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| Parisian graffiti (circa 2014) of a different Donald with related-but-different issues. |
I just knew this was bound to happen.
Madame Galzogorist, the fortune teller who occupied a walk-up space near my office in the seediest block of New York’s Garment District, back in the days when I had an office, has put a monster-sized hex on the Trumpster.
I found out about it when I stopped by her business digs, in search of a prediction about who would win the Democratic Party’s nomination for President, and whether that person would beat Donald Trump in the November elections.
“Forget it, just forget it, wipe it out of your mind,” Mme. Galzogorist nearly shouted when I posed my questions to her. “I have no answer for you. I have trashed my crystal ball. Ditto the tarot cards and the tea leaves. I’ve had it trying to predict that creep. From now on, when it comes to politics, I deal only in curses.”
“Same as most of America,” I told her.
“No no no, not that kind of curse,” Mme. Galzogorist said. “I’m talking about deep hexes. I’m talking about humongous dings. I’m talking about conjuring doom and gloom onto The Trumpster’s head. I’m talking about about the kind of witchcraft that brings on vomiting and hernias and incurable migranes.”
That sounded slightly scary, so I asked Mme. Galzogirst what specifically she had done.
“Many horrors, many afflictions straight from the bowels of hell!” Mme. Galzgorist said.
“Yes, but for example?” I asked.
“I have cursed Trump’s toilet, so that it will lack the capacity to flush away the crap he deposits into it daily. I have cursed it to overflow ceaselessly, flooding his bathroom, creating a fetid pool of toilet backup around his bedroom slipper and his ankles, and getting soaked up by the cuffs of his pajama every time he sloshes into or out of his bathroom.”
“That’s pretty gross,” I said. “But he can just call the White House maintenance staff to patch things up….”
“No! I have also put a hex on anybody whoever cleans up after Donald. That includes not only maids and plumbers, but also everyone from advisors to special assistants. For example, all the hair that once grew out of Stephen Miller’s head? That will now grow out of his nostrils and his ears in thick clumps. It will be difficult to cut. It will be almost impossible to keep up with.”
“I think Miller could fix that with a pair of scissors,” I said.
“It will soon grow really fast, Mme. Galzorist said. “He can keep chopping away at it, but if Miller ever appears on TV, it will have to be with a pair of scissors up his nose.”
“That sounds terrible,” I said.
“You don’t know the half of it. I have also cursed Trump’s taste buds. It takes a while for that curse to kick in, but when it does, hamburgers will taste like spinach to him. And hamburger buns will taste like kale.”
“You’re so heartless!” I said.
“In fact, everything will taste like spinach or kale to him.”
“You’re impossibly cruel,” I said.
You ain't seen nothing yet!
“I’ve also cursed his teeny little weeny,” Mme. Galzogist volunteered. I have filled it with spiritual jello. His woodie days are over. From now on, it’s eternally soft and trembly. Wait until you see the kind of non-disclosure agreements his lawyers are going to be writing the next time he tries to get involved with a woman. They’ll be rolling on the conference room floor. Not that they'll be able to disclose the source of their mirth."
“What else have you cursed?” I asked.
“His comb over. May it fall out and need to be replaced by a wig, and may the wig blow off very publicly in a gust of hot air. Also, headaches. To punish him for writing off those poor GIs in Iraq who experienced severe concussion brain injuries which Trump dismissed as ‘headaches,” I’m going to give him the Mother of All Headaches. I’ve got an incantation for that.”
“You know,” I said, “if all these things actually happen, Trump may suspect you of witchcraft.”
“Good,” said Mme. Galzogorist. “Then let him start a witch hunt.”
1 comment:
Great LOL piece, Crank!
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