The Daily Beast has sent me to Italy to cover the Trump vs. Pope fracas, so today I report from the shores of Lake Como, where the talk of the town is all about Il Papa staring down Il Douche. OK, while it’s true that I’m writing today from the shores of Lake Como, the Daily Beast did not send me here. They’ve never sent me anywhere fabulous—or, now that I think of it, anywhere at all. Which is an indictment of the whole rotten system!
Furthermore, it’s just as well I’m not here on assignment because I do not speak the language, have no contacts, and plan on spending most of my month here eating gelato. That being said, it’s impossible to get away from American nonsense. The two times I’ve happened to see televisions since I got here a couple days ago, both were displaying chyrons which featured the words “Trump” and “Pope,” and it’s pretty obvious on which side Italians fall. (Hint: it’s not with the guy who can dislodge his jaw to swallow a Big Mac.)
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