|This photograph has nothing to do with anything. I just|
put it here for the hell of it. Got a problem with that?
It’s getting to me. I can tell from the quality of the surreal disturbances that are waking me up at night. Like these:
Trump at the swimming pool
I am all alone in a swimming pool at somebody’s house in fashionable Bridgehampton, Long Island. Everyone else in the house has gone off to watch the Hampton Classic, a horse show, but I have decided to go swimming instead. However, for some reason I have forgotten how to swim.
I’m in water over my head, desperately splashing around, when suddenly Donald Trump shows up, wearing a long wool overcoat even though it’s July and 92 degrees in the shade. His overcoat is open, and I notice that he is wearing a red necktie that comes down to his knees.
“Help, help!” I yell.
“I’d love to help,” says Trump. “I’m the greatest help in the history of the world.”
I think he is going to get down on his knees and bend over the pool so that I can grab on to his necktie, but instead he asks, “But first, I have to ask a favor. Have you got any dirt on Joe Biden and his son? The one in the Ukraine? Whatzisname? Hunter?”
Of course I don’t have any informatiion. How can I? I’m just a drowning guy in a swimming pool.
“No, please help me!” I gasp.
“The hell I will!” says Trump. “I’m not giving you any quid pro quo for free.”
Just then a grammarian and a Latin scholar jump out of the bushes and begin explaining to Trump in elaborate detail why quid quo pro can never be free, but it’s too late. I drown.
The middle of Fifth Avenue
shooting fantasy comes true
I am strolling along Fifth Avenue in New York City when suddenly a crazed Donald Trump charges out of the lobby door of the Trump Tower, an AK-47 blazing. To the left and right of me, people are falling down, bleeding, broken and dead. I run up to a policeman.
“Donald Trump is on a wild shooting spree! You’ve got to stop him!” I tell the cop.
“Sorry,” the cops says, “I can’t help. According to the Justice Department’s latest interpretation of the Constitution, the President of the United States cannot be charged with a crime. If I try to stop him, I’ll be charged with illegal interference with a government official.”
I start to scream in frustration when suddenly I wake up in front of my TV set. On the screen, Donald Trump is walking down Fifth Avenue, his AK-47 blazing. I scream again and wake up again. This time I’m sitting in front of my television set and on the screen, Donald Trump is walking down Fifth Avenue, his AK-47 blazing.
Finally I pinch myself and wake up. I’m sitting in front my my television set and on the screen, Donald Trump is walking down FifthAvenue, his AK-47 blazing.
Stop it, Melania! Just stop it!
I’m home watching Donald Trump shoot people on Fifth Avenue during the evening news, when suddenly the doorbell rings. I get up from the couch and open the door. Melania Trump is standing there in a double breasted trench coat.
I ask her what she wants.
“I vant you to be best,” she says.”
“Be best at what?” I ask her.
“Here, let them explain,” she tells me. She reaches into her right trench coat pocket and pulls out a Donald Trump sock puppet. Then she reaches into her left trench coat pocket and pulls out a Rudy Giuliani sock puppet.
The two puppets begin a brisk argument in Slovenian that seems to be growing angrier and angrier. However, I cannot understand a word of it.
I am growing increasingly frustrated trying to figure out what’s going on when suddenly a Stephen Miller sock puppet jumps out from under Melania’s dress and bites me in the leg.
Next thing I know, I end up in a hospital emergency room where they are giving me a rabies shot.
Say it ain’t so Joe!
It is the night of the first real Presidential debate. Donald Trump is of course the Republican nominee. The Democratic nominee is Joe Biden.
By now the United States has withdrawn from all trade and defense treaties, including NATO. Russia has invaded Germany and France. Trump has sent the 82nd Airborne Division in to assist Russia. A panhandler on the street has just asked me for eighteen dollars and sixty-seven cents so he can buy a cup of coffee. American school kids are getting rounded up every day and put in cages, to replace the foreign kids, all of whom have been executed. There have been torchlight parades in the streets, with bands of neo-Nazis breaking the store windows of Jewish merchants. Lynching of Afro-Americans are rampant. Congress has been suspended by Presidential fiat. An unsmiling Attorney General Barr has been seen riding around various cities, standing in a tank, wearing a helmet and a flak jacket, chewing a cigar.
The debate moderator, a well-known news broadcaster who looks very familiar to me but whose name I cannot remember, even in the nightmare, poses the first question to Joe Biden.
“Mr. Biden,” he asks, “where do you stand on Hillary Clinton’s e-mails?”