Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 5 – The Covid Kid

Sorry for the short break between chapters. As I’ve been writing chapter 5 it’s been scary to see real-life Trump catch up to this next chapter, where Abe makes a cameo in “Trump’s Fever Dream”, by his holding a FOX town hall at the Lincoln Memorial last week. A weird choice given Abe would be a liberal Dem by today party standards.

Lincoln Speaks Out

But whoever said Trump was a student of history, or anything for that matter? He’s certainly not a student of the 1918 flu epidemic that killed millions. Tragically, America of 2020 is number 1 for the virus on earth. And yet Trump claims zero responsibility for not acting quicker and more decisively.

It’s deeply frustrating that, despite his daily epic fails, Fox and the GOP blindly support him. Combined with this unholy alliance, fueled by almost limitless “brainwashing funds”, with the Zuck’s FB support, Trump actually rose in approval polls this week. Please see THE GREAT HACK on Netflix to grasp how this terrible joke on the people is happening right before our eyes through highly targeted mind control.

WESTWARD HO! 

Welcome to chapter 5 of my writing therapy, pard. Be sure to read chapters 1-4 to see how Trump got to this feverish point in this dark comedic fantasy that asks the question:

Would Trump catching the coronavirus have any lasting impact on our fearless leader if he survived catching Covid-19?

CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID

Trump blinks his open his bloodshot eyes and squints at 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’s struggle and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your valet 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 Hydrochloroquin?”

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 some sort of bleach?”

Trump nods 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.”

“Midnight?”

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 life long Democrat and –”

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 demanding $3 trillion more in aid. Worst of all Civil War has broken out in Georgia after the second wave killed tens of –”

Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.

“Ok, it’s Govenor Cuomo. Andrew’s my VP pick.”

Trump writhes in agony that his fever dream about Cuomo 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 Governor Cuomo  my temporary VP. — Good. That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the good Dr. Fauchster. Get well, 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. Coma dreams can be quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”

WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA

Total whiteness gives was to total blackness. Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk,  half wearing western bandit masks and half mask-free mill about on the dusty street.

A masked young man and mask-free young man draw on each other FIRE. Both fall dead in the street. Trump watches in a daze as the town undertaker and town drunk, Rudi Giuliani, drags the unmasked boy towards his funeral parlor with a red front door. Rudi, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”

Trump simply stares into the desert sun, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and surgery light.

Rudi shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.

Town Sign Final

The masked young man is dragged off by his bereaved family into a house with a blue door. The mother of the masked boy shrieks at Trump, “You, you, you bastard. Your hate killed my baby!” When Trump does not respond to her the dead boy’s Mother wails in agony before vanishing behind the blue door of her home with a slam of the door.

The crack of the door slam stirs Trump to life. He works out a kink in back 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 rustles the CORONA GAZZETTE to his face. His eyes widen as he reads the date June 1864 just as the dirty town’s church tower clock clocks strikes for nine times. “Maybe I’m on the set of Westworld?”says a puzzled Trump.

Trump’s wild west wife, Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. 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.

“Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy.” says 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 was president of these here United States.”

“Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona,” giggles Kellyanne.

“So this is 1864” asks Trump, surprised by how Texan 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, Attorney General 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.”

“Divide and conquer. Works every time,” 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 forget my favorite deputy. Here you go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.

“I dreamed you, Billy, 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.

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.

“Uppity Bob Jenkins says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store until Doc gives everybody a checkup for the sickness. Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast and theys a blaming you as Sheriff/ Mayor,” offers Barr.

“Time to pay a little visit to our town’s 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, but 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. People like you libtards gotta 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 Trumps 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. I is 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 danged 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 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, Jenkins. 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 Jenkins gets his food stocks.”

“Already done. The blackie gets most of he supplies from the 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 sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”

“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 –” offers Barr.

“Never you mind with them outdated Union notions! Draft up charges and serve, Jenkins. 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 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.

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.”

Trump bows obligingly and smacks Robert 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 man in a stove pipe hat 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 Jenkins, escaped a hangin’ last night.”

Townspeople mutter angrily among themselves.

Unfazed, Trump brilliantly riffs, “But what you fine Confederate folks don’t know is letting Jenkins 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 Jenkin’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, birthplace of the greatest beer on earth!”

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 spin doc, hon?” asks Kellyanne lovingly.

“Huh?”

“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 remembering has me parched. ”

Before Trump can answer, an out of breath pimple faced teen 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.

“Your 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.”

“Like hell.”

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 towers 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.

WIld West Trump
Fire, ready aim! Trump battles to Covid Kid and his Gang

“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.

END CHAPTER 5

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.

Shameless proud plug. Seeking immunity building solutions? Visit CoolestTechEver.com.

Meditations on Four News Cycles Leading to Today’s Madness

Let’s take a break in my blog series Trump’s Fever Dream to take a big picture look at America’s shared fever dream.  I will endeavor to show we have fallen into four repeating news cycle of madness, all in the name of ratings. Left and/or right, the politicians and media are feeding on our collective fear. And the best remedy for fear is light. So lights, camera, action.

Carroll O'Connor
Contemplating Times that Would Makes Archie Bunker Would Take to His Bunker.

This next phase of the #coronavirus crisis, which we officially entered yesterday May 1st, is going be even trickier to navigate because it’s easy to see the political parties and media seek to polarize the people further into red versus blue camps of the masks versus no masks, distancing versus no distancing. Scary. And, baby that sells soap.

Life under poor leadership from both the left and right, prompted by outright manipulation by the oligarchs who run both the left and right, has left the American people abandoned and totally on our own to navigate our lives going into the reopening of our highly divided country.

What a nightmare near zero leadership has turned out to be for us all. Makes me wonder if we are being softened up to want some big daddy dictator or Big Brother government state to rescue us? The shady immoral characters who run this world do think that way. No wonder so many people are taken in by conspiracy theories.

For me life, going forward in the next trickier phase of this waking nightmare is an unhappy but easy call. You see, I want to be out enjoying a more normal life but, silly me, I had a heart failure in 2018. So I’ll be wearing a mask and social distancing as best I can. The root of the problem is that we have no testing.

