Israel’s prime minister Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu declared his intention to throw his yarmulke into the ring as a GOP candidate for President over coffee at Café Yakna in Jerusalem.
“What do I have to lose?” said Bibi, dipping an almond biscotti into his coffee. “Have you seen those other shmeggagies? Jeb Bush is a cheap reproduction of his brother. Trump is a blowhard. Walker is so meshuga over local issues, he couldn’t find Iran on a map. And Christie is the Biggest Loser in more ways than one. ”
“But you’re not an American,” said This Reporter.
“Neither is Obama,” snapped Bibi. “Besides, I spend more time there than here. I’ve got a condo on the Upper East Side, a house in the Hamptons, and a suite at the Sands in Vegas.”
“Vegas? Are you implying that you’d have Sheldon Adelson’s full support?” asked This Reporter.
Bibi did a spit-take, covering This Reporter with a shower of cappuccino.
“I own Adelson, bubalah” said Bibi. “Shelly doesn’t fart without asking my permission.”
“You’re not afraid of alienating the Israelis who elected you?” said This Reporter, dabbing his shirt with a napkin.
“You don’t understand Israeli politics. In the States, you fall in love with your politicians. Here, in Israel we are more pragmatic. No one ever voted for me because they loved me. The majority hate my kishkas. They’d dance in the streets if I spent half the year in Washington.”
“Half the year?” asked This Reporter. “The Presidency is a full-time, twelve month position.”
“Not if you know how to manage your time,” said Bibi. He glanced at his watch. “Time for my daily exercise.” Bibi dropped down to the café’s floor and did twenty clapping pushups while continuing to speak. “I am so organized I don’t have to be in Washington to tell Congress what to do. I do it telepathically.”
“Excuse me, Prime Minister, but there is no such thing as telepathy,” said This Reporter.
“Don’t believe me?” said Bibi, switching to one-handed push ups. “I know what your Ayattolah, er, President Obama, is doing at this very moment.”
“What is that, sir?”
“He’s shitting a brick over my opposition to his Iran Deal,” said Bibi, returning to his chair and winking at a blonde at the next table. “That’s why I decided to run for President of your country. You need a leader who can look the Iranians, Iraqis, Syrians and Yemenis in the eye and give them a Bronx cheer.”
“But isn’t there something to be said for Obama’s diplomatic approach?” ventured This Reporter.
“You call disposing of Sadaam Hussein, the only maniac capable of keeping peace in the region, meddling in a tribal war, arming ISIS to the teeth and playing Truth or Dare with Iran a diplomatic approach?” screamed Bibi.
“Well, I just meant….”
“In Israel, we have a saying,” said Bibi, “You see one group of Arabs fighting with another? Eat your falafel and shut up.”
“You really think America is ready for a Jewish President?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” said Bibi. “To the Evangelicals, I’m not a Jew. I’m the goddamn Second Coming. They’re so busy packing their bags for the End of Times, they don’t give a shit who’s President, as long as it’s someone who reinforces their Apocalyptic fantasies. They want Armageddon? Let them have it.”
“Yes, but…”
“The Pentagon, CIA and FBI are in my pocket,” continued Bibi. “Even the most avid Jew-hater swoon over my war stories. Who doesn’t admire a Mosad agent?”
“You’re Mosad?” I ask.
“Did I say that?” Bibi winks again. I’m not sure if it’s at me or the blonde.
“Okay, let’s say it’s possible,” This Reporter said, “Do you believe you could defeat Hillary?”
“What a woman!” Bibi sighed. “Smart. Shrewd. Cunning. And that tush.” Bibi cupped his hands. “What I wouldn’t give to get inside that pantsuit! ”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Let’s put it this way. I can think of no greater pleasure than to be beaten by such a magnificent specimen of womanhood. To have Hillary walk all over me with those low-heeled Naturalizer beige pumps ….” The prime minister emitted a low, deep groan.
“If you won, would you find a position for her?” This Reporter asked.
“Would I ever!” winked Bibi, before joining the blonde at the next table.
Stacia Friedman is an equal opportunity satirist and author of Tender is the Brisket.