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My Trump Dream


I had a dream where Mitch McConnell was lynched, his body swinging from a rope tied to an oak tree.

In the same dream, Donald Trump, Jr. was wearing prison jumpsuit orange, behind bars, eating a cheeseburger. He must have weighed 400 pounds.

Melania Trump, in my dream, was working the makeup counter at Macy’s, trying to get shoppers to buy lip gloss. She looked terrible: dowdy, bags under her eyes, her hair a grey mess.

Kevin McCarthy was in there, too, a farm boy in flip-flops, wearing a straw hat and chewing on tobacco. His face was pock-marked with pimples, and he had ugly, protruding buck teeth. He was leaning back on a boulder, his overalls dropped down to his ankles, while, kneeling before him, was Lindsay Graham, servicing him. Auntie Lindsay (as she’s called) was naked, except for a leather jockstrap.

Suddenly, Doug Collins was there. The ranking Republican on the House Judiciary Committee was carrying a huge piece of fatback. He was gnawing on it, chewing each piece and then loudly swallowing. His Republican colleague, Matt Gaetz, demanded a piece of the fatback. Collins said no. Gaetz punched him in the face. The two of them became embroiled in a heated battle, fists flying, legs kicking, screaming and cursing. In the midst of all this, Gordon Sondland showed up. Stepping between them, he offered them both $1 million if they would stop fighting. Instead, they overpowered Sondland and devoured him.

Ivanka was watching. She started screaming: “Don’t eat him! He’s Daddy’s friend!” But soon, Sondland had entirely disappeared, and poor Ivanka took off her designer clothes and began lashing herself with the Mueller Report. Pretty soon her back was bleeding. Chief Justice John Roberts came running in and said, “Oh dear, let me clean that for you,” and he swabbed Ivanka with his black Justice’s robe. The scene then changed to Mar-a-Lago. There was a terrific storm—a hurricane, really. The palm trees were nearly horizontal and the roar of the wind was like a freight train. A crowd of Republicans in MAGA hats gathered on the beach. The scene was very somber and disturbing. They were moaning, “No! No!” I wondered what they were so upset about, and then I saw Donald J. Trump. He was as big as a blimp, his head enormously swollen, but his fright wig had blown off and instead of the crown of orange hair his head was entirely bald. Seagulls were pecking at his head, drawing blood, but Trump didn’t seem to know. Instead, with fat hands the size of Virginia hams he was punching the air, like a fighter shadow-boxing. The MAGA people watched as he insanely punched, attacked, swooped, ducked down, feinted…but there was nothing there, just Blimpy Trump and the storm. Suddenly Trump went down, into the black, churning sea, and, with a gurgle and bubbles, he disappeared beneath the surface.

The MAGA crowd issued a deep groan of fear. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. Then I realized I was right there, at Mar-a-Lago, but I had to hide, because the MAGAns would have killed me if they’d seen me. So I climbed up into a palm tree, and who should I meet there but Barack Obama! He smiled, put his finger to his lips, said “Shh,” and put his arm around me. I never felt so peaceful, so protected in my entire life.

And then I woke up.

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