This is the chilling story of an alternate Trump reality where, after catching the Covid-19 virus, Trump enters a fever dream that includes us all on an alternate timeline. A work in progress.
Normally, I’d not share a story with fans while it’s still in development. But then again — the past 14 months of Covid and the insanity we are witnessing from the GOP going all-in on reinstalling Trump as ostensibly our new King, four months post insurrection — has caused me to feel extremely mortal.
My work is a long way from being a movie, or even coherent at this point. But what fever dream is? Just for kicks, here’s a very preliminary trailer, made from a stock Apple template, to give you an early as fuck sneak peak at my vision of Trumpian reality, even more terrifying and darkly comedic than our own, occurring Meanwhile, one timeline away…
As bleak as things look in May of 2021, when I am writing this overview, where the Big Lie continues to fester like a wound that just won’t heal, it’s my fondest belief that one day we’ll all look back on this chapter of our collective misery and share some laughs, along with tears of relief, that we awoke to a better tomorrow.
I first began writing this, as I like to call it, Ultimate Cautionary Tale, as therapy before we knew Trump would lose the presidency. Today, I write to demonstrate why we must never let Trump back in power and why the GOP must be voted out of office all the way down to city dog catcher.
Before you get started, my handy disclaimer that TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, where Trump’s harebrained insurrection succeeds, is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers or, for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
Use the TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM pull down menu top to the page to read all 11 chapters and counting. Subscribe to get updated audios I am adding to all chapters, when I can steal the time. Subscribing will also get you new chapters in the works. Chapter 12 coming soon as I can find the time.
Audio score done with Storyblock.com loops I’ve licensed for my worldwide use. Apologies in advance for the scratch track voice acting.
Love your feedback. None of this is set in stone at this stage. Please vote blue until the GOP either ousts Trump and returns to sanity or disappears all together. Enjoy.
Meanwhile One Timeline Away… in a universe not very far away… an obese President Donald Trump, very much like our own, living on a parallel Earth, very much like our own, lays intubated, deep in a Covid coma.
Steve Bannon paces the White House presidential bedroom that’s been converted into a hospital room for the unconscious lump of Trump. Running his stubby hands through his unruly mop of salt and pepper hair, Bannon stops pacing to stare in disbelief and despair at his pal Trump through the clear plastic wall the separates them.
Losing her small amount of patience Ivanka says, “Well, Will you do it, Steve?”
Bannon hesitates for long beat before answering coyly, “I need time, Ivanka. He’s in a damn coma. How am I supposed to run a campaign with him fucking unconscious?”
Jared chuckles offering, “Ever seen WEEKEND AT BERNIE’S?”
“No.” say Bannon and Ivanka in unison.
“You guys are no fun,” says Jared, sounding high as a kite on something.
“I’VE GOT IT!” shouts Bannon, frightening Robert, Trump’s Black aid, who is replenishing Trump’s IV bag. It falls to the floor and bursts on the makeshift tiles.
“Quiet. Respect for my father-in-law,” scowls Jared.
“Respect from the WEEKEND AT BERNIE’S guy? A movie where Bernie is dead and some freeloaders use Bernie’s corpse to stretch out their free ride?” says Bannon sternly.
“No fair, Steve. You said you hadn’t seen it,” says Jared sheepishly.
“I lied to save you the embarrassment in front of the President’s wife.”
“Don’t you mean daughter?” says Ivanka.
Bannon remains smugly silent.
Robert slips on the fluid spill and falls to the floor, sending a tray of instruments flying. A flying scalpel impales Trump’s forearm but the trio of plotters are so engrossed they miss Trump’s impalement.
“So what do you have, or got, Steve?” asks Ivanka.
“And please don’t say Covid,” half-jokes Jared.
“Overdoing the Zoetis again, darling?” ask Ivanka, her cheeks flush with anger.
“Knock off the jokes. My father’s, and our, political futures hang in the balance. Go ahead, Steve. We’re all ears,” says Ivanka, oozing sex appeal to get her way by pinching Bannon’s ugly cheek.
Bannon swats Ivanka’s cheek tweak away, distracted as he watches Robert bandage a blood spurt where Robert pulls out the flying scalpel. Bannon takes a long breath and grunts, “Either of you familiar with deep fake videos?”
“We sure as hell are. A porn deep fake of me fucking a donkey while Ivanka rubs her ample breasts in the donkey’s happy face has 10 million views and counting,” says Jared drowsily with a yawn.
“Ew. Disgusting.” says Ivanka, nodding rapidly in agreement.
“Well, minus the donkey and the sex all we need to do is get a great voice actor with the same build as Donald.”
“Why would people want to see a video of Donald fucking a donkey?” ask Jared incredulously.
“Silly, the donkey is the mascot for the Dems, ” says Ivanka, proud of her political acumen.
“Enough with the donkey shit. We do this legit. An impassioned speech from his sick bed! We make a deep fake video of your father coming out of his coma to rouse to the base with a red meat attack on the old fuck Biden,” offers Bannon.
“Genius! I’ll never know why Daddy fired you,” says Ivanka kissing Steve on the cheek.
“Wasn’t fired. I quit, ” brags Bannon.
“Ha. And Nancy Pelosi is really Q, ” jokes Jared.
Ivanka gives Jared a shot in the arm as she says, “Zip it. Go on, Steve.
“The Q balls love the sexual dirt. So in his deep fake speech let’s have Donald’s double accuse Biden of having a S&M affair with Kamala,” Bannon says dryly.
Ivanka hugs Bannon so hard and he get a little boner and tries to hide it with a Wall Stree Journal.
Jared jealously look on and says, “The security risks are enormous. Where can we find a Trump imitator we can trust?”
“Simple. We just use them for the deep fake and then kill them!” cheerfully offers Ivanka.
Bannon pulls out his cell phone and dials, “No. We need to keep the imposter alive long ’cause we need more than one Trump deep fake video. And I know just the man to help us. The Man!” Bannon waits a beat as his phone rings an unknown caller who finally picks up. “Vlad?”
“Steven, we speak alone?” says Putin on Bannon’s cell phone speaker.
“Uh, yeah.” says Bannon motioning for Ivanka and Jared to keep quiet. “Remember that double guy we were going to murder in Donald’s place, if Donny boy would have been impeached, then smuggle Donnie boy out into Mother Russia for amnesty?”
“Da.” says Putin warily.