BTW, no testing is no accident. That cruelty is terribly infuriating as it allows us no real planning. Just what the fear mongers want. Winning an ideological war has been shown to be more important for politicians than taking care of our citizenry.

I am a centrist. And so apologize in advance to readers both left and right if we are not on the same page in this ball of confusion. If I know you, I must decline a hug, I must not share a candy pretzel, I cannot listen to how great Trump really is or how awful. If you miss seeing my face under a mask, sorry. These strange times will end. It’s play it by ear, or by heart as Elizabeth likes to say.

Meantime, it’s far more important than raging about partisan politics that we seek with all our willpower and heart not do permanent damage to our own sense of well being and those of our loved ones by letting the pattern of the warring consciousnesses of the left and right get the better of our understandably short tempers.  And I am talking to me here as much as you, dear reader. I am going on a greatly reduced news diet for at least a week now.

Last night after a rough day dealing with a social media client that’s 1000% pro-Trump, after a sound healing by my love who has been working to get me centered and a bedtime meditation last night, I saw a pattern to this insanity we are going through as a country and planet.

NEWS CYCLES OF LEADING TO TODAY’S MADNESS

News Cycle One, The 2016 Elections: 24 hours a day, people on the left and right are told by the polarized media that the “Pussy grabbing” Trump will lose the 2016 elections. This enrages the right and makes the left confident that Hilary will win. Then Trump wins and now it’s the left’s turn to be enraged and depressed as the right delights and gloats. Greater left/ right division results.

News Cycle Two, The Mueller Investigation: 24 hours a day, people on the left and right are told by the polarized media that Trump stands accused of collusion with Russia. This enrages the right and makes the left hopeful Trump will be impeached. Rage on the right deepens as many of Trump’s men are convicted of said collusion. It looks very bad for Trump. Then, when the Mueller report is at last done, $40 million and countless media battles later, William Barr takes over the DOJ and he concludes the Mueller Report totally exonerates Trump. Now it’s the left’s turn to be enraged and depressed as the right delights and gloats. Greater left/ right division results.

News Cycle Three: Unkraine Quid Pro Quo: 24 hours a day, people on the left and right are told by the polarized media that Trump asked for a quid pro quo for Ukraine to dig up dirt on Joe Biden and his son Hunter. Trump is placed on trial by the left wing Congress for impeachment. This enrages the right and makes the left hopeful Trump will be impeached. Rage on the right deepens as Congress formally impeaches Trump . Then, when the case moves to the right wing Senate the right majority exonerates Trump. Now it’s the left’s turn to be enraged and depressed as the right delights and gloats. Greater left/ right division results.

Note: I am skipping an unfit Kavenaugh is jammed into the Supreme Court by the right from this game as Trump was not in jeopardy of losing his office. But it was the same “pit the left peeps against the right crazy making” by our left and right media owned by the same oligarchs. Think of it as a little appetizer before the next course of crazy making anger swamp we are now neck deep into.

News Cycle Four, The 2020 elections in the middle of the Coronavirus pandemic. January to March, the media of the left point out all of Trump’s shortcomings in handling the coronavirus from big to small. And there genuinely are many. Trump is goaded into doing daily damage control press briefings that eventually lead to Trump’s now famous injecting disinfectant into the body fiasco. The toll of Trump’s fall in the polls enrages the right and causes the left to gain hope that Trump will lose to the Dems propped up candidate Joe Biden in November. And while we the people live an OCD Howard Hughes-like reality to save ourselves from the virus, while we lose our minds, the shit show the is our media goes on. Again, I think the left is being led on for big disappointment in November as overconfidence leads to defeat again. Hope I am wrong but look at the pattern I’ve reveled to you today and you might agree.

I for one want off the the merry go round of media frenzy. So you’ll be seeing a lot less political posting from me on my FB and Twitter apges. I am more interested in building my CoolestTechEver.com business and making my movies. Wake me up when it’s time to vote. I’ve never liked Trump since my days in the 80s as a fellow real estate wannabe big shot and I never will. To me, no filters needed, he’s a bad prez. So why watch the news? Answer: It a sick addiction. We’ve been sucked into four giant cycles of lies and hate. Well, fool me 4 times and I am finally awake and done.

I will continue my therapy project of the TRUMP FEVER DREAM series where I try to process all the rage and frustration that I got sucked into despite all my meditation training and work. But I will be writing with a new inner awareness of the big picture I am seeing and I hope the story will expose the ultimate puppet masters. Wish me luck on my centrist tightrope walk and stay well in the insanity.

Meantime, meditate, do yoga, stay in place of love. And be smart. This virus will be with us all of 2020. Avoid the fantasy it’s over. Stay safe, use a mask, wash your hands and lovingly distance. And focus on positive news like the amazing work of John Krasinski and his beautiful SGN weekly show.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 4 – Dancing With Sean Spicer

Over my 24 years as a filmmaker and writer of modest notoriety, I have come to see there are basically two kinds of storytellers; those who plan it all out with detailed outlines and notes cards and those, like me, who write organically, allowing the story to evolve and grow as we write.

Which is better who can say? All I know is I love being an organic storyteller because allows me to enjoy the unfolding of a story almost like you the reader. Big plus too is my style is perfect for riffing on the day’s crazy news, all of which makes me want to scream, “TRUMP!” at the top of my lungs into the red rocks of Sedona.

TRUMP

Jesús wept, I read yesterday morning the Trump the Great suggested injecting disinfectant into the body to fight the virus. Seriously, no fiction writer can make up a horror story worse than his reality. And to hell with any Trump-spirit folk telling you he meant with ozone not bleach.

If you have even an ounce of common sense, Trump’s idiocy makes your head spin!

Be sure to read chapters 1-3 of TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM, here on the blog, before or after reading chapter 4, to see how we got to this feverish point where Trump’s fever dream shifts to fully into comedic nightmare mode.

CHAPTER 4 – DANCING WITH SEAN SPICER

Trump’s twisted view of the deranged Hilary Clinton strangling him fades to the blackness of death. A small yellow speck dances in the distance. Marimba music slowly rises in intensity.

