A Christmas Carol
Starring Your Favorite President (TRUMP!)
STAVE ONE
Herman Cain was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Trump signed it: and Trump’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Cainy was as dead as his pizza company.
Nobody ever stopped Trump in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Trump, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Trump. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than a Trump eye, dark master!”
But what did Trump care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “nuts” to Trump.
Once upon a time, on Christmas Eve, Trump sat alone in the White House – working hard, thank you. He could hear Republicans in the Christmas party below, wheezing with Covid and Christmas cheer.
“Merry Christmas, Dad!” cried a cheerful and dangerously stupid voice. It was the voice of Trump’s son, Donald Jr.
“Bah!” said Trump, “Humbug!”
“Christmas a humbug, Dad? You don’t mean that. I was hoping you might show me a father’s love, today of all days. To own the libs.”
Having nothing else to say, Trump simply retorted, “Bah humbug!”
Choking back tears, Donald Jr left his father’s office, seeking the comforting arms of his girlfriend, who was paid by the Trump administration to be his girlfriend.
At this, Trump slammed the door to his office (the 12 foot walk was an arduous task which left him exhausted and panting) and began the marathon walk back to his desk, hoping to press the Diet Coke button and begin his hard work of looking at twitter for 9 hours. However, he found a man sitting in his desk.
“Ben Carson! Wow, what… you’re… hello!”
“No, Donald, guess again.”
“Jeff Sessions, is that… are you in that chair?”
“Guess again, Donald, as if your very life depended on this night!” retorted the man in a chilling voice.
“I don’t.. wow… okay. Rudy?”
At this, the man produced a spectral pizza before him and stood up. His body was wrapped in heavy iron chains.
“Do you know me now, Donald? I am dead, nearly 5 months now. Yet I return to you on this night.”
“I don’t… I’m… I only have the one black, Ben. And you’re… are you sure?”
“I am Herman Cain.”
Trump stood, befuddled.
“Herman Cain, who died of Covid in July of this very year after attending one of your rallies!” The spirit seemed angry now, the lights began to flicker in the Oval Office and his heavy chains rattled with each slight movement. Trump still stood, glassy eyed and confused.
“Perhaps you doubt me, Trump, thinking me to just be a slight disorder of the stomach! Perhaps an undigested bit of beef, some underdone potato. You might believe there to be more of gravy than of grave to me, hmmm?”
At this, Trump retorted. “Do you… is there gravy there? They don’t let me eat as much any more, but I’d… I’ll take the beef, also. Is there… is that pizza for me? Wow.”
It was a habit with Trump, whenever he became thoughtful, to put his hands in his pants pockets. His hands swung freely.
“I don’t even give a shit, I’m burning in Hell and I’d rather deal with that than you. It’s not enough that you fucking killed me, huh? Nooooo, now I have to come wander the Earth to teach you a lesson. I’m out, you hear me? Drag me back to Hell, let me wander Earth, whatever. See you later, fucko. I hope the three spirits drop you down an elevator shaft or something.”
With this, the spirit disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Trump remarked quietly to himself “Wow, Ben Carson, what a guy. My black guy, he works for me.”
STAVE TWO
When Trump awoke it was so dark that, looking over the mountain of diet Coke cans on his desk, he could scarcely make out the walls of his office. He had once remarked that it was impossible to hide in this room as there were no corners, because it was an Oval, wow, that’s why they called it that.
“So I… okay. It happened again, I slept through an entire day. Okay, time… gotta do the pills again, the powerful pills. Bing bing bing.”
The idea being an exciting one, Trump lay in this state until the clock began to chime.
“Bing, bing!”
“I can draw the clock, okay, I drew a wonderful clock and they said so. The men in the coats told me it was a good clock, coming from the brain.”
The curtains were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. It was a strange figure—like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child’s proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin.
“Harlan Hill, is that you?”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Your past.”
“What have I passed, Spirit?”
“No, I mean… Jesus Christ, I knew it. I knew I’d get this guy. I mean the past, things that happened years ago. For you.”
Trump was already wandering off to the door at this, and raised a hand to wave goodbye.
“You know what, your pudding brain probably doesn’t even remember this stuff. Do you remember when your Dad bought you a car you wanted and then smashed it in front of you? Or when you stole a gift from your brother and then destroyed it rather than give it back to him? Any of this ring a bell, buddy? Any of this making you regret being a huge piece of shit for 70 years?”
Trump was now sitting on his chair, cheeks barely on the edge. His face had taken on a serious tone and he sat with his fingertips touching each other.
“Perhaps we could make a deal, Spirit. I’m a good deals guy, surely you’ve heard of this. I will… you can have the USA, the whole thing, but you gotta give me the beef the other one was talking about. I’ll… I’ll buy the gravy as well, also. And all the vaccines, you can have those.”
At this, the spirit disappeared. Had anyone in the room been paying attention, they might have heard a spectral “For fuck’s sake” echo from nowhere in particular.
STAVE THREE
Awakening in the middle of a prodigious snore, Trump felt restored to consciousness. His thoughts flitted along like hummingbirds and certain words made his brain “feel hot”, just like normal.