24 hours later…
A naked Yuri Yakov, who could easily stunt double for Trump, slips into a hospital gown with the seal of the president printed on the chest. Yuri says to the nervous looking Bannon, “Relax, Commrade Bannon. –”
“Call me, Steve please.”
“How about Steverino?” says Yuri imitating Trump.
“When we go live?”
“Never. This shit is taped so I can add in the deep fake in later. Doing the damn edit myself.”
“Relax, bro. Can’t be too hard to make a deep fake if kids on the internet are making these damned things. Haha! I love the one where Bill Hader turns in to Tom Cruise. How ‘ bout you, comrade Steve?”
“Just, Steve! Cut the chi chat, Yuri, and study your fucking lines!”
“Comra — Ah Steve, why so tense, my brother in this deepest of deep fakes?”
“Melania’s due back tonight after cutting her month long sabbatical short. So we need to wrap this up pronto and get her bedroom back to normal in…,” Bannon pauses to read his watch and adds, “Exactly seven hours.”
Meanwhile at the grand stairway…
An exhausted Melania slumps her way up the stairway to the presidential residential quarters. She’s spotted by a shocked Ivanka and Jared, standing guard for Bannon.
“Momma! You’re home 7 hours ahead of schedule. How nice!” shouts Jared rushing down the stairs to intercept Melania.
“Jared, you have never called me Momma before. What is wrong?! Donald dead?!”
“No, no. Of course not. But he’s in no shape for visitors now.” says Ivanka nervously.
“Fine. I need a bath. Bad weather. My flight was as exhausting one of Donald’s accursed rallies or protests or whatever he’s calling them to lure these fools to the deaths. Such stupid people Trumpies.”
“Let me treat you to coffee, Melania!” says Jared yanking Melania down the stairway.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Why are you keeping me from my bedroom, Jared?”
Jared panics into silence but Ivanka takes over. “Redecorating! They are redecorating your bedroom, Melania, and it won’t be done for several hours. How’s an OJ sound?”
“Fuck off the both of you! Decorating of the White House is my department!” Melania storms past Jared and Ivanka up the stairs. They shrug to each other, not knowing what to do.
Meanwhile on the set that’s been built in Melania’s First Lady bu dour…
Yuri is doing a very convincing voice imitation of Trump, “Q is saying Kamala first dines on babies before bull whipping a naked Biden –”
Bannon shouts, “Cut!”
“Ghost of Khrushchev! What was wrong with that one, Comr — Steve?” sobs Yuri.
“Be stronger. Trump may not be bright but he’s an amazing leader,” says Bannon, getting up in Yuri’s face.
“Agree with you… on the not bright part. Haha.”
“I don’t need your fucking opinion. I need a stronger Trump!”
“Before I do take 20 here, answer me a question, or no more takes.” coyly offers Yuri,
“I noticed, Steve, that you were fired on — ”
“Quit not fired.”
“OK, so you quit August 2017 and then, presto, October 2017, Q makes their first post on the web.”
Bannon sighs in frustration and says, “Totally coincidental. Now –”
“And then there are clues in your name.”
“I know how to spell my fucking name!”
“Replace the B in your name with a Q and you have QAnnon!”offers Yuri, immensely pleased with his conspiracy theory.
“QAnon is spelled with two Ns after the A, not three, Cocka.”
“There’s no need to call me a dummy in my mother tongue!”
Bannon pulls a gun and shouts at the trembling Yuri, “The script! Stronger! Action!”
Melania burst into her bedroom and Bannon spins to see who has barged in and his pistol accidentally goes off. BANG!
A rapidly spreading dot of red blood appears over Melani’s heart on her pristine white dress.
Melania softly says, “Ouch.” and then she falls to Steve’s feet.
Steve takes Melania’s pulse, “Dead as Trump’s brother Robert. Fuck me…” says Bannon, dropping the gun to the floor.
Heads up. A new rewrite of Chapter 5 is coming with the new title of THE DESERT SICKNESS. I left the story and nightmares Trump set at the same of time space as originally drafted. Otherwise, it’s 75% new and has, for the first time, awesome, according to fans, old-style radio show audio. I am a synthesizer that loves fiction set in the present. So read on if you want to enjoy this as a draft, typos and all, as you await the release of CHAPTER 5 – THE DESERT SICKNESS; mid to the end of September 2021!
Hey buckaroos! I wrote the first draft of Chapter 5 in May of 2020. In it an alternate reality Trump catches Covid. Will it this other Trump, living one timeline from our own with twins of most of us, learn something getting deathly ill about the value of life? Maybe become kinder, more truthful, more protective of humanity? Now that would be amazing fiction. Read on and find out. Subscribe for the latest material or meditations.
CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID
Meanwhile one timeline away….
Trump blinks his open his bloodshot eyes and squints at the blinding glare of surgery lights overhead. He struggles to sit up but restraints hold Trump in place.
A gowned, masked and gloved Dr. Fauci notices Trump stir and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your body man Robert kept you alive with mouth to mouth until the paramedics brought you here. Um, not so lucky, you’ve come down with a severe case of the coronavirus, sir.”
Trump tries to speak, but the pain is so intense he cannot.
“Do not speak! Your throat’s badly seared. Nod if you understand me?” offers Dr. Fauci.
Trump nods “yes” curtly.
“Now, Mr. President, serious question for which I need a serious answer if I am going to have a chance to save your life. Here goes: Have you taken any Hydroxychloroquine?”
Trump nods yes sadly.
“And did you drink any disinfectants today?”
Trump nods grimly while making the hand signal for “a little.”
“Lysol perhaps?” says Fauci, visibly resisting the urge for to do face palm.
Trump shakes his head “no” rapidly.
“Sorry. Brand’s immaterial. Did you orally ingest any sort of bleach?”
Trump nods “yes” reluctantly.
“OK. It’s 2 AM. I’m gonna name some earlier times from today. Nod when I am close to the time of day you drank bleach.”
Trump nods, impressed Fauci guessed right the first try.
“Nurse, stomach pump! Stat!” an older nurse wheels over a stomach pump.
“Donald, I’m placing you on anesthesia. After pumping your stomach the nurse will immediately intubate you. That is if your damaged esophagus can handle it. But before I put you in an induced coma, uh, there’s an old friend here who must have a word with you,” says Dr. Fauci steps aside to reveal a gowned and masked Mike Pence.
