I nestled in Trump's lapel as he practiced said "unprecedented" without spraying the crown prince. The air smelled of oil, money, and the unmistakable musk of men who purchase legacies rather than earn them.
Dubai delivered the pièce de résistance: a replica of the Trump Tower constructed entirely of diamonds and gold. Trump received it with ecstasy usually reserved for religious conversion or very good drugs, asking if naming rights came included. The sheikh smiled that smile one saves for children and visiting fools.
The aroma inside Air Force One shifted from cologne to panic and back again. Young staffers, overpaid and under-prepared, whispered frantically about "optics" and "message discipline" while the press contingent drank themselves into blessed oblivion in the rear cabin. One suggested they issue a press release claiming Trump had secured Middle East peace. Another countered they should simply Photoshop him standing atop Mount Sinai, arms raised victoriously.
Throughout this circus, Trump delivered impromptu speeches with the coherence of alphabet soup thrown against a wall. He embraced camels, swayed awkwardly to Lee Greenwood tracks, and christened the Gulf of Mexico as the "Gulf of America" while Saudi royalty filmed him on their phones with the fascination of zoologists documenting a rare species.
I clung to the presidential seal embroidered on a napkin as we departed Dubai, watching a region shimmering with wealth bought with other people's misery recede below us. What was accomplished? A trillion dollars of promised investments, a diamond-encrusted tchotchke, and a lovely new airplane that won't be ready for two years. Diplomacy in the age of the deal.
The final toast aboard Air Force One came from Trump himself, hoisting aloft a Diet Coke and a slice of cake shaped like the globe. "Nobody's ever done what we just did," he declared to an audience of exhausted aides.
To which I, Bernice—ever the observer—might add: Thank God for that.