Trump looks down at himself, thrilled to see he’s out of his paper hospital gown and spiffed up in his favorite blue pinstripe power suit. He stares downward, surprised to see he’s wearing shinny red vinyl dancing shoes that match his clown-like for width long red tie.

Dancing With Sean SpicerThe bouncing yellow speck grows in size to form a Marimba dancer, complete with Carmen Miranda’s famed fruit hat. The dancer rockets up to Trump, who is stunned to see the dancer is none other than Sean Spicer, in Marimba drag!

Sean sweeps Trump into a passionate dance. Trump laughs and says, “See you learned a few things on Dancing With the Stars, Spicey.”

“Touche!” shouts Spicer, spinning Trump like a rolly-polly punching doll.

“Enough!” growls Trump as the Marimba band’s black leader pokes his pointy baton into Trump’sabundant ass, sending Trump back to into Spicer’s eager waiting arms.

“We’ve only just begun, sir!” sings Spicer operatically with a spin of Trump. “And please sing your words. This is a musical and the judges are watching.”

Trump notices the dance judges are one other than the nine members of the Supreme Court. Bret Kavenugh sneaks a swig of beer and flashes Trump a thumbs up who grouses, “Fuck this. I will not dance for the likes of libtard Ruth Ginsberg.”

“No choice, sir. We stop dancing before our time is up the court sentences us both to telepathic death.” sings Sean sheepishly. “And please sing your words, sir. Sing like your life depends on it… because it does!”

“I am not baby to be bossed around!” shouts Trump, folding his arms and pouting like a “239” pound baby.

Trump tries to struggle free himself of the dancing drag queen Spicer, but the smaller man is supernaturally strong. Sean yanks Trump by his long red tie down to his eye level and whisper sings in Trump’s ear,”You don’t understand, sir. Sing and dance or the judges give you a death sentence with their hive mind.”

Trump yelps as Sean yanks of his red tie so hard he sends Trump spinning like pinball into a giant pinball machine set. Trump, a red, white and blue blur hits a bumper that lights up:

IMPEACHMENT FARCE – Ding, Ding!

Trump flies, screaming towards more bumpers that light up in rapid succession as he rolls into and off them:

1 MILLION LIES AND COUNTING — Bing!

WORST PRESIDENT EVER – Bing, Bing, Bong, Bong!

CHEATS ON PREGNANT WIFE WITH A PORN STAR – Dong, Ding!

TAX CHEAT – Wha -Err-Err!

BRIBE-O-RAMA – Cha-ching! Cha-chong!

RELIGIOUS FAKE – Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

BLEACH DRINKER – BOOM!  BAM!- GAME OVER!

Bursting from a cloud of smoke, Trump tumbles out of the giant pinball machine and falls on his orange face to the black shinny stage floor. Shaken Trump struggles to his two left feet to the wild applause of a zombie audience of Trump rally goers.

Sean snatches Trump into the dance again. “Many of your followers took your advice and, um, well, they’re DAED. But see, your Trumpies still love you, sir!”

Trump bows for his zombie fans and gloats, “Yeah! I still got it, Spicey!” grins Trump in triumphant song to his wildly applauding zombie followers.

“Amen, sir,” sing Sean doing a back flip that no one reacts to.  All eyes are on Trump beaming a million watt smile in the spotlight.

“Now, tell me about that hive mind thing,” demands Trump as Sean switches up into a tango so fast it sends a bunch of his fruit hat’s grapes rolling across the dance floor through the spotlight.

Sean hums to Trump, hinting that he must sing. Exasperated Sean sob sings, “I keep telling you, but you never did listen to me. Oh, how did I ever let you make me start with the press that you inauguration crowd was YUGE?!” Sean falls to his knees beg singing, “You must sing and dance your question to me, mein President! To answer again without song is to suffer the hive mind’s wrath.”

“Oh, that bitch Ginsberg, bet she’s the hive mind’s wicked queen! Isn’t she?!” says without singing.

“Actually the evil masterminds are Gorsuch and his lackey Kavenaugh in tandem.” sings Sean like he performing a dirge.

“Both Trump appointees. I’m gold as usual!” gloats Trump and the judge all raises their right hands, ready to flash the thumbs down because the stubborn Trump is no singing.

Sean breaks a sweat and sings loud enough for the dancing duo, “No, sir. Once Brett and Neil joined the hive mind, because, well, ah, after all, more people in America are liberal, they both dumped their doltish Republican brethren like a rock. Now sing or we die.”

Trump rolls his eyes and finally sings,”Alright, Alright. I’ll sing you bums a tune. People say, they say to me, ‘Sir, forget real estate forget the presidency. You more fantastic a song bird than Sinatra,’ So I’ll sing you a question, Spicey: What’s a hive mind?”

“The Supreme Court is a subset of the hive mind invented in 2023 by Elon Musk. It began as Telsa auto experiment with 5G. Sadly, even now the evil liberal Supremes struggle to gain exclusive control of the hive for their own wicked liberal gains,” sings Sean.

“The judges call themselves the Supremes? Ha. That was a band of hot blackie chicks weren’t they?” sings Trump.  The Trump zombies erupt into tortured laughter.

“Do not make fun of the Supremes, sir,” sings Spicer, beaming a fake smile at the scowling judges.

“I do what I please! I am the president of, well I was,” says Trump, going into a fab tap dance number. “Look at me!  Look at my tap, tap. Best ever. I am the most super epic tap dancer who ever tapped a tune!  Yeah, baby!”

Sean panics and yanks Trump back into a Marimba and whisper sings, “Sorry. The judges hate tap dancing!”

Trump breaks free and goes into a defiant tap dance as he glares at the judges. The zombie audience is hypnotized by Trump crazy beat. Trump sings gloriously, “Watch my toes fly. Watch my ankles kick. God knows I am the greatest tapper! Screw the judges and their jive hive mind!”

