I was embarrassed to not have a driver’s license at age 34, but growing up in New York City, it was not unusual to be without a license because of the lack of parking and the presence of adequate mass transit. I rode the train from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back five days a week from age 12 on up past law school and more. What’s that? 22 years, right? But every so often I felt like a terminal teenager when I was in need of a car or out of town. Then I really needed my own wheels, ya know? So I called my buddy Don.
I said, “Yo, Donald! I need to learn how to drive and you are such a smart guy. Remember me from back in Queens and then military school?” I said. And he said, “Sure, Michael. Michael Cohen, old butt suck. How are you? I’ll do it for free. I’ll send a guy over to show you. No charge.”
I was a little put off by Mr. Trump’s lack of validating our brotherly bond. So I says, “Hey, Don, I’d really like you to show me the ropes, ya know?” That’s when he shifted into that smooth voice of his, not the almost yelling voice he uses in front of airplanes and helicopters. He says to me kinda whispery like, “Michael, I need you to do something for me, for the family. You know what I mean?”
And I says, “Sure, you want me to knock some heads and dump some bodies, right?” And he says, “That’s it. We’re gonna be huge again, buddy. But, and I mean this sincerely, Michael, I need loyalty. I need one of your testicles as a sign of your good faith. It’s what I do.”
And me? I says, “No problem, I was born with an extra set, ya know. Ha ha ha ha ha.” Cuz I knew he was kiddin’. Mr. Trump is like that, always dodging and blowing stuff up. A master of chaos. He plays three dimensional checkers backwards in a mirror, so he does. Always a step ahead. I says, “What are you gonna do with these loyalty nads, go golfing? Ha ha ha.”
Oh, and he played it straight. Said, “Actually, I take a bucket of them to the driving range and hit them into the river at Bedminster. It’s a way of symbolically and literally emasculating men, turning them into half eunuchs so they can never challenge me as king of the pride.”
Oh I laughed so hard at him and his straight face. It was great, lemme tell yuz. He cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me. I have a call to return.” I mean I fell out. He seemed dead serious and all. Hysterical. Oy ve, what a comic!
But a week later I got a call from Mt. Sinai Hospital for my testiclectomy. It really shook me. I knew my drivin’ lessons were gonna cost me sumthin’, but then I realized it would be more than I could ever repay.
After my stitches healed up, Mr. Trump showed up in a silver Jaguar, a real British one with the steering wheel way over on the right side. It was cool. He said, “Get in” and before I could click my seat belt we were flying down the streets headin’ for Jersey like a bat mobile outta hell. I could feel the G forces pushing my head back into the fine Corinthian leather headrests. I said, “Mr. Trump, you’re a genius.” He smiled and looked at himself in the rear view mirror and gave me a thumbs up. “Yes I am.”
“Michael, you’ve passed your first test of loyalty. Now I need you to repeat after me, the Omerta oath.”
That’s when I got scareder. I said, “Uh, uh, Mr. Trump, uh, that’s the mafia code of silence, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Michael. You are astute, my man. It is the original nondisclosure agreement.”
“But, Mr. Trump”, I says, “isn’t that ill, illle, illegal?”
He turned at me and glared into my very viscera. Without any words exchanged between us I knew he now owned my soul forever. “Michael, I’ll need your other testicle one day when I call in a favor. Omerta?”
What else could I say? I felt hypnotized by Mr. Trump’s overwhelming presence at 85 miles per hour. “Omerta, sir”, I replied.
Something inside of me died that day. I already had my kids so I knew being a eunuch wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, at least I’d have my kids, but it was something else, like my humanity died. I felt like a porn star. I noticed all the other men around Mr. Trump were like me– adoring him, laughing nervously, talking too fast, rushing to fawn over him like generals in North Korea do with Kimba. We couldn’t help it, not one of us. We were tiny tacks of men and he was the big kahuna magnet drawing us whichever way he chose. We all just jumped to get closer to him, to serve his every whim. To lick his boots with tears of joy.
When we pulled into Trump International Resort Spa Esplanade Concourse Palladium, he told me to get his clubs out of the trunk that he automatically opened. I ran excitedly to caddy for the great man. I was stunned to see only putters and a bucket of “balls” in the boot, as the Brits call trunks.
“Mr. Trump, I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake, sir. There are only putters here.”
“It’s okay, Michael. Today we’re playing putt putt. Bring the bucket.”
I did as I was told, so thrilled to be paling around with the Boss. I felt like, well like a prom queen.
When we got to the first hole, he said to me, “Put Sessions’ nad down. I hate that inexcusable recuser.” I looked through the balls until I found one with JS imprinted on it. Mr Trump teed off and launched that nugget right through the metal clown’s mouth obstacle for a hole in one. Amazing controlled rage.
Hole 2 he asked for Scaramucci’s nut. I placed it gingerly on the tee. “That stupid jerk could not keep his mouth shut for a New York minute”, he said and began beating the nad into the astroturf, while screaming, “Loyalty. I need loyalty!!”
Hole 3 and all the rest were the same, score settling with anyone who failed him in any way. “Rudy!!” “Manafort!!” “Flynn!!” “Spicey!!” “Stormy!!”
I felt squeamish but had to correct him that there was no Stormy nugget to hit.
He wheeled around on me and stared into my soul again. “Then use your own. Now!! It’s all your fault, Michael.”
I bowed down to do the deed, from far away I heard the theme song to Branded play…
Scorned as the one who ran.
What do you do when you’re branded,
And you know you’re a man?
And wherever you go
for the rest of your life
You must prove …
You’re a man!