"Impeachment Trial"

c. 2020 Rod Ice 

All rights reserved 

(1-20) 

Impeachment trial 

Longer run by a mile 

Drinking beer in early morning 

No siren for warning 

I sit in my chair 

Beholding the beasts 

Of these I am the least 

A conflict of politics 

Run to the light 

Long into this good night 

America is sleeping 

On this decision of champions 

Locked in battle to be won 

By the best of our tribe 

Above the muck, we rise 

To educate 

To pontificate 

Timeless, enduring 

Long-suffering all 

Let the gavel fall 

Build no wall 

Chief Justice 

Sits as the arbiter 

Of wrath incurred 

By factions set 

An experience we won’t forget 

Let me catch my breath 

And begin again 

Hear me, friends 

Wee hours begin 

In tradition we trust 

This republic 

We are us 

Names called from the roll 

Johnson, Nixon, Clinton 

And the spray-tan troll 

Anti-heroes 

Anti-matter 

in the chamber reactive 

Stray bits of matter 

Stained in their existence 

A lean across the fence 

Rewarded with electric shock 

The senators in their socks 

Creeping into darkness 

The exercise is a success 

A trip for the mind 

Leaving history behind 

Keening over hope lost 

Over the cost 

An acrid flow 

For those in the know 

Impeachment 

An action of government 

A trial on TV 

Ratings to read 

To the victor goes reward 

A mini-series on board 

Plugged in for broadcast 

This won’t be the last 

High drama in D.C. 

Like Max Headroom 

Jitterbugging on the screen 

Im-peach 

Sweet tea 

Overreached 

Peachy I feel peachy 

The House has spoken 

For you and me 

Voices raised in judgment 

Articles to the Senate 

The constitution to defend 

Believe me, friend 

This is what democracy looks like 

Going long into the night 

No sailor’s delight 

Steering a partisan ship 

Into waves that flip 

One side to the other 

Believe me, brother 

This is the best 

We have to give, the acid test 

The strike for gain 

Overrules motions of the brain 

Studious foes 

Battle in their Sunday clothes 

Ritualistic procedure prancing 

Like they are dancing 

Twist and spin 

Schumer has an objection 

McConnell shakes his head 

We watch in his stead 

With Doritos and beer 

America 

America, we fear 

The sunset of a grand community 

The fade of those 

Who believe 

Where do we go, then At 1:30 a.m.? 

To our beds, with gratitude 

Respite 

Rest 

A recharge for the cellphone 

Coming home 

For weary bones 

The state of our nation is sound 

We’ll march to midnight 

High-step on hallowed ground 

And repeat the fete 

Tomorrow on Main Street 

Who cares? Who is aware? 

The nation draws a deep breath 

As we navigate our fate 

Sailing on to the dawn 

The antidote to endless night 

Schiff and Schumer 

Shaken, not stirred 

The final word 

A blot on the ballot 

Opinion, undeterred 

This process will go on 

A diva dance 

With Amazons 

For prizes to be won 

Rancor, are you done? 

Yet in the end 

The nation-state 

We defend 

With votes in November 

A mission bell 

Sounded in alarm 

To keep us from harm 

Kick kick kick 

In the air 

Listen to the souls that care 

This impeachment ride 

This surf at high tide 

Is a grand gesture given 

For democracy’s friends 

Yet we have reached the end 

Say it again 

End this fight 

Fatigue yields delight 

Turn off the light 

Good night!  

