Poor Donald. Poor, poor Donald. He’s pouting so hard you could put a service for eight on his lower lip. Imagine being confronted by REAL QUESTIONS? When deprived of his echo chamber in which he’s spent so much of his time during his presidency, he insists he has been treated worse by the press since any president since Abraham Lincoln. It isn’t easy, bearing the weight of having to battle all of the naysayers who seem to come out in droves whenever he places his head into the public sphere.
“It’s so bad out there in the world. People don’t show proper appreciation for what I’ve done for them. They blame me for this mess from China. Well, I know that if we hadn’t done things, more than 2 million would have died. And people are upset because of 200,000 dying?” He fiddles with his remote control, forcing himself to see TV other than from his own safe zone. “There is that bitch Mika. What’s she saying? That I’m to blame for causing those spic families to be separated? Don’t they know I saved the country from their invasion? Those kids, they are so, so much better off here where we take care of them. They probably never even saw running water in the shithole they used to live in.”
He pressed on the remote, forcing it back to his own safe zone, where Fox and Friends sat inviting him in. “No, not today. I’ve got too much to do today.” So the country was spared from a 40 minute stream-of-consciousness rant that would be dissected across the media world for the next day.
He called for his hairdresser and make-up artist. Few knew the intricate details involved with layering the remaining tendrils of hair up and over the immense bald spot atop his head. Daily it reminded Donald that he does not reign supreme over all of nature. “Just like that damn China virus. I can’t seem to make it behave either.” He patiently sat for forty-five minutes while his hair weave was completed, and just the right shade of orange was slathered over his face, leaving his visage immaculate in its iridescence and ready for yet another day of facing his enemies. It is strange how so many of his supporters have become his bitter enemies, but then, who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Only Donald knows. He knows better than all of them how they will all turn on him, even those like Barr who has pulled off so many masterful escapes. But now Barr cannot even deliver on indictments of those who wronged him. “We’ll wait till after the election, after I win, then out he goes too.”
“They’ve been trying for a coup for the past four years. Well, now they want to keep bringing up this COVID crap. I’ll bet anything that those bastards will stop mentioning COVID right after the election. But now I have a secret weapon. My army will never accept a result that gets turned against me after the true election day. Back when America was great, we always knew the results the same night as the election was held. And none of this namby-pamby stuff about voting by mail. These wusses that don’t want to go down and vote on election day – they are not true Americans. Only my supporters will follow my commands and vote. Who cares if they get sick afterwards? They will have done their duty to me.” The first can of Diet Coke was drained, and he rang for another.
When his footman appeared with another can, already opened, Donald eyed the man with suspicion. “Why do you have a mask on?” he queried.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll do better from now on.” The embarrassed footman tore off his mask as he backed swiftly out of the room and away from Donald’s presence.
Donald turned his attention back to the television. “I’d better respond to this idiot who keeps saying that the virus is spreading. It’s not. I keep telling them that at my rallies but they keep lying about my efforts. Imagine, saying that I’m not doing my job right. Why, no one has ever worked harder at this job than I have. Not a minute goes by that I’m not hard at work telling my people about how good a job I’ve done for them.”
He takes a swallow of Diet Coke, feeling the aspartame burn, then forces himself to stand up and amble towards the bathroom. The familiar heft of his phone in one hand, he squats down on his own personal throne, and prepares to share his wisdom with his followers.
“Your favorite President wants you to no that we will never acept an election where the result is not released on Election Day!!!! Anything else will just be inviting the Fake News to play with the results…..”
“….. and the Dumbocrats who run the cities will keep on counting votes until they win. We can’t allow that!!!! I need all of you to stand by for next week!!!!”
“Where are the indictments? The Biden Crime Family is GUILTY!!!! Let’s see some action out of Justice.”
“The Noble prize was RIGGED!!!! We keep bringing peace to the mid-east. Meanwhile they award the prize to some part of the totally corrupt UN.”
Finally the remnants of the hamburger from two nights ago were deposited in the throne receptacle. Donald pressed the button, feeling the warm stream of water cleanse his lower regions. So much better to have that. It was really getting difficult to reach down there and clean it himself, and he hated to have to call for help.
He pulled on his suit jacket, and strode towards the elevator, ready to take on his busy, busy day. It was only 11:15. If those people just knew how hard he worked for them.
Even A Broken Clock 