Crusty cheese Danish and watery cappuccino in hand, you sit next to your first date: Donald Trump. His round, orange face is glowing.
You: So what do you do for fun?
DT: You know, it doesn’t matter … as long as I’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass.
Hillary Clinton sits tucked in the corner in a sharp pantsuit with a microbrew and copy of “The Brothers Karamazov” as a conversation starter.
You: Aren’t you married?
HC: Yeah but if I didn’t kick his ass every day, he wouldn’t be worth anything.
Donald yells from across the room: Beautiful, famous, successful, married – I’ve had them all, secretly, the world’s biggest names, but unlike Geraldo I don’t talk about it.
You: OK. That’s great.
The barista glares at us. Stupid speed daters. Small tips and too many mind-numbing dolts.
You move to Gary Johnson’s table. He’s been talking to Jill Stein.
JS: I don’t support bombing other people’s kids, unlike that other woman.
She glares at Hillary.
You: but I don’t think-
JS: The neoliberal Democratic machine mobilizes to quash revolution in its ranks.
You: And what do you do for fun?
Hillary slams her beer.
HC: I suppose I could have stayed home and baked cookies and had teas, but what I decided to do was to fulfill my profession which I entered before my husband was in public life.
Gary plays with the crinkled remains of a spliff.
GJ: Under a burqa, how do you know if a woman has been beaten?
You: Wait, what?
GJ: Feel the Johnson.
Another fail, you log on to Tinder.