Comments about 'Words on the Loose' may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Groundhog on the Gridiron”

c. 2020 Rod Ice 
All rights reserved 
(1-20) 

Groundhog Day
Came early in Cleveland
Strike up the band
We’re defending the brand
J. Haslam, our man
With the deed in hand
Owner of the damned
King fool for the fans
Like Sam I am
“Do this thing again
For my friends!”
Repeat defeat
Fire for failure
Hire for the same
Hire, fire
Hire, hire, fire, fire
Hire/fire/hire/fire 
HIREFIREHIREFIREHIREFIRE
This football game
Is hard on the field
But harder in the stands
Harder even in the bars
In the pickup trucks
Minivans and cars
Where Steelers interlopers
Ply their trade
An unholy vow
On the promenade
An oath to neverland
You can be a fan
Of a foreign team
Not a loser
Not a patsy
Not a swamp bug, crawling
Not a runt pup, yowling
Six Super Bowl rings
Look at those shiny things
So bright and bossy
Not yours, but they could be
It is written
“You shall have no gods but me”
Yet for a life ransom
The deal can be done
Escape your losing
To Pittsburgh we run
Meanwhile on Lake Erie
Haslam held the cards
A poker king
Looking over the table
At Josh McDaniels
Native son
Pupil of Belichick
The one who spoke too quick
“Change!” he shouted
“Yes, We Can!
I have a plan!”
He was the miracle man
But Jimmy H. felt a tremor
An unkind word
Sweat on his forehead
Fearful
Lightning strike
Shot from God’s tongue to his ear
A lingering doubt
That would not disappear
To expose himself
That was the choice
To take advice
From an errand boy
Laughing
Swivelheads turn
The owner
The master
Looking in a mirror
Beholding himself
The lord of football hell 
“This is my Groundhog Day decree!
The decision is easy
Let them follow me!
Can’t get worse
Than 0-16
Who would it hurt?”
Move chess pieces around
Send McDaniels
Back to Beantown
We have what we need
Let the fans believe
Analytics in effect
An owner to protect
A team to wreck
Builder’s best
Put to the test
Wear the colors, drink and cheer
The NFL
Tastes your tears
Soaking the hallowed ground
Trod by heroes gone
By coaches, moved on
Quarterbacks shamed
More lost games
Days unchanged
A march to oblivion
With Paul Brown’s name
Turned to mud
A missile dud
Drudgery for you and me
Let us see
What transpires
With the poor soul
That Haslam has hired 
Stefanski 
Who is he? 
He is we we 
Of Lake Erie 
We are naked, but for orange-and-brown 
Feeling down 
In C-Town 
Down on Groundhog Day 
Looking for a shadow 
Of Jim Brown 
Lou Groza 
Marion Motley 
And Bernie, #19 
This is our town 
This is our team

“Beer After Dark”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-20)

Dinner.

I had a plate of mashed potatoes and bacon. Not much of a culinary delight, but a filling meal, nevertheless. One suited to cap a day of nothingness. I spoke to my friend Janis twice. Once in the morning, as she was contemplating a shopping trip to Geneva with her roommate. And once again, at a later hour, after she had procured a fresh bottle of Southern Comfort. Jabbering, jawing, sputtering on about needing to find her car keys. A metaphor for purpose in life.

I pondered my own schedule while listening.

Doctor appointments filled our calendar. Several were for her, to address a series of small strokes she had suffered over the summer. The precipitated wages of her own self-neglect. She had ignored high blood pressure as if it had little meaning. Then combined that misdeed with many cigarettes and a diet rich on sodium and poor on nutrients. Indifferent and unaffected.

Until her day of judgment.

A week at University Hospitals Main Campus, in Cleveland, over the summer, brought her back to earth. Still rowdy and raucous of course, not calmly sliding toward personal oblivion. She chugged Dr. Pepper Cherry with defiance. Yet held tight to my hand.

I knew she was afraid.

My own reaction to this reality-shift fermented during the progression of months from August to January. I found myself calmed by the calendar. By this orderly march of time from today toward tomorrow. But then, a familiar habit returned. One that I had lost amid duties and desires.

