Confete. I am the absolutely greatest writer on the planet. Any questions?

I decided to call a cabinet meeting at Bedlam Farm this morning, I invited the sheep, Red and Fate, Lulu and Fanny, the barn cats, the chickens and the Tin Man. Maria took a video.

I won’t be coy, the purpose of the meeting was clear from the first. I wanted to celebrate and acknowledge my extreme wonderfulness. I have known for some time how great I am, but the fake people lie about me all the time, and say I am just another crazy old man with bad feet and no hair.

Just after the sunrise, the animals gather around me for the first Bedlam Farm Cabinet Meeting. Crows, songbirds, snakes and mice – the fake news media of the country – were clustered around.

“Confete!,” I said, opening the meeting with some force. “Confete” said all the animals on the farm.  This was our secret code.  Nobody knew what it means, including me, which make it a good secret code.

When everybody was gathered around (Maria was asked to do a video), I shared my own insights with them.”I am the greatest writer that ever lived,” I said, ” and the most productive! Since no one else has said that in a few hours.  I thought I should say it” – here, I looked at the sheep, who seemed distracted.

Maria raised her hand. “You said it five times this morning.” Maria seemed to be rolling her eyes and looking at her Iphone messages.

“Are you sheep hungry?,” I asked. “Are you loyal to me? Because if you are not loyal to me, you will be very hungry and for a very long time. That is not a threat, it’s just us guys chatting. It’s the way we talk in New York, what a great place it would be to live there…”

Maria spoke up. “You do live there.”

“Yes, I know that,” I said, “if you can’t take a joke, go take pictures of something else.”

She turned to Rosemary, one of the imperious Romney’s. “I’m the only one who sees him in his underwear,  tells him where his shirts are and listens to his stories 50 times a week.” I glowered at her. This was not wonderful.

Zelda The Fearless looked uneasy. “What about Hemingway?,” she asked, “didn’t he write twice as many books, and didn’t they sell a lot, and didn’t he win a Nobel Prize and have houses in the Florida Keys and Cuba and somewhere out west, like Montana?”

I saw the donkeys edging backwards quietly and slyly, heading for the Pole Barn, where they could drift out of sight.

I called Red over. “Red,” I said, “can you take Zelda out of the meeting and put her on the other side of the Pole Barn by herself. Teach a sheep a lesson in being very, very alone. She is offering up fake information about a writer named Hemmingstein,  he is doing great work these days a I hear, he’s some Jewish guy from who-knows-where and who-cares-where. We don’t need her here.”

Red moved forcefully around to the side, did his wolf thing,  and Zelda took off, hoping the donkeys would shield her in the Pole Barn.

As he left, he turned to me and said: “Sir, I thank you for the opportunity and blessing to serve your agenda.”

I beamed. I thank you Red, I said: “I am happy to  be your agenda. And I am perhaps the greatest writer who ever lived. My books are best sellers all over the world,  they can’t print enough of them. Everybody who ever read a book just loves me and they all tell me my writing gets better by the day, by the hour. They love me so much I can’t even tell you how great my  books are. Everybody says it.”

I heard Maria cough and raise her hand. “You mean the author of the book who couldn’t get five people to show up at his own hometown reading two weeks ago?  I listen to you snore at night.  And drool when you eat. And don’t try to send Red over here to herd me away, he’ll just cuddle up with me.”

I ignored her.

Then I called Red over to me. I whispered Sotto Voce: “Red, get over to the pole barn and tell Zelda she’s fired, she’s no longer welcome at the farm..”

“But she’s been  here from the beginning,” said Red, empathetic as always.

“I know, I’d tell her myself, but I’m in this meeting. Go take care of it, that’s a good boy. I’ll be honest and brave.” I scribbled a note, and Red took it in his teeth.  The note said “goobye, you’re fired.” Red nodded and headed to the barn.

I saw Fate’s  head pop up. “This is the longest I’ve ever been still,” she said. “Can I go to work? Can I go to work? Can I go to work?” I snapped at her. “I hear you. Sit down.”

Griselle came forward, waiting for me to call on  her. I did.

