Dear the Beauster: I’m Forced to Spend Time With a Trump Acolyte

by Beau Hebert


Dear The Beauster,

I have an ultra-conservative brother-in-law who, though he claims to be a Christian, seems to hate everything and everybody who isn’t him. What’s worse, he’s a rabid Trump supporter. I would rather stick two searing ice picks into my eyeballs, Basic Instinct-style, than talk to the guy, however, he’s hosting a dinner party soon, and I have to attend in order to keep the peace with my wife. Outside of throwing myself from the top story window, how do you suggest I get through it?


Concerned Brother from Another Political Mother


Dear C B from A P M,

If you’re going to take the self-flagellation route (ice picks into your eyeballs, throwing oneself from the top story window), then go for maximum impact. Be a warrior and, through the course of the dinner, slowly disembowel yourself below the table where nobody can see. Then, when your brother is trumpeting a particularly strident Trump trope, such as the deportation of all Americans with the capacity for empathy, flop your bloody innards up onto your dinner plate, throw a stiff blond comb-over wig atop it and scream, “Trump this!” before collapsing to the floor and dying in a heap.

Initially, all will recoil in blistering shock, horror and crazed revulsion, their mouths stretched into grotesque rictuses of wretched agony as throaty, animal sobs bubble involuntarily out of them…then, slowly, the artistic brilliance of your political statement will dawn on them. They will realize that they had just witnessed an act of the highest performance-art beauty, combining elements of ancient Samuari, Gallagher and Shepard Fairey. They will gather around your gutsy entrail-portrait of Donald Trump and instinctively clasp for each other’s hands, even embrace, as they feel a deep, abiding Bern rise up into the soles of their feet, on into their femurs. Heavy sighs will accompany the Bern as it continues through their pelvises, into their torsos…culminating in a collective expression of “resting kvetch face” among the group, now united one and all, in the mission – nay! – the crusade to propel Bernie Sanders to the office of President of The United States of America.

Or, if you’re not quite up for all that, just endure the dinner and your brother’s bombastic pro-Trump commentary in meek, impotent silence, raising your voice only to ask for an extra dinner roll, reserving your NPR outrage and expressions of wounded Liberal pride for the drive home, during which time your wife will be weighing the option of sticking ice picks in her eyeballs versus throwing herself out of the vehicle as it speeds down the highway.

Cocktail prescription from the back bar pharmacy of Jude’s Old Town – Corpse Reviver 2: Dry Gin, Lillet, Cointreau, fresh lemon juice & a couple drops of Absinthe, shaken & strained with cherry garnish.

Overheard at the bar: “Lobsters used to just be ‘Lobs,’ just like ‘The Beauster’ used to just be ‘Beau.’”

Beau Hebert is the owner and head bartender of Jude’s Old Town in the Rainier Beach neighborhood.

Featured image by Alex Garland

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