The visitation of my personal muse. Dwelling patiently at the bottom of a beverage glass:

Beer after dark

Got a hole in my heart

Dimple mug at the ready

Golden pilsner keeps me steady

I raise my toast to the night

Drink deep and delight

Take my part

Beer after dark

Flame from a spark

Wordsmith at the keys

Let me sling a few of these

Phrases in motion

My pen and my potion

Second start

Beer after dark

My head splits apart

I got up at midnight

Today did not feel right

But the yield was this rant

Speak of duty to the sycophant

Tease the tart

Beer after dark

My brush paints the art

A blessing on canvas

The world can kiss my ass

I feel no regret

The paradigm is set

Make my mark

Beer after dark

A dance with the aardvark

Sat up at the desk

After a moment of rest

I spit words like teeth

Burned up from the heat

Let me start

Beer after dark

The insignificant quark

A step taken forward

A fall out of orbit

Coast to Coast AM plays

My night lasts for days

Take my part

Beer after dark

Smudged letter postmark

Here I am at the station

A dark cloud divination

I stand at the door

What am I waiting for?

To depart

Beer after dark

A bite from a shark

Swim with the damned

A floater I am

Cursed to the tide

With secrets inside

Bless my heart

Beer after dark

Bow to the matriarch

My song lives in echoes

You know how it goes

From the fields of Ohio

To New York, set aglow

I am hard

Beer after dark

The key to my heart

Inspiration guaranteed

The northstar that I need

My compass at the ready

A guidepost I will see

Traveling far

Beer after dark

Another case in my cart

The sweet taste of nectar

Makes me steadfast and sure

I rise to the morning

Hear temple bells ring

Across the park

Beer after dark

A Word document start

Black light in the room

My vision coming soon

What is unseen grows clearer

My salvation comes nearer

On the chart

Beer after dark

A taste of brewer’s art

Radio news overnight

Memories keep me right

A console from the 30’s

My Philco from a trash heap

Fixed with parts

Beer after dark

Dozen drinks to the restart

I sit at my desk

And compose prose for hecks

Friends are all sleeping

But my brain is bleeding

A story arc

Beer after dark

A whim and a lark

Who will read this poem?

Not sure that I know them

Yet nothing matters less

Than a need for success

Not my part

Beer after dark

This label is my birthmark

The first taste of brew

Created the you

What is seen as myself

A capricious groundswell

That I are

Beer after dark

A fool lost in Walmart

Shopping for words

Whatever I’ve heard

Marked down or discarded

Ideas restarted

Dog made to bark

Beer after dark

My writ with the clark

This session is over

My plea has been heard

The mug has gone empty

No more words in me

Now I depart

After 2:00 in the morning, I heard rain beginning to fall outside. An odd refrain for January. Yet one that seemed to compliment my mood. My feeling of a life out-of-place. I wished for Janis to be awake. So we could text back and forth like teenagers, while I was writing. At the age of 58, such silly preoccupations of time felt strangely appealing.

But there were no messages from my friend.

Coast to Coast AM with George Noory still reverberated from my Roku. A sound that filled the living room, some distance away. I sat at the desk. My Black Lab lay on the carpet, nearby, snoring like an old man.

At last, the night was complete.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Furnace Freeze, Part Three”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-20)

“I love it when a plan comes together.” - Col. John ‘Hannibal’ Smith on ‘The A-Team.’

In November of last year, I wrote about my adventure in living-without-heat. Or more accurately stated, living with a minimum level of comfort while anticipating the approach of winter. Provided by two meager 1500-watt electric devices that seemed wholly unsuited to bringing a home up to livable temperatures.

But after pondering various options including an expensive furnace replacement, EdenPURE infrared devices recommended by a neighbor, a wood-burner, pellet stove, or an industrial garage blaster, my attention turned toward a propane wall-unit. One which could be mounted vertically, or sat upon accessory legs for positioning on the floor. My friend Birdman, head of maintenance with the last company where I was a manager, did his best to help.

The search created a headache that lasted for several weeks. So my stomach churned with frustration.

