Greenland, Greenland

The president called and ordered Greenland. As usual there was a bad connection on Maui, so I thought he said Foodland and picked up a dozen eggs. I texted a pic to the prez who exploded in anger. Ketchup, wall. “No, you idiot, the country. GREENLAND.” He spelled it out for me. I was sure he said Japan, so I caught the next flight from Kahului. I stopped first at a Buddhist temple, because who better to ask than monks in orange bathrobes? I sat cross-legged across from a monk named Ken. I told him that the president had ordered up Japan, pronto. Ken had a shaved head and Elton John spectacles. I may have selected the wrong temple. Ken assured me that I was in fact in Japan, although illegally. I told him the president selected me for this mission because (and then I made up a reason). Ken nodded, reflected. “Breathe,” he purred. I breathed and thought the president is going to shoot me over a country with no electoral votes. I began to feel he was a menace to diamonds that shiver in flowerbeds and to me (though I was a cousin to Marla Maples and had made Page 6 more times than OJ since he died). Ken suggested that I try the Danish. So back I went to Foodland. It was a long flight. I was a top advisor. I could handle this. I fell asleep on the flight. This gig is exhausting. I dreamt for hours of hospitals, hotels, and jails, a raped piano. Donald and I. Beautiful and naked, the wives slept before the fire.