To be up totally front with you, dear reader — think of me as a lost spirit brother to Governor Andrew Cuomo who likes to tell it straight too, warts and all — I’ve not been a Trump fan since his “co-written” 1987 Bestseller THE ART OF THE DEAL. What a shit he showed himself to be in that book. How he ever got to be president with how he treats everyone like a sucker is beyond me.
To think I had put all my Trump fears, built up over decades of seeing his antics in the media, aside to meditate in DC, along with my love Elizabeth, for the best possible presidency, for the world’s sake, at his Inauguration (see photo below).
Welp, it was a short honeymoon because Trump was already steamrolling over the Standing Rock tribe by green-lighting the Dakota Access Pipeline within days of his dismal swearing in, even before Elizabeth and I headed back to Sedona.
And so, my Trump bias fully disclosed, I proudly present my parody… drum roll please…
TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM
Chapter One – THE LONELIEST WHITE HOUSE
A shabby shadow of his former self, President Trump aimlessly roams an abandoned hallway of the White House, now an empty ghost town. The leader of the free world, his bizarre mop of hair more of a mess than usual, shuffles to an abrupt stop before an oil painting of JKF and vents loudly, “You had it easy, Jacko. The Cuban Missile Crisis was Jack shit compared to being a conservative running this liberal leaning country during a fucking pandemic!”
A Mexican cleaning woman wearing a surgeon’s mask leans her head out a conference room and quickly ducks back inside again. She takes a small cross on a chain from her blouse, kisses it and prays, “Jesus protect us all from the Anti-Christ.”
After glaring at JFK’s glorious image for an inordinate amount of time, Trump flips off the Kennedy painting and slumps away, a rumpled embodiment of depression.
By the light of FOX NEWS playing Sean Hannity broadcasting from his elegant home, Trump wolfs down half a Big Mac in three bites. He glibly washes the Mickey D down with a long noisy draw his straw dipped into an idiotically large Diet Coke.
Sean Hannity seems to speak directly to Trump from the big TV screen,”Hey Bud. Don’t listen to the commie loving liberals. You closed all travel from China the day you learned about the Chinese Virus, all way back in January. Your bold action was swift, decisive and all-American! If Pelosi and her corrupt Democrat Congress had not distracted you with their hoax impeachment we would never have lost so many precious Americans!”
“Hell yeah!” cheers Trump so loud it sends him into a coughing fit. Between coughs he desperately gasps for air. Trump finally regains control of his coughing and wipes sweat from his brow with a monogrammed DJT hanky, smeared with orange tan makeup. “Shit. Gotta get tested again. Nah. Probably just a budding ulcer this bullshit’s giving me. Fuck this. I give ulcers, not get them! I’m fine. I’m fine. ”
A short time later Trump brushes his teeth before the presidential bathroom mirror. Done, he grins smugly at his reflection, “Looking good, Donnie.”
The Donald in the mirror dryly answers back, “Like hell, loser.”
Trump drops his electric toothbrush clattering to the marble floor and leans to the mirror. He makes strange faces at himself, mimicked perfectly by his reflection. “Seeing things. Must be one those Covid hallucinations that fuck Fauci warned me about, or was it Jared?”
“Jared’s a buffoon’s buffoon,” says Trump’s perturbed reflection.
“Who the hell’s doing this shit? Gotta be a TV monitor behind the mirror doing some kind of deep fake!” growls Trump at his smirking reflection.
“Ha! Never thought you had a conscience, asshole?” says mirror Trump.
“Screw you. The FBI will figure this out for me and nail your sneaky liberal bastard!”
“Right. The FBI loves your fat ass. Don’t they?” laughs mirror Trump.
Nervous as an orange tabby facing down a German Shepard, Trump rushes to turn off the light switch.
Mirror Trump quips, “See you in your dreams, killer.”
Trump scurries off to the bedroom, slamming to door to the bathroom behind him. He picks up a phone. “Danny. — Shut up and listen. I want a sweep done of my can. Someone’s hijacked my mirror.” Trump listens for a beat. “I don’t need a doctor. I need you to do what I tell you!” Trump slams the phone down and angrily begins to tear his grungy outfit off.
Later, still shaken by his dark vision, Trump jams his chubby legs into his too tight red silk pajama bottoms.
A young black male servant, Robert, sporting an elegant, if there can be such a thing, surgical mask, pokes his roguishly handsome head through the presidential bedroom door and says, “Will there be anything else, Mr. President?”
“Nope. Those two Big Macs and fries will tide me over nicely.” Trumps says, punctuating his sentence with a, “Burp.”