Because the household already used liquid propane as the primary source for heat and cooking, a new appliance that worked off that kind of fuel made sense. Online, I located a Dyna-Glo unit that could be purchased at Home depot for around $150.00. This seemed like a reasonable choice while pondering longer-term solutions. Yet when I visited the location in Mentor with my friend Janis, the only model available was nearly $300.00. After making my purchase, I realized that it had been manufactured for use with natural gas. A substance with requirements different from my LP fuel. A conversation with the Birdman produced nothing but agony.

“You have to convert the thing, change the internal components,” he explained. “Does it have a kit? Or instructions?”

“No,” I said, feeling gloomy.

He groaned like a bear at sunrise. “Some run on both fuels, some can’t be converted. I would have to check it out.”

My head bowed. “The store was crowded. Everyone getting ready for the season. There were only two of these heaters on hand. When I got home, there was more time to look it over. I don’t think this is what I wanted after all...”

“F***!” Birdman growled. “The nights are getting colder.”

Finally, I decided to return the Dyna-Glo heater and start over. I went back on my computer and reread the familiar entries at Home Depot, Lowe’s, Walmart, Sears Hometown Stores, and other appliance outlets. Each evening brought a deeper chill to my domicile-at-the-county-line. I shivered in my worn, Everlast hoodie. Perhaps I would be sleeping in the truck through winter? I doubted this would be accepted by my Black Lab.

After surrendering to the idea of buying a high-priced stove from one of the national chains, I used my phone to plan the trip. Then, an ad for Tractor Supply Company appeared on the page. I clicked a virtual button that said ‘propane heaters.’ The list included a more cost-friendly model, currently available at their Ashtabula location. I reckoned that the shelf would be bare when visiting. Yet my route could easily pass the store on my way to get the other heater. So I left it to chance. If nothing else, Janis and I would get Chinese food at Panda Buffet, nearby.

TSC was busy. I roamed the store, looking at fixtures, tools, and a line of camouflage mini-bikes. Finally, the heater section revealed itself in a front corner, hidden behind rows of other seasonal merchandise. There was an entire shelf of the auxiliary units I needed. Several bore a red inscription on the box.

‘PROPANE.’

I let out a Ric Flair cheer. “Woooooooooo!”

My friend the maintenance technician was satisfied. About one week later, we took a ride for parts. The best plan for installation seemed to be using the furnace supply line as our source. The heater could be positioned in front of my old entertainment center. A giant piece of furniture no longer suited to holding a modern TV.

Birdman was a busy fellow. So a complete hookup took three visits. But when the metal calefactor was in place, its first breath of fire filled the room with hope. It offered 30,000 BTUs of heat. A convincing statement against the frosty doldrums of Old Man Winter.

I had originally figured on having to place a second unit at the back of my mobile home. But the new heater quickly got our thermometer up to 70 degrees. It did not take long to forget that the conventional furnace had expired forever.

I spent $199.00 to avoid a bill for $3500.00. It seemed like a fair exchange.

As I celebrated my good fortune, Janis reported that her aging, oil furnace needed a burner. And a new blower motor. She moaned about the cost. But took comfort from having it in-service for winter.

I reminded her that Tractor Supply had more of the ‘Mr. Heater’ devices for sale.

“Birdman could set a propane tank by the side of your house,” I reflected. “Good to know you have options for the New Year!”

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“One Fan’s Opinion, Once Again”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-20)

In 2014, while feeling the effects of leadership chaos and losing in my home sports market, I penned a letter to Cleveland Browns owner Jimmy Haslam. Recently, this plea seemed to echo from the past as once again, bold plans by Lake Erie turned to sour grapes. A bitter beverage for those who had waited so long to taste success.

I decided to write Mr. Haslam again. What follows here is the text of my letter:

To:

Jimmy Haslam

The Cleveland Browns

76 Lou Groza Boulevard

Berea, OH 44017

Dear Mr. Haslam,

I wrote you six years ago regarding the state of our beloved NFL franchise. If asked at that distant time how a letter composed in this new decade might have been phrased, I would have guessed that it might contain much praise and celebration over the accomplishments of this team. But instead, today, I come to you with a sober review that seems to borrow its tone from the movie ‘Groundhog Day.’