“Hey, buddy. It’s Mike, um, Mike Pence, your VP. How you doin’?”
Annoyed as hell, Trump messages with his eyes for Pence to get on with it.
“Ok, Ok. Why I ‘m here. Right. You see, I’d like your blessings on my VP choice before I temporarily step into your big shoes, amigo. All very, very temporary of course until your back on the job in record covid-time,” says Pence, doing his best to sound sincere.
Trump becomes more agitated, but nods OK.
The mask-free Pence speaks up nervously, “Now, I know this is going to be a little hard for you to swallow — Geez Louise, pardon that expression! — Uh, what with how my Veep pick and you have been going back and forth a tiny teeny bit in the media, and, well, um, ah, given the fact they happen to be a certain Celebrity Apprentice rival –”
Trump’s eyes widen with rage.
“Sorry. — Cut to the chase.– Donald, we need to reunite the country in this dark time. The markets have crashed three times in the past 24 hours. The Dow is down 5000 points. Banks are closed to prevent runs and the bankers are demanding $3 trillion in aid.” Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.
“Ok, Arnold Schwarzenegger my VP pick.” says Pence
Trump writhes in agony that his fever dream about Schwarzenegger as president in 2022 is turning out to be prophetic.
“Swell, Donald. I’m going to take your reaction as a definite “yes” and announce you’re in total and complete agreement to make Arnold my temporary VP, assuming I can get a Senate waiver on his not being American born,” says Pence as Trump writhes in agony. “See? That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the good Dr. Fauci. Get well soon, buddy,” chirps Pence.
Enraged, Trump struggles mightily to break free of his restraints. Pence gives Trump a peck on his sweaty forehead. Dr. Fauci injects the writhing Trump. The surgery room and the worried face of Mike Pence fades from view.
Fauci’s distant echoing voice in the white void advises, “Word of warning, Mr. President. Covid fever dreams can be quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”
WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA
Total whiteness gives way to total blackness. Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk, half of them wearing blue colored western bandit masks and half mask-free mill about on the dusty street.
Two gunfighters take to the street, one blue masked young man and mask-free old timer in a red cowboy hat and everyone scatters.
Blue masked young man says, “I take back what I said about Sheriff Trump, Uncle Bobby. We ain’t gotta do this.”
Oblivious to the gunfighters, Trump stares into the desert sun, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and an overhead surgery light.
The man in the red hat spits and shouts, “Bugs you I love Sheriff Trump more than you, Nephew. Don’t it?”
“You raised me, Uncle Bobby! Course it does!”
“Draw, Nigger lover!”
“No, Uncle! I refuse to draw on fam –”
The blue masked young man watches in shock as blood spread from a hole in his white shirt. He falls face down in the dirt street.
The man in a red hat snarls over the young man’s body, “Worthless, mask wearer. Give my regards to my slave loving sister in hell.”
Trump watches in a daze town undertaker and town drunk, Rudy Giuliani, drags the blue masked boy towards his funeral parlor with a red front door. Rudy, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”
Rudy shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.
Trump works out a kink in his back, squirming on the porch bench of his sheriff’s office, and belches loudly. Trump happily notices he’s dressed as the town sheriff, tin badge, six shooter and all.
Trump blinks, fully taking in the sight of the dusty New Mexico town in Old West. Trump mutters to himself “Reckon I’m on the set of Westworld?”says Trump, puzzled at his Western accent. “That’s odd as a rattler with jingle bells on his darned tail. Fuck. Can’t shake this danged bum fuck accent!”
Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. She’s dressed a frilly pioneer frock of the day. Kellyanne swings opens picnic basket and chirps brightly in a thick southern accent, “Hey, sleepy head. Have a nice nap?”
“Kellyanne?” says Trump, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Haha! That’s my name alright, sleepy bear. You sure do dream deep. Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy. Just the thing to wake you up!” coos Kellyanne, uncovering her steaming masterpiece. Kellyanne lovingly tucks a napkin into Trump’s dusty shirt.
Trump digs in and speaks with his mouthful,”Wow, babe. Had this crazy dream I’s president of these here United States a way, way in the future.”
“Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona in 1864,” giggles Kellyanne.
“I’d a sweared it was the year 2020,” grouses Trump, still surprised by how old West he sounds.
“Ha, ha. All year. And we’ll be married 35 years come June 23rd next week. So now ya’all have no excuse ya’all forgit again!” says Kellyanne, sneaking a kiss to Trump’s cheek.
Trump’s badly overweight deputy, William Barr, plops two used up paint cans, one blue and one red, on the porch. He grabs seat, mopping his forehead with a dirty white hanky. Seeing Trump’s puzzled expression Barr offers, “Finished, sir.”
“Finished with what, Billy?” asks Trump.
“Painting every dang front door in town of the Confederate homes red and the Union homes blue. Just like you ordered, sir,” says Barr.
Puzzled to say the least, Trump runs a hand though his long head of silver hair as he says uncertainly, “Lemme see, our brave Confederates they don’t wear masks, right?”
Kellyanne brightly offers, “Them Union folks are the chickens who are slaved to wearing mask and keeping their distance! Silly old blue bellies are terrified of the desert sickness.”
“Stupefyingly stupid. Old Jesus can save us from that! Right sheriff and town reverend?” brags
“Amen, Billy boy,” says Trump proudly getting into the swing of things.
“Got anymore of them delish ham sandwiches in your picnic basket, Kellyanne?” asks Barr sweetly.
“Never forgit my favorite deputy. Here ya’all go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.
“Whoa, dreamed that you, Billy boy, you were my kickass Attorney General. Way, way in the future.”
“Wow. What year, Sheriff?” ask Barr.
“2020… I think,” says Trump still dazed and confused if he’s dreaming or all this is real.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Barr says, effusively brown nosing, “Don, you are the best dreamer in the West. It’s what makes you such a miracle maker for the good people of Corona!”
“Billy, why in all that’s holy is the dang General Store still closed?!” Trump says, angrily pointing to the General Store across the street with a freshly painted blue front door.
“That uppity nigger Bobby Tulsa says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store ’til Doc gives everybody a checkup for the desert sickness. Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast and they’s a blamin’ you as Sheriff/ Mayor,” offers Barr.
“Time to pay a little visit to our town’s only freed slave,” says Trump rising a bit shakily to his feet.
