Yesterday Donald Trump flew to Mexico to meet with the president, then flew back to the States to deliver a major speech on immigration.
One morning some years ago I flew from Chicago to New York commercial, Don. I gave a speech of my own—to about 300 people at a little outfit called the United Nations.
Flew home the same evening and was picked up at O'Hare by a couple pals who took me to the Happy Village Tavern for a celebratory beer.
We got off to a bad start at the Happy Village when the bartender could not be interrupted from his i-phone to serve us a drink. "Hey, tell 'im to text me a beer!" Tony shouted.
I guess we were sort of charged up (and the bartender was a douche)—and things escalated. Within an hour, we three had been thrown out of the bar with instructions never to return.
I have this fantasy that when I get to heaven, it's going to be like Little League. They're not going to ask whether I was good or bad. They're going to ask how hard I tried. I'll point to the day I woke up in Chicago, gave a speech at the U.N. and then returned to Chicago in time to be banned for life from the Happy Village Tavern.
And Donald Trump is going to be standing there looking crestfallen.