Once again, as a native of Ohio and a longtime fan, I must plead with you to ponder carefully the course set for this professional football club.

Since firing Head Coach Freddie Kitchens and parting company with General Manager John Dorsey, you have offered us familiar assurances about ‘getting this right.’ But any thoughtful observer would be forced to say that after years of owning this enterprise, you have not shown an ability to perceive ‘right’ in any form. Instead, your impulsive, zig-zag course has charted failure masterfully, while plundering the loyalty and goodwill of football fans by Lake Erie.

After losing the old Browns in 1995, a wave of black-and-yellow spilled across northeastern Ohio. But under your leadership, this pitiful tide has deepened as some fans engaged in self-loathing, and worship of what was once considered a game-day rival. Their ability to face southeast, and kowtow before the looming shadow of Pittsburgh, has become a phenomenon both horrifying and tragic in its scope. Yet when analyzed, this dreadful act comes from a persistent mood of failure that has been distilled to a potent and poison essence under your ownership.

I have neighbors in my community who took joy from traveling to Heinz Field where they donned Steelers attire and rooted vociferously against our hometown group. Indeed, they cheered loudly over a loss by the Browns. Such behavior, at first, seemed akin to those who have renounced American citizenship in order to fight for a group like ISIS or Al Qaeda. But in the end, I realized that their primary motivation was simple and even logical.

They could not stand to be associated with perpetual losing.

Comedian Mike Polk Jr. coined the phrase ‘Factory of Sadness’ which I am sure you have heard repeated many times. It describes our despair with brevity and wit. Also, with the deadly accuracy of a guided missile.

We began this season with genuine hope. With an impressive roster of athletes and ambition for the league playoffs. Even those who were not followers of the team agreed that better things lay ahead for the Cleveland Browns. But instead, this dazzling bunch of gladiators-on-the-field produced results that were too familiar for those of us wearing the colors. Missed opportunities, a general lack of preparation, self-aggrandizement instead of hard work, and drama. Art Modell must be laughing in his tomb. While no one here can crack a smile.

Except of course, for the Steelers fans in our neighborhoods.

Once again, throughout the summer, I will talk about Otto Graham, Jim Brown, Frank Ryan, Bernie Kosar, and Ozzie Newsome. I will consume cold beer while watching the Cleveland Indians. I will mutter to myself about the fact that only LeBron James has brought winning of any kind to this region, a moment which now seems too brief and sadly surreal.

Personally, I would never sell my loyalty to experience the joy of winning. But I admit that my fandom in general, my interest in the game itself, has waned. With twenty years of befuddlement and drudgery having passed, I no longer care in my heart. I have grown used to dark emotions with my brew and nachos on Sunday. The sting of defeat has passed. I expect to be taunted after every loss. After every firing. After every meltdown of the franchise. After every rearrangement of the front office.

Baker Mayfield, Nick Chubb, Myles Garrett, Odell Beckham, Jr. - these names quickened the pulse of Cleveland and dispelled our collective gloom. Yet again, we have arrived at the season’s end with bellies full of regret.

I humbly ask that somehow, you break out of the cycle followed since your acquisition of this team. What I and many fans consider to be ‘our’ team.

I ask you to kneel in your office, and pray with folded hands to our patron, St. Paul Eugene Brown. Help of Cleveland and those who despair over failure on the gridiron. Ask him for guidance and enlightenment. And then, pray again, for all of us, the fans.

To expect that things will change is quite literally, an act of lunacy. The reborn Browns franchise from 1999 has shown no ability to master any of the skills required for lasting accomplishment in the NFL. But loyalty and determination push me forward. To abandon my identity and my home is unthinkable. I would never wear the garb of a hated rival to nullify my own sorrow. Only one medicine can heal such injuries.