A short time later Trump Trump glares over a cash register at the blue mask wearing Robert, his Black personal valet in DC of 2020 who saved his life with mouth to mouth, and who is the general store owner in Trump’s 1864 fever dream.
Trump bellows, “I don’t care if’n you’re worried about some weak old sods headin’ for the last roundup. You Yanks gottsta realize this here sickness serves God’s purpose his creatures the wolves. Thin the herd of weakness! Huh. Gotta tweet that today.”
“Tweet? Ya mean like a little birdy?” wisecracks Robert.
Trump grabs Robert by his shopkeeper’s blue apron, “Do not get uppity with me, boy! If was up to me be you’d still be picking cotton in Georgia where you belong!”
Robert shakes off Trump’s hand on his shirt and angrily says, seething hate welling in his normally soft eyes, “And no doubt as a slave. Nevada’s a free territory, Sheriff Trump. And I am a free man. My store. My rules. And my rule is that my store stays shut until Doc examines everyone for the desert sickness. Only way to stop swapping us back and forth tween us like deranged kindergartners!”
Barr inserts himself between Trump and Robert and says in his usual deadpan droll, “Now, Robert. You, more than most in Corona, have enjoyed the good Sheriff’s protection from the Confederates in here town. Now, son, we’d never want you lynched –”
“Shut it, Deputy Barr! I give the orders in this here town! And I demand this here General Store reopen today and you get your lazy black ass back on the job, Bobby boy!” demands Trump.
“So much for diplomacy,” mutters Barr to himself.
“You know, runnin’ this little store I gets to know a lotta personal things. And Sheriff, to be honest — And it’s nice nice to be honest. You should give it try once and while just to keep us guessin’ — There’s a whole lotta things you don’t want me tellin’ your fourth wife Kellyanne about. Like, for one example, your “Stormy” twice a week deal with the town’s whore,” calmly offer Robert.
Dumbfounded that Robert has boxed him in, Trump sputters, “You’re gonna be sorry, Tulsa. Powerful sorry.”
“I’m already, Donnie. Sorry I moved to your hateful little red and blue crazy town of Corona. Good day gents,” says Robert taking Trump and Barr forcefully about the shoulders and escorting them out of the store with shove. Robert slams the door their faces and pulls down the CLOSED window shade.
Enraged, Trump spins to Barr, “Billy, I want a full investigation into where Robert Tulsa gets his food stocks.”
“Already done. The blackie gets most of his supplies from a damned Chinaman who visits Corona once a month. In fact, I have conspiracy theory all my own that Jenkins was responsible for helping the Chinese bastard spread the desert sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”
“Hell, yeah! This must be why Confederate folks are getting sicker faster, ain’t they?” ponders Trump, loving Barr’s conspiracy theory.
“Yup. Though a course Doc said it could also be because we red doors don’t wash our hands or wear masks,” offers Barr feebly.
“Never you mind with them outdated Union notions! Draft up charges and serve that blackie Tulsa. I want him hung by Sunday. Folks do love a good lynching. Cleanses the soul,” gloats Trump, wishing to himself again that the old west had Twitter.
“But the mob might want to do a hanging’ before the judge hits town again,” says Barr.
“Not another word, Billy. There’s more deputies where you came from,” says Trump chewing on a ragged cuticle on his gun hand.
Barr switches mental gears and effusively offers, “You’re a dadgum genius, sir! Pissing off Abe Lincoln himself after Robert Tulsa is, uh, um, brought to justice is red meat for our upstanding Confederate citizens!”
“Our fine city of Corona will carry the vote for Nevada to join the great Confederacy and turn the tide of the war or my name ain’t Sheriff Donald J. Trump,” says Trump.
Time shifts into high gear. Citizens, masked and unmasked, race up the street as the sun rockets overhead across the western sky. Eight hours pass in the blink of an eye. Night falls like rock.
Trump happily finds himself on the outskirts of town standing beside a hanging tree dressed in a KKK robe with the hood down.
Robert, his muscular neck in a hangman’s noose and hands tied behind his back, glares down at Trump from atop a swayed old horse’s back. Robert’s chiseled featured are lit by the torches of men on horseback dressed in KKK robes. Robert says bitterly, “Let’s get this party with you and your “fine people” over, T-rump.”
As Carona’s reverend and sheriff I offer you last rite, Robert Tulsa,” says Trump piously.
“I said get on with it. Last thing I want to here are more of your blathering,” says Robert, the rope tugging at his neck.
“No last word then, nigger?” shouts Barr.
“Just this. America was built on the backs of my people and the extermination of it’s native –”
Trump smacks the grungy hangman’s horse on the butt. A distant rifle’s sound splits the air and the rope above Robert’s hangmen noose is cut free by the ace shot. Hands tied, Robert kicks the horse and races off, vanishing into the desert night.
In the distance a native America sporting a stove pipe hat with feather in it holsters his rifle and rides off into the starry desert night after Robert.
Next morning Trump addresses a crowd of Confederate citizens along with a smattering Union people,”As a lotta you know Corona’s token negro and General Store Keeper, Robert Tulsa, escaped hangin’ last night.”
Townspeople mutter angrily among themselves.
Unfazed, Trump riffs, “But what you fine Confederate folks don’t know is letting that nigger escape was my plan all along!”
The stunned crowd stares at Trump in dazed silence.
“You see, I hired me the best Pinkerton detective west of Mississippi to sharp shoot off Tulsa’s necktie and now the dumb nigger’s bein’ tracked to the source of the tainted goods that have brought sickness to our fine town of Corona.
The Confederate citizens cheer wildly while the Union people all do face palms.
A few hours later, as measured by old church’s rusty clock, Barr and Trump once again enjoy Kellyanne’s burgers and biscuits on the Sheriff’s porch. Barr asks nervously, “Sheriff, that story about the Pinkerton…”
“One of my best whoppers. But, Billy boy, I ain’t got no clue about who really freed that nigger. All I really want is for people to be able to buy damned toilet paper. Me especially!” says Trump, wondering if toilet paper exists in 1864 because of the puzzled look on Barr saggy face.
“Well why didn’t you say so, Sheriff? I got a secret TP stash. Back in a jiff ” says Barr escaping up the street, exhibiting a bad limp.
Kellyanne turns to Trump, her face filled with confusion “Whatever is a spin doc, hon?” asks Kellyanne lovingly.