Seeking diet coke and fish delights, Trump reached for the doorknob of the Oval Office and opened the door.
Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in! and know me better, man!”
Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and though the Spirit’s eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. “Look upon me! You have never seen the like of me before!”
Trump looked upward. “Wow, a… where’s the present. The Christmas Present? Did you know I did that, I made…. they weren’t saying that before me. And you might say the vaccine is a wonderful present, a great present which I created.”
“Okay, they weren’t kidding. Let’s just do this quick. Your son is crying on twitter right now as his “girlfriend” screams into a dark hallway. Your other son, Eric, is stripping copper wires from the walls of this building. Is that enough?”
Trump stared, comprehending nothing.
“Your wife is currently googling “How to get immunity” as we speak, okay? Is any of this sinking in? Half the country hates you, literally hates you, and a few million children specifically said they hope you die this year, that was their wish. How’s that strike you? Are you growing as a person, maybe just a little?”
Trump had waddled down the hallway, muttering about Christmas presents. The Ghost of Christmas Present disappeared.
STAVE FOUR
Trump had discovered a pile of presents. A handwritten card sat upon them, proclaiming “For those cancer kids”. Trump happily began unwrapping the presents. A nerf gun (good, they didn’t let him play with the real thing any more, not after he shot Jared in the kneecap), a Barbie doll, several die-cast cars. And, most exciting to Trump, a box of cookies. He greedily scarfed down the cookies and began smashing the other toys with a hammer, getting a small joy from knowing that he was taking something away from another human being.
The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near him, Trump bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.
He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.
“Rudy? Where’s Rudy?” said Trump
The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.
Before Trump and the Spirit appeared a lonely hillside, covered in mud. Two big guys, strong guys, straight out of central casting stood there, dressed in black.
“When did he die?” inquired one.
“Last night, I believe.”
“Why, what was the matter with him?” asked the first. “I thought he’d never die.”
“God knows,” replied the other guy, with a yawn. “I heard he shit himself to death, but he might just have shit himself AFTER he died. Either way, I heard he was on the toilet and they needed to peel him off with a forklift.”
This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.
They left this scene and headed up the hill, where mourners dressed in black carried an oversized casket.
“Let me do it!” exclaimed one, and as Trump and the Phantom drew nearer, they saw that this was Donald Jr. “Let me carry it alone! I can lift so much, I’m super strong!”
The other mourners; Eric, Jared, Ted Cruz, and Mike Pence, all dropped their load onto Donald Jr. The final pallbearer, BARRON T, had been hunched over to carry the casket and finally stood up to his full height. He walked away and, with just 5 steps, was several miles away.
A sickening pop came from Don Jr’s back and he fell under the casket. Both he and the casket went skidding down the muddy hillside. The casket opened up when it hit a headstone and a body flew out. It struck a large statue and burst open like a rotten piece of fruit. The mourners rushed down to the body and began to stand over it.
“I get the fillings!”
“They couldn’t get his watch off when they buried him, but if we chop his hand off we can get it!”
“I’ll bet we can sell his skeleton online. The skull at least!”
The mourners took their pieces and left. Mike Pence solemnly yet passionately kissed his white horse and rode off into the stormy darkness.
The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to the body. Trump advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.
“Who’s that loser? ” said Trump, “Answer me that. Make a good deal with me here.”
Still the Ghost pointed downward to the corpse by which it stood.
“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,” said Trump. “But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!”
The Spirit uttered a loud “What?” and, in shock, let down its hood. Staring back was the face of Donald’s father, weathered and decayed with age.
Trump crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, looked upon the neglected body and saw a red MAGA hat.
“I like guys who don’t die, okay? Not so great when they die. BYE BYE.”
The finger pointed from the body to him, and back again.
“Okay so… I’m… I see the guy. I’m looking at him.”
The finger still was there.
“This guy died. The china flu, perhaps, maybe… we should have looked at doing the HYDROXY I guess, that’s… okay. Why was Ivanka here? Where’s she going? Can we go there, perhaps… are we going to her bathroom?”
The finger still was there.
“Listen, the guys… they do the pictures for me. The eggheads, you know, the science guys. They love me, I know more than them on a LOTTA things. So I understand things, okay? I do things like nobody thought possible, I got an IQ… it’s really good.”
STAVE FIVE
Trump awoke in the Oval Office and found the sun had risen.
Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!
“What’s today!” cried Trump, calling downward to a Secret Service Agent, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.
“I wasn’t texting Melania, sir. Uh… it’s Christmas Day.”
“It’s Christmas Day!” said Trump to himself. “I haven’t missed it.”
Trump reached into his pocket and found his phone. Logging into twitter (Password: MAGA2020123) he composed a great tweet, wonderful tweet, to celebrate the season.
@RealDonaldTrump: HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL. A lot of people are Dead of the Wuhan Flu, China should be Very Sorry! I survived (immune) and am opening a Great Present this year, unlike Many. Next Year, I will be President and will MAGAGA (Make America Great Again Great Again). Thank you!
His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.