Winning.

I will be waiting once again with my beer and nachos as the 2020 season begins.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“One Fan’s Opinion” (2014)

c. 2014 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-14)


Note: This is an old column from six years ago. But it reads like one written in modern times. Read on and reflect on how things do not change here by Lake Erie...

After another dismal season for the NFL’s Cleveland Browns, and the firing of Coach Rob Chudzinski, team owner Jimmy Haslam took it upon himself to write an “open letter” to fans. It was the sort of exercise CEOs often undertake to appear “in touch” and relevant to employees and shareholders.

Reading his statement made me recall that, when I was Sports Editor for another newspaper, I used to compose a weekly column about such things. It helped personalize my section with a bit of humor or pondering-out-loud.

I decided to revive this bygone tradition, in order to reply with a personal note to the franchise owner, himself:

ONE FAN’S OPINION

Dear Mr. Haslam,

I am a resident of Geauga County, and a long-term fan of the once-and-present Cleveland Browns football team.

I have been through all of the iconic happenings that have beset this club since winning the 1964 league championship, 27-0, over the old Baltimore Colts. These include “Red Right 88” along with “The Drive” and “The Fumble.” Not to mention “The Move.”

I have a #13 Frank Ryan jersey. And of course, #19 for Bernie Kosar.

Your recent letter to the fan community made me think a lot about the modern era of NFL football. With your indulgence, I would like to offer some of my own observations.

First, the “old” Browns were a rival to the dreaded Pittsburgh Steelers franchise. But in current terms, as with so much of life in Northeastern Ohio, our population has been overrun by the city-on-the-rivers.

To be blunt, I am the only resident of my neighborhood who is not a Steelers fanatic.

My daily routine includes taking money from my account at PNC Bank, then going to shop at Giant Eagle where I buy Yuengling or Duquesne beer. In each instance, I have submitted to a new paradigm ruled by Pennsylvania, not my native location.

National City Bank, Stop n Shop supermarkets and working-class brews like P.O.C. are long gone from Lake Erie. We are now more of a western suburb of “Da Burgh.”

So struggling to maintain my identity as an Ohioan is a proposition with diminishing returns. I continue to preach about the 80’s Browns teams and the eight championship rings held by the franchise. (Four AAFC and four NFL.)

But, as Hillary Clinton once asked, “What difference does it make?”

Second, in your letter, you say “We believe it is very important to stay disciplined in this process.” Sir, with all due respect, fans have long since decided that you do not possess much “discipline” of any kind. Firing Rob Chudzinski after eleven months only added to the perception that you and your organization’s leadership acts without a great deal of forward thinking. If this perception is untrue, I apologize. But in terms of team history, it has seemed to continue the awful tradition of hapless NFL football in Cleveland, since the Browns returned in 1999.

You also say “We believe the head coach of the Cleveland Browns to be a very attractive position.” Again, speaking respectfully, I think that point has been proven beyond any doubt to be an assertion clearly up for debate. The search that eventually made Mike Pettine your new head coach became a national story. Not because of any agenda in “the media” but because, in your short tenure as franchise owner, we have already gone through three men chosen to steer the team.

Third and perhaps most importantly, there is one quality which is most valuable for you to instill in the franchise.

“Stability.”

If you did a business-level analysis of successful league organizations, that one characteristic would shine out beyond all others. It is the reason that Pittsburgh can boast of six Super Bowl trophies. It is why Bill Belichick devotees can make a convincing argument that he is one of the league’s greatest coaches. And it is what we have lacked in Cleveland for generations.

Just since 1999 we have seen Chris Palmer, Butch Davis, Terry Robiskie, Romeo Crennel, Eric Mangini, Pat Shurmur and Rob Chudzinski come and go without much success.

In that same period of time, the “Old Browns” franchise which operates in Baltimore, thanks to Art Modell, has won two Super Bowl trophies.