“What you called me yesterday, hon. You said, ‘Kelly Anne, darlin’, my order to reopen the town, spin doctor it.'”
Before the unsure Trump can answer with some fresh bull, the town executioner, town undertaker and town drunk Rudi Giuliani, stumbles up and happily volunteers with drunken bow, “Madame, I will have you know that yours truly invented the spin doctor profession to help win Andrew Jackson’s re-elction back in, I think it was, 1830. To spin doctor refers to one such as me creating the best story by, um, reorganization, shall we say of the alternative facts… Wait sec, can either of you fine people spare a dime for a thirsty man? All this spin rememberin’ has left me parched. ”
Before Trump can answer, an out of breath pimple faced Jared, wearing a cowboy style MAGA hat runs up to the trio and shouts, “Sheriff Trump! Sheriff Trump, the Covid Kid just rode into town and he’s comin’ a gunnin’ for ya!”
“Oh my God, Donnie! Whatever shall we do?” worries Kellyanne.
“If by we you me mean me: Nothin’.” says Trump with his customary shit eating grin.
“Nothin’?!” says Kellyanne.
“This here reality is just what my 2020 doc, that fuck Fauci, calls a fever dream.” chuckles Trump.
“What you drinkin’, Sheriff? Cause I want me some,” slobbers Giuliani.
BANG! Trump and the shrieking Kelly Anne are splattered in blood from a bullet hole in Giulani’s forehead, “Funny. All of sudden I got a splitting headache.” Rudy falls face first to the dusty street.
“Sheriff Trump! Ya no good orange bellied coward. I am callin’ you out!” shouts the Covid kid holstering his smoking gun, his gruff voice muffled by a blue bandana mask
“Fair gun fight, Kid?” says Trump calmly, not believing any of this is real but playing along for kicks and hamming it up for Kellyanne.
“Fair? What in hell do you know about fair, Donnie boy?” snarls the Covid Kid.
“Ask poor unarmed Rudi, about fair, you monster,” sobs Kellyanne.
The Covid kid laughs at Kellyanne, “Ha. Rudi’s mouth is a legal weapon. Hmm. Wonder who undertakes the undertaker?”
“Ha. Thought you just lived in mirrors,” says Trump getting to his feet.
“I live in you, you idiot. I am your damn conscience! Now it’s finally time for me to take over the show, pard, ’cause you never listen to me, here in 1864 or in 2020. But tell you what, you don’t deserve it but, yeah, let’s make this a fair fight,” offers Mirror Trump.
Trump pats his gorgeous white stallion and says coyly, “But, kid, I already run the show, my body, my town, my rules. What’s in a gun battle for me except maybe a tombstone?”
“Opps. Forgot. Always has to be something in any for you don’t there?” Off Trump’s smug nod the Covid Kid offers, “OK, You got certain childhood memories, painful even to your elephant hide, I can make those go away,” says the Covid Kid dryly, mirroring Trump’s own insincerity.
“You’re a bluffin’.” chuckles Trump.
“And you should know all about bluffin’,” says the Covid Kid snapping his fingers, He and Trump become transparent spirits observing Trump’s dad Fred Trump impatiently giving a math lesson from hell to little Donald using coins.
Fred says menacingly,” Donald, Donald. That’s eighty cents! I asked you to show me ninety! Now do it! And no more help from me!”
Little Donnie places 3 quarters on the table and Fred smacks him on the back of the head. Donald cries and Fred whacks him harder, shouting, “Unless you can learn basic math I am sticking you in a school for retards! You a winner or a retard, Donny boy?”
Donald bursts into tears and Fred’s expression softens,”Aw. Did I make you cry… little girl?”
Already having seen enough, Trump turns sadly to the Covid Kid and says in a hoarse whisper, “Ok. Make all my bad memories of Dad’s abuse go away and we got us a deal. Pistols at 20 paces at high noon.”
The Covid Kid snaps his fingers and the two Trumps are back in the Nevada town of Corona in 1864 facing each other 20 paces apart.
“Just to be square, I kill you in this dream you die in the real world. At least the Trump we’ve all come to know and hate dies and I take over.”
Mirror Trump says, “Have it your way. Hell it is.” He points to a shop window that lights up to show a reflection of Trump being intubated in the real 2020 world, causing Trump of 1864 to choke and gag.
“No fair. What happened to our gunfight?” says Trump breathlessly.
“We draw when the church bells strike 12,” says Trump’s mirror image the Covid Kid.
The storefront image fades back to a regular reflection of 1864. A tumbleweed blows across the street between the two Trumps.
“For starters, Soon as I take over this burger bloated body of ours I am painting all the doors of this nightmare of yours purple.”
The church clock tower makes the first of twelve strikes. Hidden above the Sheriff’s office Deputy William Barr takes aim a Mirror Trump’s back. Barr mutters a pep talk to himself, “Boss wants this to look good. Fire on 11 and a half. Fire on 11 and a half.”
Trump catches a glint of Barr’s rifle in the hot noon sun and hides a grin with some false bravado,”I got nickname for your tombstone: Goodie Two Trumps.”
The church tower gongs five. Mirror Trump’s gun hand twitches over his silver six shooter. “After 73 years of nagging you to do the right thing, I am one conscience that’s done talkin’. Shut it and get ready to draw, ya mangy old coot.”
Kelly Anne runs to Mirror Trump’s side and pecks him on the cheek, “Can I watch you kill the blowhard?”
Trump says, “You’re fired, Kellyanne,” as he angrily blows Kellyanne off her feet. Her dead body splashing into the horse trough.
“Marriages just don’t stick with you do they, Donnie? ” says Trump’s mirror conscience in disgust.
Barr sees mirror Trump did not break his concentration as the clock strikes 9. Barr quietly cocks back his shinny rifle’s firing hammer. As he does another gun behind Barr clicks back it’s hammer. Barr spins in terror to see none other than Abraham Lincoln has the drop on him.
Abe says grimly “Justice is served, Deputy Barr,”and fires six shooter. Bam! Barr falls off the roof of the Sheriff’s office and crashes through the porch roof.
Mirror Trump, the Covid Kid, flashes a thumbs up to the grinning Abe Lincoln atop the Sheriff’s office a thumbs up as the clock strikes 10. Trump quick draws and fires on mirror Trump’s turned back 2 strikes ahead of the agreement. But his shot goes wide and takes out his beloved white horse.
