Y’all, let me tell you, there’s nothing like standing in a conference room, overlooking a man sitting at a desk, watching as a woman, who appears to be confused and fretting, brings him a basket.
In the basket is a baby, some binkies, some hot sauce, some tortillas, and a sad, sad letter describing how the baby’s mother has had to return to Guatemala and the baby is too weak and small to make the trip.
The man looks at the basket. Briefly, it flashes across his face, the idea that it might be a a real baby that he, anti-immigration advocate that he is, has been saddled with by virtue of his outspokenness. But wait!
It’s too small and too ugly and too light and not crying. Thank god, it’s not a real baby. But, that doesn’t answer the question, who, who indeed would leave such an odd package with the aforementioned man?
He looks at the letter. He looks in the basket. He looks under the basket. No clues.
I am laughing as hard as I can, waiting to see if he’ll look my way or if he’ll run out into the parking lot to see who’s driving away.
But no, instead, he looks back under the basket.
Up here, Kleinheider, up here!
Damn it, if I’m going to have a nemesis, I have to have a nemesis quick enough to instantly suspect it’s me when weird things happen to him.
Still, the look of distress on his face was an awesome birthday present.
Edited To Add: Check the picture Brittney took.