One could convincingly posit that residents of the greater Cleveland area have become used to the idea that they live here under some sort of “curse.” In a sense, this has become part of the native identity. Businesses, politicians and sports franchises of all sorts seem doomed to life in a twilight world of crushed dreams and misery.

It was expertly voiced by comedian Mike Polk Jr. when he shouted at the stadium “You are a factory of sadness!”

Yet people on Lake Erie are gritty folk. They cling to the idea that deliverance can come through hard work and endurance. In a sense, football itself is a metaphor for that lifestyle. From Paul Brown to Vince Lombardi to Bill Parcells, that sense of discipline and shared sacrifice has been a common theme.

When you consider the Browns future, sir, I ask that you do so in a new light. View the team not as a business asset, or as a way to join the exclusive club of NFL franchise owners. Not even as a conduit to achieving a sense of victory and accomplishment. Look upon the team as what it is for many here on the Northcoast.

Our identity.

Good or bad, glorious or tragic – this is Cleveland, Ohio.

Sincerely, Rod Ice

Comments about Thoughts At Large may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com


Write us @ P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“The Devil, Jerry, Jimmy & The Donald”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-20)

The Setting: Washington, D. C., in the Oval Office

The Players: Donald Trump, 45^th President of the United States; NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell; Jerry Jones, owner of the Dallas Cowboys; Jimmy Haslam, owner of the Cleveland Browns; Lucifer Satan, Lord of Hell

Donald Trump: “Thank you for coming here this morning, thank you. Much thanks. Many thanks.”

Roger Goodell: “Mr. President, when you call, we answer.”

Jerry Jones: “I’m used to folks answerin’ when I call, you know?”

Jimmy Haslam: “No one answers when I call anymore.”

Lucifer Satan: (Chuckles to himself.) “I just showed up for free coffee and donuts.”

D. Trump: “See, I called this meeting to talk. And we’re talking. Big talk. A big talk we’re having.”

R. Goodell: “But what are we talking about, Mr. President?”

D. Trump: “Headlines, Roger. It’s all about headlines.”

J. Jones: “Headlines? I get those every time Stephen A. Smith rips me on ESPN!”

L. Satan: “I get headlines from you mortals. Shooting each other, spreading hate… leaving your grocery cart in the middle of the parking lot. Doing my work so I get an extra coffee break in the morning. You guys are fantastic.”

J. Haslam: “I don’t want anymore headlines.”

D. Trump: “See Jimmy, there, you said it. No more headlines. But you keep getting them, keep grabbing them, like I grab the ladies, grabbing, grabbing. My presidency was built on headlines. Headlines bring me attention and voters. Voters vote. That is why I won bigly...”

R. Goodell: “Sir, what does this have to do with football?”

D. Trump: “Jimmy keeps getting the headlines. For his team losing games, for firing a coach, for losing more games, for firing another coach. For firing a general manager. Fire everybody. YOU’RE FIRED!”

J. Jones: “Boy, I don’t get your point!”

R. Goodell: “I don’t either!”

J. Haslam: “I’m just glad to get away from Cleveland. They want to toss me in Lake Erie with concrete galoshes.”

L. Satan: (Grins widely) “That could be fun. Can you swim?”

D. Trump: “My point is huuuge, a big point. Very big. I love headlines. They got me here. Headlines make Nervous Nancy and Fake Tears Chuck look like losers. Like the failing New York Times. Like CNN. Headlines I need. I need headlines.”