“So predictable. Too bad your bad dad Freddy never taught you to shoot straight, amigo,” The Covid Kid chuckles as the clock strikes 12. BANG! Mirror Trump fires and Trump’s throat erupts in a gush of blood. Trump falls to his knees in the dusty street, gasping for air, unable to talk.
The Covid Kid gloats over the dying Trump,”For once I get the last world. Hurry up and die, Donnie boy. The world needs the better you, namely me.”
All fades to black. Trump blinks his eyes open in a luxurious hospital room. He spots a smug Kellyanne reading a PEOPLE’S MAGAZINE, complete a fresh photo of an intubated picture of Trump on the cover. The headline reads:
KELLYANNE EXCLUSIVE: TRUMP INTUBATED!
Trump tries to speak, but the tube down his throat only allows him a gagging gurgle and he passes out without Kellyanne ever noticing his brief awakening from the fever dream.
To Be Continued in Chapter 6 – Mt. Rushmore and the Bunker Rebels
REAL FEVER DREAMS
Sadly Covid-19 patients can end up intubated in an induced coma on a respirator for weeks on end. The odds of a virus patient ever regaining consciousness drop daily the longer someone remains on a respirator. Strangely, Trump’s terrible fever dreams of choking and dying over and over again in elaborate ways I depict in this story are something I intuited weeks ago before this story from Atlantic.
Bottom line, avoid getting this damn virus no matter what the media or politicians playing with your life tell you. Above all avoid Trump’s insane false macho attitude of it being OK to allow people catching the virus to build herd immunity. All while it’s not even scientifically yet known if we the people can catch this damn thing more than once!
Stay distant, wear masks no matter to pressure from the misled right-wing nutjobs and wash your hands often.
As always my handy disclaimer that this story is of course a work of pure fiction about an alternate universe. It is in no way a true reflection of the kind and compassionate real-life Donald J Trump, and his charming GOP enablers the Supreme Court, or for that matter, the supposed good guys in this dark comedic tale.
I’ve truly been blessed to have Robin Williams’ spirit in touch with me often since his death on August 11, 2014. But unlike many people with psychic visions, suspiciously sure of their gifts, I sometimes wonder if Robin’s ghost is really keeping in touch or if it’s all just my wild imagination.
Robin’s spirit finds my uncertainty about his visitations quite funny. Perhaps he keeps showing up, despite my misgivings as a reluctant medium, because I always take his funny visits as a serious message from the higher realms of consciousness. And today’s visit from Robin is super welcome in this post-truth era that’s wearing mighty thin for many of us.
Before I get to Robin’s important as it is funny June 2018 message to the world’s, as the iconic actor who played drama and beautifully as comedy describes today’s, “lazy bum comics” a little history. Robin first appeared to me shortly after his death to help me give comfort to many fans troubled by his suicide. Bummer, we lost two more celebs to suicide this week, designer Kate Spade and chef Anthony Bourdain. Fame and success are no protection against depression.
Not surprisingly, Robin’s spirit musings on his horrific suicide are heartbreakingly funny stuff. Read it on the blog in detail in a special section called THE ROBIN WILLIAMS VISITATIONS. Hmm. Feels like a book’s a brewin’.
After Robin’s first ghostly visit, which happened on one of the many hikes I take here in Sedona’s red rocks, he and I bonded quickly. I would say it’s because we are brother in arms who’ve overcome battles with life’s sadness using laughs. Happily, I instantly found I could channel his comedic stylings with good accuracy for this blog.
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS WITH A BLUE WHALE
One amazing day in the fall of 2014 Robin showed up with the spirits of MLK and Mother Teresa. They all wanted a tour of the Buddhist stupa. Which I gave them to my honor as though they were visiting family. I’ve still not found the time to blog about it. I promise to, Robin and readers. Stay tuned.
A few weeks after Robin’s incredible visitations began, I tuned over in bed and yelped as Robin was nose to nose with me under the covers. “Sorry, didn’t want to wake you, Sheetzy. Your snoring’s adorable, btw.”
“Thanks. I think. What brings you to my bed at the crack of dawn, Robin?”
“Sheetzo, I need you to hop on fishing boat off Laguna Beach, and channel me in.”
“Why?” I asked still half asleep, thinking back nostalgically on the days before my 2010 awakening when life was boringly normal. Robin is not the only spirt that visits me.
“Oh. Nothing special, Kenny boy. Just gonna impregnate a virgin whale to reincarnate myself as a blue whale.”
“Oh, is that all?” I said dryly as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. This got a laugh out of Robin. But his laughter quickly faded as I explained to the king of comedy, “Buddy, I am drowning in the workload of a client’s world changer crowd funder. Much as I’d love to travel to the Pacific to help bring you back as a blue whale, Robin, we mortals still have bills to pay.”
“Work from the road. That’s what God made WiFi for.”
“Sorry. I just can’t road trip this thing. Too big. We just launched this cool device that’s going to make it a smarter world. Boost IQ!”
“Fine, Einstein. I’ll do it myself like I have to do everything… when it comes to impregnating virgin whales!” Robin said, his disappointment in me showing on his fading ghostly face.
“Wait, Robin. If you could just wait 60 days or so I promise –”
Robin vanished before I could finish in a disappointed but determined huff. I got up and made some coffee and ruminated that Robin was still used to the star treatment even on the other side. So he’s not used to people saying no very often. I hoped he would not be so angry with me he’d never visit again. However, I made a note to request he not pop into my bed in future and nearly give me a heart attack.
Weeks passed swiftly. My client’s crowd funder became a hit, raising eventually $1.6 million for an update of a beloved scientist’s famed techno-meditation device. So I’d kind of forgotten about Robin’s whale gig when one day, while having a breakfast at my favorite local diner, The Coffee Pot, Robin appeared in the form of a talking blue whale embryo hovering over a portly man’s ham and eggs.
Williams shouted proudly, “I did it, Sheetzy!”
Nearly spit spraying my coffee, I looked slyly around the restaurant. As per usual, despite Sedona being an American mecca for psychics, I was, you guessed it, the only person having this outrageous aquatic visit. “Why the whole whale thing, Robin?” I asked in my mind, deciding I might get a ticket to the looney bin talking out loud to a floating blue whale fetus in a public restaurant.
“Call me, Nanu. That’s my new blue whale name!”
“OK, Nanu Nanu –”
“Just Nanu, Sheetzter. Copyright stuff.”