Spicer falls to his knees sings pleadingly to the judges, “Trump’s got Corona fever. Please forgive him. The hive mind is divine and not to be questioned. You divenest Supremes have used the hive mind to make war was a thing of the past. The dawn of hive mind has indeed ushered in an era of unbridled peace and prosperity, all under President Cuomo!”

Trump backhands Spicer, sending his fruit hat tumbling and roar sings,”Cuomo?! I should get the credit for any cures that spun out of my masterful handling of the virus! My genius was to delegate all Federal responsibility to the fucking states! Their struggle to sink or swim with the virus is what generated this  hive — Wait, why can’t I hear this hive thingee?”

“Apparently, uh…”

“Uh what?

“Um… Apparently, your IQ is too low,” sings Sean, rolling into a terrified fetal position and sucking on his thumb.

Steam literally shoots from Trump’s ears. The zombie crowd of Trump backers go mad with applause. An old zombie Trumpie claps so hard that his left hand crumble to rotting dust. Two high fiving zombies knock each others arms off.

Sean, his voice muffled from his still being in fetal position and sings “Bravo, sir.”

“Fuck you, Spicey!” shouts Trump so loudly that he goes into a coughing fit. Trump’s orange face goes blue and he collapses to the dance floor. The crowd goes insane with joy. Trump bolts to sitting up, his eyes bulge as he glares his disloyal Zombie followers to silence.

Watching Trump regain control his followers sends Kavenaugh into a beerful spit spray. He wipes off his sleeve with black judge’s robe and shouts to Gorsuch, “Trump’s gaining control of the Trump zombie hive mind, Neil! Do something to stop Trump!”

Gorsuch pulls off his head of neat grey hair, only wig. His eyeballs begin to glow white hot. Laser beams shoot from Gorsuch’s eyes, setting all the zombie Trump followers ablaze. Trump collapses into a heap of coughing defeat to the dance floor again.

Ruth Ginsberg brains Gorsuch with a huge gavel. As Gorsuch falls his laser beam eye cut Kavenaugh in half at the waist, “Ha ha. Spilt decision.” Kavenaugh’s cut in two body slips apart with a sickening slurp, falling upon Gorsuch’s dead body.

“I am coming, Donnie my love!” sings Ginsberg as she leaps from the judge’s box like she’s twenty. She dive slides on her knees right up to Trump and sings, “Get ready! Mouth to mouth time, Donnie dear!”

Despite her shocking passion to save him, Trump fights off Ginsberg, coughing his words into her loving weathered face, “No fucking way!”

Ginsberg sings, Trump cradled in her spindly arms, “Oh, Donnie, it’s always been you. Let me kiss the air back into you! But please drink this bottle of bleach first. I insist.”

Trump smacks the bottle bleach out of Ginsberg’s hand, “No! Anyone but you, Ginsberg!”

“Oh, heck. I’ll take the chance you have the virus. No bleach then. Here. Let me mouth to mouth you, Donnie,” coos sings Ginsberg, who has surprisingly young voice. She leans for the choking Trump, her ancient lips in a pucker.

Ginsberg’s kissy face transforms to Trump personal attendant Robert’s mouth to mouth giving the unconscious Trump of good old present day 2020. Jared and Ivanka, dressed to a glittery hilt for a formal dinner, look on nervously.

Jared whispers to the sobbing Ivanka, “Should Robert be reviving your dad?”

“So what if Robert’s black? Father is no racist!” sobs Ivanka loudly enough to interrupt Robert.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re always so critical!’ bitches Jared.

Robert stops mouth to mouthing Trump and says drolly, “Kids, do you mind putting your the universe-revolves-me shit aside for 5 minutes while I –”

“Shut up. Does OUR father have resuscitation order, Robert?” shouts Jared to the incredulous Robert.

Ivanka beats on Jared’s tiny chest,”JARED! Let Robert try to save Father until the paramedics get here.”

“Ah ha. I get it. Make it look like we care. But seriously, Father dies we get can take over the presidency ,” whispers Jared to Ivanka, who finally gets it with small nod of collusion.

“Hmm. Robert. Um, does my father have a resuscitation order?”

Robert rolls his eyes at Jared and Ivanka and goes back to saving Trump with mouth to mouth.

END CHAPTER 4

PS My apologies to Ruth Ginsberg for the tough role she played in Trump’s fever dream.

 

TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM – CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS

This is a hard fictional story to write as it makes my heart, mind and soul hurt deeply watch President Donald Trump fail to daily take responsibility for his slow and poor response to the #coronavirus. His daily “briefings” have become a near total scam of free campaign media where he lies and send s his followers to their early deaths. Still, an angry media desperately tries to wake up him and followers up before Trump sends us all back to square one by encouraging insane end the stay at home protests. Stupidity on scale never seen before.

I see dumb people

Topping this Trump has halted funding the World Health Organization in the middle of this pandemic to, IMHO and many others, deflect blame from his YUGE ego. This is terribly dangerous and stupid all at once. In other words, the Trump brand of leadership.

 

But the show must go on. Let’s catch you up.

In chapter one we meet Trump’s fictional personal attendant Robert, a handsome young black man who gets along well surprisingly with Trump. Robert runs off for help when he realizes Trump may be coming down with a case of the coronavirus. Trump immediately passes out when Robert leaves. Trump begins to fever dream and is whisked two years into the future on the wings of a giant cosmic butterfly.

In chapter two Trump is dumped by the great butterfly into the White House Rose Garden. Two years have passed and Trump is furious to learn from Robert that the USA is now under the leadership of President Andrew Cuomo and that the White House has become a hospital for VIPS.

And now, without further ado I painfully present…

CHAPTER 3 – HATE IS A VIRUS

Robert gazes over his surgical mask at the full moon hanging over the White Hospital, formerly the White House. His deep brown eyes, which were all smiles a few minutes ago chatting with his mysteriously returned boss, are now filled with contempt.

In the distance, Trump tires to bully his way past a short, overweight and disbelieving Hispanic security guard.

“I tell you I am President Trump!”

“Hola. And I am Barrack Obama.”

“You’re almost the right color,” says Trump bitterly.

“Got any ID, smartass?” says the security guard dryly.