“Night then, Mr. President,” says Robert doing his best to hide a shudder of revulsion.
Trump’s fluffs his pillow without acknowledging the kindly servant. He leaves Trump to his own rantings, gently closing the big paneled door.
“Robert?!” shouts Trump, loud enough to be heard through the soundproof door.
Robert peers his head back inside the door inquisitively.
“Come in, Robert. I need some, uh, advice,” says Trump with a pinch of boyish charm.
Robert apprehensively takes a chair that Trump offers by the crackling fireplace, tilting his head to the side to avoid Trump’s mask-free breath. The gorgeous smell of the roaring fireplace fills Robert’s nostrils. His big brown eyes close in bliss for just a moment and then he hides his feelings, straightening his butler’s jacket’s red vest.
Ever the salesman, Trump notices Robert’s blissful sniff and brags, “Tonight fire is genuine redwood from California’s National Redwood Forest. Gift from the lumber industry. Chopped me up 10 cords. Great guys lumberjacks. Man’s men!”
“You never fail to amaze me, sir,” offers Robert politically.
“Robert, here’s what I wanna to ask: Today Jake Tapper said everyone on my White House personal staff hates me. This despite of the extra I pay I slip you under the table, 100% tax free I might add,” says Trump somberly.
“Well, we don’t always sees things eye to eye, Mister President,” says Robert, breaking a warm reassuring and absolutely genuine smile, But ya know I love the fact you say exactly what’s on your mind!”
Without returning Robert’s kindness, Trump says, “Robert, how does it make you feel when someone calls you a nigger?”
“Why, uh, terrible. The worst sir.” says Robert, pain written on his angelic face.
“Well, that’s how I feel tonight, terrible in the nigger worst ways,” says Trump dropping his head into his hands.
“About that N word, sir. I wish — ”
“Pence wants me killed.” whispers Trump, cutting Robert’s complaint off. “Keep your voice down, Pence might have my bedroom bugged.”
“Mr. Boy Scout? What makes you think that, sir?” asks Robert respectfully.
“Mike’s pissed I made him my fall guy for the ventilator shortage not Jared. But Jared’s is my son-in-law goddamit. Family comes first!” says Trump staring into the fireplace flames as if looking for answers.
“Amen to that. But relax, Vice Prez Pence wouldn’t hurt a fly, sir. Let alone you,” says Robert reassuringly.
“Wrong. It’s the quiet ones you gotta worry about, Robert. Pence wants me out of the way. He wants me dead so he can pin all the blame on all the Americans stacking up in mass fucking graves!” bellows Trump. “Robert, you’re the only guy I trust. Starting tomorrow I need you to make runs McDonald’s personally.”
“Happy to but why, sir?”
“Poisoning. That’s how the sneaky boy scout is going to try to bump me off. Will you do this for me, Robert. Can I count on you?
“Of course, sir. Now, if you don’t mind –” Robert notices a trickle of sweat leave a traces of white skin at Trump temple. “May I, sir?”
“May you what?”
“Take your temperature,” says Robert pulling out a thermometer from his jacket.
“I’m fine. Just stress. No fever,’ says Trump unconvincingly.
“Well, I am going to get the White House doctor on the phone just in case,” says Robert picking up a red phone. “Phone’s dead! Lemme get you into bed and I –”
” I AM FUCKING FINE!” roars Trump in defiance, going into a coughing jag.
“Hang on, Mr. President! Be right back with help!” Robert races out of the bedroom.
“Why is no one listening to me?! I am fit as a — “Trump falls like a tower of fast food to the plush carpet. The room dissolves into the form of a giant butterfly floating amidst a galaxy of stars.
Trump hollers in fear as he comes to astride said giant butterfly. Trump hollers again, noticing he’s totally naked.
The butterfly dives for Washington DC., banks upside down and dumps Trump on the White House lawn. Sent tumbling, the naked Trump comes to screaming halt in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden. A flashlight sets the spectacle that is naked Donald Trump aglow.
Dressed in a bright yellow hospital gown, Robert, now sporting a goatee, tosses aside a cigarette and shouts, “Who goes there?”
“The President!” shouts Trump, hiding in the rose bushes.
“That you, President Cuomo?” says Robert with a puzzled squint as pulls on his surgical mask.
“President who?!” shouts Trump.
“Cuomo. Wait, what the, that you Donald?”
“Donald?! Shut it and get me some clothes, Robert,” says the shivering Trump.
“But you’ve been missing 2 years now, um, former President Trump!” says Robert in shock. “Where you been?”
Trump’s orange face goes as white as his ample ass.
END CHAPTER ONE