R. Goodell: “Okay, Mr. President. So how are we involved?”

D. Trump: “Jimmy Haslam. I want to call you ‘Has-Been Haslam.’ You keep getting in my way.”

J. Jones: “Huh? Boy you talk like a cow drops patties!”

D. Trump: “You too, Jerry! You are in my way! You and Jimmy!”

L. Satan: “Did you have any more donuts? This meeting is getting stale.”

R. Goodell: “What was your point, Mr. President?”

D. Trump: “The media, the fake news bobbleheads, they keep talking. Not about me anymore, they talk about Jimmy and Jerry. About the Cleveland Browns meltdown. Melting down, burning, a dumpster fire. YOU’RE FIRED! And about the Dallas Cowboys, lots of money, big money, lots of talent. But another train wreck.”

There is a pause as the group stares at each other silently.

D. Trump: “HEADLINES!”

R. Goodell: “You mean the media is talking about Jimmy and Jerry? Instead of you?”

L. Satan: (On his third donut) “Talk, talk. I like to see flames. Hot, scorching flames that consume the souls of mortal minions!”

J. Haslam: “Dang it, Beelzebub, you sure are a drama hog.”

L. Satan: (Laughing) “Think about it, you have ruined as many souls among your fans in Cleveland. Bringing torture every year. Actually, we are in the same business...”

D. Trump: “In 2016, I got headlines. Every day. They called me a Russian spy, called me Hitler, called me the ‘Cheeto in Chief’ or all kinds of things. Terrible things. Sad things. But now I don’t even get mentioned on Fox & Friends. No mention. It is all about football. About these franchises that drain money from cities and then break their hearts. Broken, broken hearts. I want them to talk about me draining the swamp!”

R. Goodell: “So… what are we supposed to do, Mr. President?”

D. Trump: “Roger, I want you to fix this! Fix, fix, fix. Give me back my headlines!”

L. Satan: (Winking) “I gotta say, this all sounds great to me. Very chaotic. You mortals are entertaining when you writhe in pain.”

J. Jones: “All I want to do is win!”

J. Haslam: “And all I want to do is win!”

D. Trump: (Brightening) “Winning is what I do. I win bigly, I win every day. I win with China, I win with Russia, I’m going to win with Iran and North Korea, believe me...”

R. Goodell: “Mr. President, I can’t give you back your headlines.”

D. Trump: (Angry) “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

R. Goodell: (Rubbing his eyes) “Look, sir, the league made a deal with Art Modell. He was one of us. He got screwed by Cleveland. They should have taken better care of him with a new stadium. But they didn’t. They had a fit when he moved the team to Baltimore. Any other city had just accepted losing a team. But not the damn people in northeastern Ohio… so a price had to be paid...”

L. Satan: (Cocky) “Roger, don’t be a pig. Give me some credit for helping to deepen their gloom.”

R. Goodell: (Embarrassed) “Yes, ol’ Beelzebub is right, ha ha, we struck a lifetime deal there. Cleveland will never win anything. Plus, half their fans donned black and yellow. They root for the Steelers, always a hated rival. It has been ugly since the franchise came back in 1999.”

L. Satan: (Defiant) “Traitors are my bread and butter.”

J. Jones: “But what about me?”

R. Goodell: “It’s that thing about being ‘America’s Team.’ Horseshit, really. You know that label really belongs to the Patriots.”

J. Jones: (Going red) “Screw Tom Brady! Screw Bill Belichick!”

D. Trump: “I like the Patriots. They are winners. They know how to win.”

J. Jones: “I know how to win!”

L. Satan: “You and Jimmy know how to lose. Hahahahahaha!!! The Cowboys make their fans suffer first, by giving them hope. I find that… delicious. Like these donuts!”

D. Trump: “You know how to steal my headlines!”

R. Goodell: “Sorry, Mr. President. Our bargain with Beelzebub is bigger than you. Bigger than America. Bigger than a world market for our products. It is about… football.”

L. Satan: (Glowing with the energy of burning coals) “The everlasting agony… the crushed spirits and broken dreams… all caused by losing!”

D. Trump: “I’m not a loser. I don’t lose. Ever.”

R. Goodell: (Bowing his head) “Sorry, Mr. President. Today, you do. Just like football fans in Cleveland and Dallas.”

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