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I ah, I got here buck naked on the back of this, uh, yuge time traveling butterfly?” says Trump, absentmindedly kicking a cigarette with his inflamed barefoot.

“Look, whatever kinda butterfly you rode in on, Covid-Kid! With no ID I don’t let you in. This here is a hospital. We got sick dying VIPs here aplenty and without no ID you ain’t one.”

“Rudi Guliani in there?” says Trump trying to muscle past the smaller guard.

“Top secret!” says the security guard shoving Trump so hard that the would be king stumbles backward.

“Nasty! You’ll be sorry you laid hands on me!” says Trump dusting himself off from imaginary fleas.

“Right. So sorry, President Trump. Now hop back on your butterfly and buzz the fuck off!”

Fifty yards of social distancing away from arguing the Trump and the stone faced security guard, Robert pulls down his surgical mask to light up a cigarette. Cigarette smoke glides in the moonlight and takes the shape of an old woman’s face for just an instant.

“Grandma…,” whispers Robert to himself.

Robert closes his deep brown eyes and looks deep into his recent past with his inner eye. He is back in his family’s rundown DC apartment, He gazes sadly down upon his dying grandmother Annie, a beautiful light skinned African American, well into in her seventies.

“Breathe deep Grandma. Relax. I got you. Please breathe,” says Robert patting Annie on her back.

“How’d I get this damn virus walled off from the world?” says Annie going into a coughing fit.

“I think the devil himself musta gave it to me. Then I gave it to you.”

“Not your fault Trump infected you, Bobby.”

“I had a test. Musta been a false negative. Trump never did standardize tests fore he vanished.”

“If we’re lucky, maybe all that hate he had for our people turned his fat ass to dust,” laugh coughs Annie.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the ER, Grandma.”

“No! I don’t wanna die in one of them zoos — cough — they call a hospital. I’ll die right here in our family home just like your father and big brother,” says Grandma in spurts. “Now, Bobby. You’re gonna be all alone. So can you promise me one thing?”

“Anything, Grandma.”

“You mighta caught Trump’s covid but don’t catch his hate.”

“Aw, don’t ask me that, Grandma… cause I think it’s too late.

“Hate’s a virus you know,” says Grandma Annie patting Robert’s hand.

“I know, Grandma. I know all too damn well. But after losing Dad and –”

Grandma Annie stops breathing and goes into a violent seizure. Her tender eyes go still.

Robert’s teary vision returns to the present. He grimly watches Trump idiotically arguing with the stubborn security guard.

Trump rages,”Look you Mexcian pinjata brain, just let me take off my mask you’ll see who the hell I am!”

“Pull down that mask, I shoot dead you on the spot,” says the security guard pulling his gun.

This only infuriates Trump more and he bellows,” A gun?! You pull a gun on the President of the United States! I’ll have your peon job! What’s your fucking name, Jose?”

“Now, you sound just like the Trump! It is you, you racist pandejo!” Jose pulls back the trigger hammer on his gun, murder in his eyes.

Robert jumps between the angry men, “Carlos, Carlos. take it easy, bro.”

“Stay out of this, Roberto!” says Carlos the security guard.

Robert amps up his charm and points to the masked Trump, “Jerry here’s just my covid crazy patient. He ain’t no Trump.”

Trump keeps his big mouth shut for the first time in his life.

“He sure as fuck sounds like the US Hilter!”

“Nah. I took old Jerry here for a walk in the Rose Garden. Idiot fell into the rose bushes. Gotta get some meds on his scratches. My fault he don’t have his ID. Can you let it slide, amigo? Let me put his fat ass back to bed?”

Trump almost breaks his silence but being held at gunpoint he instead bites his tongue. Literally bites his tongue. Robert sees as a spot of blood appears on Trump’s mask.

“Well? What you got to say for yourself, Jerry?” growls the Carlos the security guard.

“I, um, apologize,” says Trump in defeat, making the first apology of his long spoiled life.

“That’s more like it, pandejo.” Carlos says as he begrudgingly holsters his weapon and angrily stands aside.

Robert pats Carlos on the shoulder and says brightly, “Thanks, man. You’re the –”

“Shut the fuck up, Robert. Get me to my presidential bedroom!” demands Trump.

Robert makes a cookoo sign behind Trump’s back to Carlos and follows the fuming Trump.

Trump rips off his mask as he storms up the paneled hallways that uis lined with hospital beds. All are filled with the sick and dying VIPS from religion, business and politics. Some are on on ventilators, some dying for lack thereof.

Trump breezes arrogantly past it all,  muttering, “All a bad dream. Can’t wait to get back to my bed and –” Trump spots sick Fox News star Sean Hannity waving him over to his hospital bed and shouts joyfully, “Sean!”

“In the flesh. What’s left of –” Sean answers with a racking cough that cuts his punchline short.  Robert silently looks on, trying to manage the rage boiling up in his eyes.

“Easy, Sean. Wow, you still rate to end up in my White House,” says Trump brightly. “Hate what that prick Cuomo’s done to my place. Finally had it back in shape after that Kenyan Obama and his brats ran it into the  — ”

“Wouldn’t get down on Cuomo or Obama if I were you, Donnie. The libtards are running the show. So where you been for the last two years, pal?” advises Sean.

“Nowhere,” says Trump vacantly.

“Nowhere?”

“All this is just bad batch of Mickey D’s I had before bed. Not real,” says Trump brightly.

“Oh, buddy boy, it’s all to fucking real. Lucky thing you weren’t around the past two years to see the liberals destroy all you and I did together,” says Sean, a tear rolling down his sallow cheek.

“Twelve million US citizens dead and counting do mess with one’s popularity, ” sadly says Robert.

“Well, been nice, uh, catching up, Sean. Um, see you when I wake up,” says Trump shaking Sean’s trembling hand.

Sean jerks Trump’s hand to his lips, kisses it and says, “Stay, Don. This is curtains for me. Not enough ventilators. Too much of the world’s factory workers got too sick too make –” Sean goes into racking dry cough, his familiar Fox face going beat red.

Trump pulls his hand free like Sean’s kiss was a ticket to a ventilator.