“On behalf of sheep everywhere,” Griselle said, “I want to say that the greatest privilege of my life is to serve as a wool sheep for you and Maria, to serve a man who has kept his promises to all of the animals here and to all of the people of the world, all of whom love and revere him and buy and read his books. No one  has ever kept so many promises as you have…”

“Not even Jesus, the shepherd?,” I asked. Griselle started chewing her cud ferociously, she seemed tongue-tied. “Red,” I shouted, “take her to Zelda. They are loyal or they are gone.”

I called Pumpkin over and I asked the other animals to move away, so that we would be alone. “Listen,” I said, we are having some people over to watch us herd sheep. I want you to pretend that Fate is pushing you around so I don’t look bad. I want  you to be herded. I hope you will do right by me and let her herd you…”

Pumpkin seemed to bristle. “Is that a request or an order?” I smiled and leaned forward to kiss him on the nose. “I hope you will be loyal to me. Red!” And we called the other animals back.

Minnie the barn cat hopped up on the birdbath. “Sir, I want to say that you are not only the best writer in the world, but one of the most amazing humans. You are handsome, charismatic, powerful and brave. I thank Bastet the cat goddess for allowing me to serve you and honor your greatness. That is better than mice.”

I smiled broadly, that’s it, right there, that’s what we are talking about. Don’t listen to the fake news reports, they lie and say I’m still waiting for a second printing on my new book. Lies, lies, lies..they can’t print the book fast enough!”

A crow hopped down to a lower branch of the Apple Tree. “I’ve just come back from Ohio,” she said. “They love you there, too. But there seem to be no copies of your new book in the stores there.”

“Can I go to work?,” said Fate. “Can I go to work now.” I told her to sit down again.

Liam spoke up. “Greatness, I know I speak for the entire flock when I say how grateful we are to be herded by Red and…er, Fate, too. It is the privilege of a lifetime to be chased around the pasture in this 90 degree heat, to be nipped on the nose, forced to run, herded into a tight circle, and scared witless. Thank you.”

I saw Lulu creep tentatively out of the barn. “I am privileged – honored – to be a donkey on Bedlam Farm,” she said. “Thank you for honoring your commitment to the donkeys of the world, as you promised. You did it, I know, you have banned tractors from America, chopped up all of them for scrap so we could get our jobs back and make donkeys great again. Thank you.”

I beamed. “Thank you, Lulu. I’m so surprised. I had no idea how much everyone loves me. We are doing so great, soon the people who love me – everyone loves me – will love me even more. Every single tractor is gone, we sent them all to Mexico, they can chase all the bad hombres down there before they get up here. And they tell me bullets bounce right off of them.”

There was much baaahing and braying. They loved me these animals, and I loved them back.

I looked up to see the Tin Man, standing out in the yard in the sun. He hadn’t said a word. Tin Man loves me, we tweet all the time to each other. “Tin Man!,” I shouted. “It’s your turn.”

He doesn’t speak much, he’s all heart. I did hear his squeaky, rusty voice. “Tin Man,” I said, “is there any other spontaneous thing you want to say about my greatness.

Kim, our shy ewe, came forward first. “Yes?,” I asked. “Sir, your hair is standing straight up in the wind. There are two barn swallow babies sleeping on the top of your head.”

I pulled my hair down over to the site and used a paper clip to attach it to one of my ears.

The sun glinted off of his tin head. “I’d like to sing a song,” he said, “it’s not my song, it’s the one by Miranda Lambert.

Sure, I said.I love music.

He cleared his throat, nervously, he was a shy thing.

His squeaky voice wafted over the farm.

“Hey there, Mr. Tin man,

You don’t know how lucky you are,

I’ve been on the road that you’re on,

It didn’t get me very far

You ain’t missing nothing

‘Cause love is so damn hard

Take it from me darling,

You don’t want a heart.”

I thought it was a bit strange, but I smiled, and thanked him.

Then it was my turn.

Every eye on the farm was on me.

“I will say,” I said, looking around for the cameras (there weren’t any), “That there has never been a writer, with few exceptions – Jesus, Jeb Clampett, Perry Como – who’s written more wonderful books, who’s done more things than what we’ve done. I’ve been about as active as you can possibly be, and at a just about record-setting pace.”

Flo the barn cat turned to Minnie, the other barn cat and whispered “how long do we have to listen to this? Will he feed us now?” Minnie shushed her.

“Confete,” I shouted.

“Confete,” they replied. The meeting was over.