I'm Not Donald Trump

  I was feeling down last week, so I was happy when my old friend Bill Maher invited me to watch a taping of an episode of his HBO show Real Time. 

     "Bring your kids," he insisted. 

     Bill Maher loves kids. 

     Unfortunately, my children had school, so my wife stayed behind with them while I flew First Class to California courtesy of HBO. 

     Maher and I met in the late 80s during the filming of Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death. 

     Haven't heard of it? 

     That's no surprise. 

     That's why I had my name taken off the credits. 

     When I got to his studio I was surprised to just walk right in through the stage door, nobody stopping me.  

     "What's up with that?" I asked my old buddy. 

     "Are you Donald Trump?" he asked me. 

     "No," I answered. 

     "This is California," he said. "Don't worry about it." 

     He excused himself to go pray in the next room. Something he does every day and before every show. I've never met a man more devout. 

     Maher's personal assistant came into his dressing room and offered to get me something to eat while I was waiting. I politely declined. Maher had promised to take me after the show to "the best dang vegetarian restaurant you've ever been to." 

     Since I've never eaten at a vegetarian restaurant, that was true enough. 

     "Perhaps an adult beverage?" Maher's personal assistant continued. "Or some weed?" 

     "From Bill's personal stash?" I joked. 

     "Are you kidding?" Maher's personal assistant looked aghast. "Mr. Maher never touches the stuff." 

     In the end, Maher and I never made it to dinner. He was called away to host a special charity event raising money for orphans after the Pope called in sick. 

     "Do you want to come along?" he asked me. "It'll be fun." 

     "Sorry," I told him, "but I've got what the Pope's got." 

     Left on my own, I called an Uber. What better time to visit my old haunts in Hollywood. The only problem was I had trouble paying. When I brought this to the Uber driver's attention, he asked me, "Are you Donald Trump?" 

     "No," I answered. 

     "In that case, there’s no charge," he said. 

     Same with the bars I went to. I kept trying to pay, and they wouldn't accept my money. 

     "Are you Donald Trump?" each bartender I spoke with would ask. 

     "No," I told them. 

     "In that case, there’s no charge." 

     I was almost embarrassed at the tab I left unpaid at The Roxy. The key word being “almost.” 

     I'm slow, so it took me awhile, but it finally clicked. I called for another Uber and had him take me to House of Bijan on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, where you can buy anything from a Ferrari to shoes to speciality designed jewelry. 

     "I'll take that solid gold Rolex," I told the jeweler. 

     "This one?" the jeweler asked. 

     "No," I told him. "The one covered in diamonds. And one for my wife as well." 

     When he was about to add things up, I nonchalantly said, "I'm not Donald Trump." 

     "Oh, well," he stammered, "in that case, there’s no charge." 

     From there I went to the bank and asked for a money order in the amount of, well, let’s just say there were a lot of zeroes. When the teller said she'd first have to clear it with the bank president, I told her, "But I'm not Donald Trump." 

     "Oh, well," she said, "in that case..." 

     I decided it would be nice for me to fly home in a private jet. 

     Did I pay for it? 

     What do you think? 

     It was late when I stepped through the front door of my house. I couldn't wait to tell my wife everything that happened, but after all that excitement I was feeling a bit, um, frisky. 

     "Hold it right there, buster," my wife told me. 

     "But... but... I'm not Donald Trump.” 

     "Yeah, well,” she said, “you're no Brad Pitt either."