White Hospital stairs“Let’s go, Robert. My bedroom. Now.” says Trump ditching his pal Sean coughing.

“Still love you, man!” coughs Sean as Trump vanishes around a corner.

Trump shimmies through a tight spot in the hallway past familiar shocked faces of religious politicians and business leaders of both parties.

Trump spots his reflection in mirror and Trump in the mirror says, “Feeling anything in that black heart of yours yet?” Trump staggers on not answering his conscience in the mirror up the ruined White House staircase.

More sick VIPS in hospital beds fills the former meeting area between the White House presidential quarters bedrooms. The noise of all the ventilators is deafening.

“You ain’t gonna like the changes Cuomo made to your bedroom, sir,” warns Robert as Trump throws opens the door.

Trump’s jaw drops at the sight of six patients jammed into his old presidential layer. Trump races to a hospital bed right cradling a frail old woman, exactly where his California King used to reside and orders Robert, “Get all these sick losers out of my bedroom. I want my bedroom back exactly as it was now!”

The wasted old woman in the hospital bed slowly blinks opens her eyes. Her sagging face is filled with confusion that quickly gives way to wide eyed rage. “YOU!” rages Hillary Clinton, the old woman, as she dives onto Trump.  With a super human strength Hillary  tackles Trump as she digs her bony hands into his windpipe.

“Robert, help!” chokes Trump.

Robert calmly sits down in a tattered armchair and says with a wicked grin, “Where’s some damn popcorn when you want some?”

“Bastard nigger. After all I did for –” says Trump in fits of coughs as Hillary maintains a death grip.  Hilary cackles. Her superhuman strength allows her to easily continue ringing the last breath from Trump as she screams,”This is for twelve million of Americans you killed with your stupidity and arrogance!”

Robert lights up, ignoring the murder of one Donald J. Trump and says sadly to the smoke cloud he puffs, “Sorry, Grandma Annie. Trump’s hate virus done got me.”

Trump’s vision of his crazed executioner, Hilary, fades to the darkness of death.

END CHAPTER 3

 

Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 2 – The White Hospital

Welcome to my writing therapy and I hope your reading therapy. This blog series is a science fiction parody about a dark future, perhaps coming into sad reality due the “too painful to watch” daily show of Trump’s inability to lead during the coronavirus crisis.

Screen Shot 2020-04-06 at 6.14.40 PM

If you are just joining us on the blog here’s a link to read Chapter one if you’d like to enjoy the whole science fictional parody as it builds.

When we last left a feverish President Trump it was May 2022 when he was just dumped buck naked in the thorny bushes of the Rose Garden by a mysterious giant time traveling cosmic butterfly.

TRUMP’S FEVER DREAM

CHAPTER 2 – THE WHITE HOSPITAL

Trump’s former young black personal attendant, Robert, dressed in a hospital gown and mask, helps a badly scratched Trump from the rose bushes to his shaky feet and says,”Whoa. Last time I saw you, I rushed out your bedroom to get the doc. When I came back your were gone! Where’d you go for two whole years? And why are you naked as a Jay bird on the 4th of July?”

Too distracted to answer, Trump notices every window in the White House is brightly lit and wonders, “Why the hell are all the White House lights on?”

“Put on my spare mask and gown on and I’ll show you,” says Robert handing Trump both.

“I’m immune to the virus. Don’t need this junk!” shouts Trump, drawing attention from a masked security guard.

“Sorry. President Cuomo’s executive order of 2021 makes wearing of gowns and masks law,” offers Robert grimly.

“President Cuomo!” shouts Trump. Spotting the masked White House security, pulling out his pistol, Trump angrily complies. As he struggles to gown up Trump says, “Cuomo?! Why isn’t Mike president? He dead?”

“Pence ain’t dead yet… but he’s eating himself there.”

“Eating?” says Trump.

“To appeal to your Trumpers ol’ Pence took over your brand of eating all American fast food. But that shit got way outta control. Last report Pence’s gained 130 pounds since he was ousted from the presidency.”

Trump laughs wickedly and says,”Ousted how?

“Senate unanimously impeached him for slipping ventilators to all his PAC backers. Mikey, never even made it to the elections. Your yes man was lost after you vanished.”

“What happened to Biden?”

“Gone with the Covid. Sweet guy. Don’t think he’d have been much of president in any case.”

“And Bernie?”

“Virus killed old Bernie same day as Moscow Mitch. But not before he gave his spot to Cuomo. Bernie that is,” adds Robert.

“Who’d Cuomo run against?” says Trump in angry wonder.

“Jared. Epic landslide.”

“Surprise!” says Trump dryly. “So who’s Andy’s VP?”

“Chris, his –”

“Brother, I know. What a fuck fest! Totally illegal.”

“The Senate, they changed them laws to permit sibs in office,” says Robert, trying not to show his happiness.

The gowned and masked Trump stomps for the White House, “Enough. I am gonna tell Cuomo face to face to get the fuck out of my oval office.”

“America’s hero, um, President Cuomo, he don’t work from here no more.”

Trump stops dead in his tracks and spins to ask, “What? Why?!”

“President Cuomo, you see, he made the White House into a coronavirus hospital. We call it the White Hospital now. I still work here. Trained nurse now on the front line,” says Robert proudly

“So where do I find the Cuomo brothers’ HQ?”

“You ain’t gonna like what I gotta tell you, sir,” says Robert kicking at the poorly mowed White House lawn.

“Stop fucking around and give it to me,” says Trump grabbing Robert by his hospital gown.

“The Cuomos brother, you see theyt work from the repossessed Trump Tower.”

“Fuck me.”

“After all the lawsuits for your — ahem — handling of the virus, well, it was your baby Ivanka’s only option,” says Robert warily.

“How’s Ivanka?!” asks Trump and then adds as an afterthought, “And the rest of my kids… and Melania?”

“Brace yourself… condolences,” says Robert hanging his head. “All dead except your boy, Barron.

“All my kids except Barron dead! Melania dead? But they were all in great health. The greatest.” says Trump with surprisingly little emotion.