“Ok, NANU, why reincarnate as blue whale?”
Robin twirled over a blue haired old lady wolfing down her waffles and said proudly, “Because I’m gonna teach the blue whales a new frequency of joy and laughter to broadcast around this bluesy world!”
Robin looked amused by my freaked out face. But it made total sense Robin would not rest long in the afterworld and would seek a cool way to help humanity keep its sense of humor. As if reading my mind about how crazy yet sensible this all seemed to me, Robin added,”Still the doubting Sheetz? Just take a gander at your coffee cup. – Presto!”
Chills ran down my spine, here in the middle of the desert, a relief of dolphins swam on the coffee mug. Robin the blue whale fetus hovered over my head blowing happy air bubble rings as I called over the unsuspecting waitress. I asked her if she’d ever seen a dolphin mug at the restaurant before.
Even though the grizzled middle-aged vet waitress has seen it all in Sedona she gazed in amazement to see dolphins on my coffee mug. “Weird. All we usually got are cactuses and Kokppellis on our mugs.”
I bought the magical mug proof Robin offered at checkout. And if you’re ever a house guest I’ll happily serve you a java from the two more dolphin mugs I’ve since collected on future Williams visits to the Coffee Pot.
Note: Robin loves his coffee and often calls me over to the Coffee Pot, a favorite of visiting celebs, for his spirit visits. He met Elizabeth, my love there and told her, through my channeling, that she is Mamu his mama whale.
Wait a minute! I just joke back to the joker Robin as I write here in 2018, “Swell, so you’re telling me, Robin, that because you were pissed I wouldn’t go with you to the Pacific in 2014 you impregnated my love Elizabeth’s alternate reality whale self?”
“Bingo! Ha ha! Man, took you 4 years to get that joke. You’re dense as a neutron star, bro,” laughs Robin.
Jeez, I Googled that a teaspoon full of neutron star weighs a billion tons. He sure thinks I am dense stuff!
Speaking of how dense we all are in these Trumpy times, back to 2014, two full years before America lost it’s sense of humor with Trump’s hostile take over of not just the news world but the comedy world.
One time back in 2015, shortly after Robin’s successful rebirth as a blue whale, as Trump began his run for king of the world, Robin told me over coffee – BTW Robin just cups his hand around the mug for its cafine energy – “Trump gonna win and he’s gonna be HILAAARIOUS as the good old USA’s most un-presidential prez ever.”
Boy, was that whale baby right. Trump did beat the unfunny Hillary. And just look at all these comics covering Trump as regular as the weather here in depressing as hell 2018.
But, as master of comedy Robin Williams is now shouting at today’s living comics through my keyboard, putting on a Jewish accent, “Oy vey! Enough, funny people! You’re makingme mashugana! The Trump gags are stale as a two week old bagel! Stop beating a dead whale already! ”
That last message of Robin’s rings so true don’t it? Dozens of comedians riffing on Trump’s every stumble everyday for three friggin’ years stinks like a dead whale stranded on a beach for days. The seagulls picking the carcass apart.
And Robin sadly knows all about dead whales. You see, the busy shipping lanes killed his beloved whale mama in late 2017. Grieving her loss, Robin told me in a vision, on a hike to the Airport vortex, that Mamu’s whale body had washed up on the west coast of Mexico. A few months later, in April of this year, Robin came to me to say his whale life too ended the same way as his poor Mamu.
“Don’t be a bummer, Sheetzorini! Tell your readers not to be blue for the blue whale me!” Robin chirps as I type as fast as man untrained in such can, “The Blue Dolphin Clan gave me the body of one of their brain dead young.”
“How appropriate!” getting a zing in as payback for Robin’s neutron star dig.
Robin pretends not to hear my zinger and goes on, “And I’m ready start teaching the song of joy and laugher to the dolphins now. That is soon as I can figure out where my dolphin dick is. Oh wait. I’m a girl dolphin now. Holy mackerel!”
Pause for reader laughter Robin tells me.
“No problem, the name Robin works for either gender,” I communicate to his spirit, stalling for time to keep up on the keyboard with his rapid fire mind.
“Guess Nanu swings both ways too. Hey, know what we dolphins think of all the media’s fuss over Trump? Ever hear Flipper laugh in that old TV show?” says Robin doing a tail stand in my mind’s eye.
“You mean like this, Robin?” I say digging up a clip.
“Close enough! – Fun fact. Did you know we beautiful and brilliant dolphins were sentient thousands of eons before human’s discovered how to make fucking fire?”
“Gotta admit, like most humans I believe, we’ve always been the brightest species on the planet,” I type communucate.
“Right. Even though humans work themselves to death to get that newest model gas guzzler causing global warming?” Robin dolphin chuckles.
“Yup, Gottta admit I am looking at a new Jeep at the moment.”
“Think Prius, ya noob.”
“Need a Jeep for the 4-wheel drive for the red rocks, shark bait.”
” Touche. Well do some checks on electric that can off road. Pinkie swear? Not that I have one anymore.”
“Fin swear then. Will do, Robin.”
“Nanu, still Nanu please. Good because we dolphins warn…” says Robin/Nanu, trying to sound as ominous as young dolphin can,”..that your species needs to stop worrying about one certain old as fuck human being, no matter how fat, orange and nasty. HUGE waste of time. Time your species doesn’t have, BTW. ”
“Why?” I ask.
“Earth’s oceans are running out of fucking oxygen!”
In shock I do a search mid-blog based on Robin’s dire warning and found this video. If you have 55 minutes it will wise you up in a big way even if the production values are about zilch.
Vindicated about his warning on earth’s diminishing air supply, as well as making me realize how real his visits are, Robin/Nanu grimly continues, “Better you eco-morons focus on saving the oceans, where most of your oxygen is made, than ruminating on how many cheeseburgers Trump can ingest daily without having a coronary!”
Robin/Nanu bitingly goes on, “Be original, human comics. You’re all lazy as fuck. Hello! Comedy 101, you can’t make parodies about of a living one like Trump.”
Nanu Williams rants on, “Get the fuck over the pathetic Trump, funny bones, and get back to your damn job of making people laugh. Save getting political for the biggest joke on the planet… the fucking politicians! Get smart and get the word out earth is running out air instead of spreading hot air. Got it?”
“Got it! Will share, Nanu Williams the blue dolphin!”
