InJest is a satirical column from South First. Names, places, situations referred to in the satirical piece are fictitious and is not intended to hurt any sentiments. The column is meant to be taken with a pinch of salt and a whole lot of laughs.
Published Dec 16, 2024 | 4:19 PM ⚊ Updated Dec 16, 2024 | 4:19 PM
InJest in a satirical column by South First. Names, places, situations are all fictitious. Caricature by Satish Acharya/South First.
12 December, 2024, 8.30 am EST
Mar-e-Lago, Palm Beach, Florida (United States)
“Damn!” yelled Donald Trump in his booming baritone. He had the look of a man with baby scorpions crawling up his legs.
The President-to-be of the United States was in the Crisis Manipulation Room in his 17-acre Mar-e-Lago home. That’s where he always parks himself for confabulations when he is hopping mad about something. And today he was hopping, stark, raving, howling, splitting, boiling, insane mad.
Members of Trump’s new Think Tank sat around a circular table. My source — I call him Deep Throat — crouched outside a window and watched.
“How the heck do we get out of this jam?” Trump screamed in the same eardrum-splitting voice.
He picked up The New York Times from the table and read out a report: “Just in case we forget Trump has won the election, he has called for a ‘final blockbuster victory rally’ in Glendale in California — on Kamala Harris’ home turf — on 15 December. By coincidence, Harris too has planned a rally the same evening in Pasadena, 10 miles away. She calls it ‘Harris Fight Goes On’. But an NYT poll reveals that both shows will be unmitigated disasters. As many as 94.8 percent of the locals said they would give Trump a go-by since he had won anyway, and only 8.3 percent might go to Pasadena in sympathy for the defeated lady.”
Elon Musk coughed to get Trump’s attention. “We have read it, Don,” he said in a pained tone. “Only a renormalised, techno-scientific, algorithm-based response can help us.”
Trump stared at Musk with suspicion.
“God of Seven Hills!” exclaimed Usha Vance, pushing the dark Indian-origin hair from her face. “If anybody can help us, it’s Rally Rayudu.”
Silence fell in the room.
“Only Rally Rayudu can pull us out of the catastrophe awaiting us,” Usha went on. Vice-President-elect Vance looked at his wife with gooey eyes. Trump’s son Barron was astonished.
“He is the leader of the Telugu Nadu party in my ancestral state Andhra Pradesh in India,” Usha went on. “You know, Don, India is the world’s largest democracy and Indian politicians know best how to pull crowds to rallies like a magnet draws iron filings.”
Musk laughed. “I have heard of him.”
“Telugus are smart cookies,” added Vivek Ramaswamy, who would co-lead Trump’s DOGE (Department of Government Efficiency) with Musk. “And New Jersey’s crammed with ‘em.”
Turning to Usha, Trump queried, his voice uncharacteristically gentle: “How do we know Rally Rayudu can save us, lady?”
Usha giggled. “My grand-aunt in Visakhapatnam and my cousins in Vadluru say that Congress leaders in India bait people with cash and rum to get crowds for rallies and still don’t get them. But Rally Rayudu knows better, they swear.”
13 December, 2024, 11.30 am PST
Brentwood, Los Angeles
Kamala Harris was in a chair by the pool behind her home, her face looking like a half-mast Democratic flag. Standing by her was niece Meena Harris. Having taken a night flight from Florida, Deep Throat hid behind a flowering bush.
“I hope I can make at least my last rally a swashbuckling success,” Kamala moaned.
“Ayyo, quit worrying, aunt,” said Meena. “Our show will be a fantabulous hit. Largesse Lenin told me how to make it happen. He is the leader of Tamil Kazhagam in our matrimonial state in India.”
December 15, 2024, 11.30 pm PST
Penthouse Suite
Hotel Waldorf Astoria Beverly Hills, Los Angeles
Trump’s rally was a mega-hit. Harris addressed a nearly empty venue.
“Whoop-de-doo,” Trump sang, breaking into a jig. “How did Rally Rayudu pull it off?” he asked, sitting down at the dinner table on the terrace. Deep Throat was there, disguised as a waiter.
Barron grinned. “Largesse Lenin advised Harris to promise 1 kg of durum wheat to each one coming to her show. But Rally Rayudu told us to guarantee a laptop, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Château Lafleur wine to anybody coming along. But …” The boy stopped grinning. “The Telugu Nadu leader demanded two things in return.”
“Presto! I’ll give them,” said Trump. “Get him.”
Usha got Rally Rayudu on the phone, keeping it on Loud.
“Thank you so much, Rally Rayudu,” Trump shouted, “and name your two wishes, man.”
“First is MAGA,” Rally Rayudu said calmly.
“Come again.”
“Make Andhra Great Again.”
“How. . .?” Trump was lost for words.
“There are 56 software companies I have identified in California and Texas that you must relocate to Visakhapatnam.”
Trump wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Okay,” he groaned. “Your second wish?”
“I want you,” said the Telugu Nadu leader, “to make the part of New Jersey that is crammed with Telugus a separate, 51st state of the United States and call it Pravasandhra Pradesh. That gives us vicarious pleasure after losing Telang . . .’
At this point, hearing the footsteps of the hotel manager, Deep Throat hopped over the terrace wall and slipped slowly down the drainpipe.
(Srinivasa Prasad, a journalist since 1981, has been a Chief of Bureau (South) and Senior Editor with national dailies. He has been reporting and commenting on politics, governance, social, civic and economic issues and has written over 300 satirical articles. He lives in Bengaluru.)
Disclaimer: This is a piece of satire and is fictitious.