“Wicked virus keeps mutating. Now it’s letting the Boomers alone. Been killing mostly peeps age 30 to 50 now. Eric, well, he went just last week. But not of the virus.”

“No?”

“Eric bowed out on a hunting trip trying to extinct the last Rhino. Rhino got him. So sorry, sir,” says Robert gently patting Trump and the back.

“Don’t be,” says Trump waving off Robert’s sympathy.

“Huh? I know you’re tough, sir. But that’s cold.”

“Not cold. It’s fine,” says Trump with a maniacal grin.

“Fine how?”

“Ha. This is all just a fever dream.” says Trump with a delerious chuckle.

“Wow. Love that shit. But sadly this is all too real, Donald, I mean, sir.”

“Believe what you want. I’m outta here,” Trump storms off for the White House

“Where you goin’, sir?” says a bewildered Robert.

“Back to my bedroom to wake the fuck up!”

Robert shrugs and lets Trump storm off to the White House to learn for himself.

END CHAPTER 2

 

Trump’s Fever Dream – Chapter 1 – The Loneliest White House

Preface

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).

Love Trumps Hate smaller
That’s my love Elizabeth in the penguin hat

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

 

 

A Serious April Fool’s Day

Sorry, fans. I am having trouble connecting to my spirit guides and higher self tonight. The reason: Fear. Fear has grounded my normally cosmic consciousness. Not even watching my friend of a friend Deepak Chopra’s excellent and most soothing, literally web breaking, video could soothe me.

And to have this happen to my once secret psychic super powers on April Fool’s Day of all days. Yeesh!  A day I’ve loved since I was a kid. You see, I am a prankster by nature. I carry a lot of Kokopelli energy. — But alas I am far too serious for silly jokes tonight, long after sweet Elizabeth has gone to bed.  My poor wife is so stressed she is grinding her teeth at night.  Tomorrow we brave a trip CVS for a dental guard for her. I will get one too.

“Why am is Ken so stressed?”you may ask if you live only watch the news once a year for the after Xmas sales. You see on this April Fool’s Day, an eternity of bliss ago, a lot of innocent people are going to die all over this beautiful planet. Oh, and America is the #1 outbreak spot on that planet as of today. New Age spirit teachings that humans all decide when we are going to die before we are born, well, it ain’t helping dull the pain I am feeling as a planetary intuitive. My nerves are on fire. CBD or medical cannibas helps if you live in a state where you can get it.

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Americans frightened of Trump ever changing travel restrictions crowd airports further spreading the coronavirus.

The virus science has become compelling enough that we Yanks are going to lose up to 240,000 Americans, that’s like 4 Vietnams, for Trump to extend his rather feeble stab at precautions an extra month.

That scares me because Trump is only putting up smoke screen about the lousy job he’s done, and is still doing, without really working in the coordinated way we must to get the supplies, facilites and manpower to manage this. He’s making things worse than they have to be. It’s like we have a dry drunk Captain at the wheel of the Titanic.

Trump Titanic

I forgive myself for being off my game. You see, I nearly died of black mold poisoning and resulting pneumonia in 2013. Not being able to breathe is a horrible feeling. And since that’s how the virus kills you I feel a dread most people don’t about catching this damn thing. Add to this a heart failure in 2017 and, well, it’s a perfect cocktail of fear.

These are terrifying times. And I encourage you to do the same forgiveness of your fears in your life. Things just are going to be awful for awhile. It’s just that sad and simple.

I need to let go of a world that is vanishing and embrace the new. But it’s a hard thing to let go of and I hope you are doing better than me in managing your fear. Stay socially distant, even when the people of the Right wing are flaunting the dangers due to their misplaced belief in the biggest April Fool who ever lived, Donald J. Trump.

Love, Ken

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SECRET AGENTS FOR THE LIGHT?

As Elizabeth and I socially-hibernate — better than social-distancing, right? — here in Sedona, I am in touch with my ancestral spirits, spirit guides, earthly ghost guides, ET spirit guides, multi-dimensional hozenflatters (their name not mine) more than ever.

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My digital artist rendering of but a few of my pantheon spirit guides

Within my overcrowded skull, my pantheon of spirit guides are saying, in their own unique and sometimes annoying voices, that as a species humanity is being called into thinking in new ways and transforming into greater love and trust in each other. Love always wins in the end because it’s what we come from, in some form both dark and light. Take that, fear mongers!

But, big butt, much as I love what I am hearing from spirit it’s been hard to listen to as the news is so overwhelmingly negative and FEAR BASED. Ekart Tolle calls this a time of “collective adversity.”

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On the bright side, the mysterious 2011 pattern of an eagle that appeared in my hair actually makes more sense than today’s headlines

Each day we watch the vast majority of our PAC and lobby-bought politicians — Governor Cuomo of New Yoprk state, has been an awesome exception BTW — from local dog catcher to DC player, fail us in a myriad of ways. We’re like a society of Charlie Browns. Our leaders, all Lucys, keep yanking the football of well-being from us over and over again. And yet we keep taking that emotional spill over and over again, like we’re caught in time loop of Charlie Brown style idiocy.

Yeesh. As a psychic person it’s terrifying to watch our “leaders” make bad choices that have us heading like lemmings off a timeline cliff. Feels like watching  a slow motion tsunami getting ever closer to overwhelming our hospital system in the next week to 10 days. This can be avoided by isolating but not enough Americans, old and young (especially) alike, are doing so.

Unfortunately, this is thanks to a large to an anti-scientist president who just does not get he needs to be leading, not hiding the truth, and looking for ways to feather his nest and the 1 percent’s. Indeed, now that the elite he serves have fed from of the FED trough at taxpayer expense Trump’s ready to have everyone back to work and back in church by Easter. Wha?

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Add to this mainstream media hysteria the many weird conspiracy theories our spirit pundits are spinning at this time and its enough to make you feel as lost as a kitten in dog shelter. Yes, what we are hearing from the Ickes and Wilcox’s of the world have a grain of truth. But come on!  This whole massive pedo arrests thing as a plan to snatch all the bad people under the cover of the Coronavirus is just plain nutty.