“Cool, Kenster. Williams out!”
Well, the you have it, straight from Robin Williams the newly reincarnated blue dolphin Nanu: Trump is officially no longer hilarious.
Trump news, both comedic and conventional, is so incredibly pervasive in 2018 we simply cannot avoid it.
Ironically, and there’s no end to irony in these Trumpy times, talented comedians, 99% of them left leaning, riffing on Trump News has become a major source of over-saturation of fascination with Trump’s every Tweet and stumble.
I searched Google for this piece, but I cannot find stats on how many hours of Trump news we have been bombarded with daily for three years solid now. My guess? 500 hours of new Trump content is created on mainstream media per day. My guess is based on how many 24/7 shows plus daily comedy shows focus on the Tweeter in chief.
Blame or credit, depending how you feel about Trump news, the proliferation of today’s bumper crop of comics riffing on the Trump on granddaddy comedian Johnny Carson. As host of the TONIGHT SHOW for three full decades, from 1962-1992, “Here’s Johnny” introduced the jokes based on the daily news as part of his live show comedy monologues.
Flash forward, past LAUGH-IN political jabs, Chevy Chase spoofing the news with Jane Curtain on SNL, plus all their SNL News descendants, and you come to the father of modern comedy news comedy; the very talented Jon Stewart. His stint as the host and head writer of Comedy Central’s hit show THE DAILY SHOW broke the bank on his TV progeny doing comedic news.
But, BIG BUT, all these new shows have a serious liberal tilt. In other words, your brain will be hopelessly liberal slanted if you watch them all in one sitting. Take my word for it because I used to watch each and every one of these lib-talents daily before I realized I was addicted to the Trump feeding frenzy. I slowly fell into filling my heart with comedic rage.
A term I may have just coined, comedic rage is repressed anger venting itself as “It’s better to laugh than cry!” A good thing in moderation, but in the excess coverage of today not good for the soul.
In fairness to today’s comics, of which I’ve been one via my 6.5 million view KidsTalkPolitics channel before it got hacked, the crazy stuff Trump tweets, typos be damned, is so damn funny it really does take fleet of comics to cover the insanity. Ah, yes, it will be a #SAD! when Trump’s admin ends one day, but since I don’t see on impeachment in my crystal ball, live it up funny people.
Back to why I began this post, if you want to keep some political objectivity in your life, the Coolest Meditation Ever (CME) Trumpy, picture a portly Oscar, goes to Stephen Colbert. Forget the rest. Colbert’s’s obssessed with Trump take downs and he’s all you need.
Well, there is one other Trump comedic must-see: Baldwin.
My advice? Go light on Trump comedy binging. From hard won personal experience: More than two comic romps per day renders Trump comedy as unfunny as jokes about Trump not knowing the difference between HPV and HIV.
During the turbulent Nixon era we really only had one comedian giving us political humor; Johnny Carson. Johnny was the pioneer in this art of taking the days headlines and mining them for laughs.
Leno followed in Johnny’s political humor footsteps along with Letterman. But political comedy would come to full bloom under the great Jon Stewart.
My spirit guide Robin Williams told me during the elections that a Trump presidency would be “hilarious.” Indeed, the epic comic turned blue whale in his next life as I have channeled, was right. Under Trump the political humor has been hilarious from Steven Colbert, Seth Meyers, Jimmy Kimmel, Bill Maher, Samantha Bee, Trevor Noah, John Oliver, Conan O’Brien, Alec Baldwin, Jimmy Fallon, James Corden and more up and comers. But the joke of Trump is getting very old very fast. Overexposure is a law of reality.
Looking deeper to my Trump rubber necking, add the 24/7 news channels, like FOX, CNN and MSNBC that did not exists in Nixon times, the talk shows like the View. Next add that media is now within my pockets via my cell phone 24/7.
Last, add in social media feeding on itself with Tweets and retweets, FB posts, YouTube pundits right and left where I have my day job for BuzzBroz.com, my social media company and I see it:
What’s amazing, love him or hate him, is Trump’s uncanny ability to eclipse so much of the 24/7 coverage in this ever expanding media world. Now, I don’t know about you, but I sure need a break. I am trying to screen and limit Trump overexposure consciously to 30 minutes per day. That’s still an incredible amount of my day but I was losing hours of work time in the Trump field.
For me my big tension release has been meditation. Back at the start of 2017 my spirit guide Ohom, an ET thought traveler from Nektar, asked me to go the inauguration with my partner Elizabeth transmute fear to love we did it. But since that difficult meditation mission I have to admit I’ve lost my inner place in the Trump fog.
It’s not Ohom’s fault, certainly also not Elizabeth’s, I’ve been sucked into the Trump vortex. The blue Orion never asked me to do more than the spirit work of that one day as regards to one Donald J Trump, which Elizabeth and I did gratefully and with great success. You can see for yourself on our playlist.
No, it’s been my own dislike of Trump dating back to our being peers of a kind in commercial real estate that’s really sucked me in combined with the hypnotic pull seeing the latest stunt he’s pulled thrown in my face 24/7.
Time for me to step away from Trump’s train presidency that polarizing our country. The worldwide media machine profiting off Trump at the expense of real news has the mogul abundantly covered. I step back now to assess if I want to go further with a feature documentary on our LOVE TRUMPS HATE theme we devised for the inauguration. But I will no longer use that film project as excuse for Trump binge watching.
Now that I’ve properly analyzed why I’ve gotten so caught up on all things Trump, a potent combination of my past history of dislike of Trump dating to the 80s, hyperactive media and a hyperbolic president, I am looking forward to returning to my regularly planetary meditations. I seek to do more earthly healing and regain my inner peace.
LOW VIBE TRUMP
Relax, Trump, a master troll, is really not as big as deal as he’d like us think. He, like Obama and Bush, are beholden to the deep state for his marching orders. Witness Trump’s recent flip flop on Afghanistan for recent proof. In reality Trump’s simply the #distractorinchief, keeping us away from paying attention to local news and events while the bad guys rake in the chips.
I will continue to keep a bit of an eye on Donald’s presence in our field. How can’t I with the coverage he gets. But I will do so without sampling the ever expanding variety comedy and news takes on his work.
I hope my meditations on this Trump obsession helps you break free of the Trump vortex too. Keep meditating with us at CoolestMeditationEver.com.
Johnny, I miss you and those sweet simpler times of my youth.