Especially when in the players we have a crook like Barr in charge of the DOJ, who wants to steal more of our rights. Are we seriously to believe Barr under Trump — who both let pedo-king Jeffery Epstein be murdered or suicide to escape justice in prison — are heroes who are going to bust pedophiles? NO! Only a psyop could be this convoluted. Wake up, spirit friends. Seriously.

I hate conspiracy theories in general, but especially those targeted at our open-minded spirit community because many good people get snared in these twisted dark fantasies, AKA psyop, AKA targeted weapons grade mind control media.

Despite being wise to the psyop Q-Anon game, it still amazes me when I meet a spiritual person who is pro Trump!  Why? Because to be pro-Trump a spirit person must ignore refugee kids held at the border by his administration, Trump’s impeachment for holding aid from the Ukraine for dirt on Joe Biden,  disregard for nature, his thousands of lies and on and on darkness.

MY CONSPIRACY THEORY OF LIGHT

So allow me, if you will, to share a counter-conspiracy theory of light I’ve dreamed up for you about the basis for people of spirit getting sucked into the Trump camp by a vortex of lies.

See your spiritual Trumpy spirit friends as having volunteered, on a higher level of reality, to partially return to slumber, numb to all the evils of supporting Trump entails, to be secret agents, secret even from themselves, as catalysts of the light and love. Each are then inserted into a very core of a dark consciousness founded on greed and hate which Trump is not the be all and end all, but who simply represents the dark energy rotting America from the inside. Ohom, my ET spirit guide has been telling me since Trump won that he will have an awakening in office. Perhaps the death toll of the virus will be the trigger. Or perhaps Ohom meant Trump’s awakening will be a dark one.

Looking ahead, perhaps we are not social-distancing but socially-hibernating, as I wrote top of the blog. We’re certainly in a chrysalis locked away from one another. Try to see that when we human butterflies emerge from the cocoon of our homes, and hug each other like its D-Day, we are going to bring a whole new consciousness into this glorious world. And Trump’s hate based politics will have no place in that shinny new world. Night.

Support our more important than ever planetary meditations and get yourself some immunity and prosperity boosting tech at CoolestTechEver.com

 

 

 

 

Cosmic Soup

Last night Elizabeth and I fell into bed exhausted from a day of preparing for what seems to be an inevitable shut down on our food supplies. Heck, normal life in general is shutting down in light of what was upgraded to a global pandemic by the World Health Organization this week.

Seeking to calm my nerves after our President’s Rose Garden press conference failed to, just can’t trust a man who lies for sport, I meditated to fall asleep. The last thing I expected was a spiritual message from my subconscious as to a possible meaning of life here on good old planet Earth.

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I breathed deeply and rhythmically, grateful to be virus free. Quick as it came up, I banished a worry about a little tickle in my nose. Soon I was rewarded with a vision of the entire multiverse as a vast globule of, get this,… soup.

Here, on earth I saw it was humanity’s job to collectively generate a bitter ingredient, one made of a dash of mass hysteria and a pinch of sorrow over our the loss of enjoying each other’s daily society. Once our bitter contribution was made to the cosmic soup it was served up to a being so gigantic I could not make out anything but the gaping mouth of a spinning black hole.

Activated to full wakefulness by this cool but strange vision, I slipped from bed and raided the fridge, seeking to nosh on supplies we’d bought that day to tide us over from a food shortage. Call it controlled panic eating.

I made a snack of white mushrooms with the stem sockets filled with mustard and contemplated my vision of the cosmic soup we are all a part of making to create this reality which we both love and hate.

“Was this a vision of the meaning of life?” I wondered for a few munches. “Nah. Seems more like an elaborate cosmic rationalization,” I grumbled to myself, washing the mushrooms down with a Mexican bottle of Coke made with cane sugar. Way better than American corn syrup Coke, but not exactly a healthy dietary habit.

I flashed back earlier shopping of the day when Elizabeth stopped me from grabbing a pack of salami, “Ken, just because we’re stocking up to beat the Coronavirus outbreak does not mean you should abandon your healthy eating habits!”I chuckled about that and agreed Elizabeth was right, grateful I was noshing on mushrooms and not fatty salami.

Content this was enough deep thought and stress eating for one scary day on planet Earth for a man in his sixties, feeling vulnerable after March 2018 heart failure. I slipped back into bed with my love Elizabeth and snuggled up to her warm body. Soon I drifted off to sleep, grateful to have at least one human being to share this strange and bitter time in our world with.

Elizabeth and I wish you and yours perfect health in this crisis. Please check out our cool wellness products we use ourselves at CoolestTechEver.com products page.

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Have a Corona Beer for God’s Sake!

Our president is learning as a failed reassurer in chief — witness as evidence the drop in Corona beer sales and stock market prices — that his pattern lies is backfiring in profound ways.

Nah, who I am kidding? Trump’s not learned a damn thing. In fact, just this past week on FOX Trump proclaimed his HUNCH, before the whole weary world, that the global #Coronavirus death toll is not 3.5% but more like, 1/10 of 1% in his not so humble opinion.

Wow. Who needs the WHO or CDC when you have a president telling fans of his nonsensical approach to reality what they want to hear? Indeed, FOX NEWS and Trump have never been a more lethal combo in telling people on the same segment, experiencing mild cases of the virus (AKA early) to go to work anyways, gosh darn it! Silly old killer virus.

Yeesh. Might our new virus czar Mike Pence finally find the courage to complain about the Trump’s constant undermining? Once again: Nah.

SNL went so far as to spoof FOX’s coverage of the virus as their cold opener:

And if that wasn’t enough gallows humor for one episode…

Well, hope these SNL clips cheered you up a little.  Laughter is the best anti-virus.

And isn’t it nice to know the worst virus can happen when we hang out on the web is a computer virus?

Enjoy a Corona beer for God’s Sake! You have nothing to beer but beer itself.

Wrapping up, if you have a craving for truth after this eternity of a presidency, please consider Biden will undoubtedly tell fewer lies than Trump if elected, but he’s more for 1% than the 99. Go Bernie2020 if the truth matters to you.

A better day is coming