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A Trumpian Christmas Carol


Trump couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the Adderall. So he sat up half the night, tweeting. Hillary! Hunter Biden! Christianity Today! Impeachment! Pelosi! Schiff! AOC! Toilets! Windmills! Lightbulbs! There were so many things to bitch about, he hardly knew where to begin.

Outside Mar-a-Lago, the south Florida night was languid. The soft wind susurrated the palms; the muffled thunder of surf made a lulling murmur. Trump dozed off, his head cradled in his arms.

Suddenly something awoke him. Trump’s first thought was to put on his wig. Then he realized he was alone—except what was that glow?

He heard a chain rattle. Then: “I am Ivana, the Ghost of Christmas Past, Donald.”

Trump stifled a gasp. The ghost continued: “I have come to show you many awful things you have done. Come.” The ghost extended an ectoplasmic hand, grasped his, and they floated into the night sky.

They were high over the Texas-Mexico border. Below, a desert installation: warehouses, garages, cages! They swooped in. An outdoor prison cell, lined with barbed wire; within, hundreds were crammed, children and babies. “Behold, Donald, your handiwork,” intoned the ghost. A brown-skinned girl, maybe nine, dirty and dressed in rags, and weeping, held a tiny baby in her arms. Rocking it slowly, she sang a lullabye in Spanish. Said the ghost: “The baby will be dead by morning, Donald. Because of you.”

Before Trump could react, the ghost, holding his arm, zoomed into the sky, then back again to Earth. They hovered over a cemetery: a funeral was in progress. “See the man and the woman, dressed in mourning black,” the ghost told Trump. “They are the Gold Star Muslim parents you belittled. Their American son died in Iraq, defending his fellow soldiers. You insulted them and called them wicked.” The slain soldier’s parents wept. Trump watched, unmoved. Then, they took to the sky again.

Next, Trump looked down on a young man who showed the symptoms of spasticity. His gnarled hands trembled; he spoke haltingly, but he was a good worker at a Goodwill Store, and everybody liked him. He had multiple sclerosis, and was Christian. “You mocked him, Donald. You made fun of his disability.” Trump scowled.

They were above a meeting of white supremacists, plotting a Christian takeover of the U.S. The conspirators spoke of killing Jews, Blacks, homosexuals, Muslims, liberals. They spoke of AR15s and Molotov cocktails and civil war. “These are the people you said were good,” said the ghost. “They look to you as their leader, and you egged them on.” Trump shrugged.

Then they saw Barack Obama. He was relaxed, in his home, reading the New York Times. “You said Obama was born in Kenya,” the ghost sternly told Trump. “You insisted on it even when you knew it wasn’t true. You said he didn’t go to Harvard, where he was president of the Harvard Law Review. You lied, Donald, and you never apologized. And by the way, Donald,” the ghost continued, “Obama went through eight years as president without a single scandal. No one in his administration was indicted or went to jail—unlike yours, where your entire senior campaign staff is either in jail or about to go to jail. Obama’s marriage, to one woman, was perfect—unlike your adulterous history.” Trump just crossed his arms and sniffed.

Next, the ghost showed Trump tens of millions of Americans who have healthcare insurance because of the Affordable Care Act. They ranged from Alaska to Florida, Maine to Arizona, Hawaii to Puerto Rico and Guam. There were mothers who got prenatal care, old people who got prescription drug coverage, working class people who otherwise would not have been able to afford to see a doctor. “See all these millions, Donald? Many of them would be sick, or dead, without Obamacare. And yet, you tried to kill Obamacare. You’re still trying. Why, Donald, why?”

Trump had no answer. Unlike Scrooge, in the original Christmas Carol, he had no redemptive instinct. He had no capacity for shame. With a dead soul, he was pure vindictive resentment. “What shall we do with you, Donald John Trump?” asked the ghost. “Is there anything within you that can be salvaged?”

Trump remained defiant. All he could think of was getting rid of this ghost, hunting him down and exacting revenge. The ghost knew this. The ghost had hoped Trump would show some sign of remorse. Instead, there was nothing.

“I’m sorry, Donald,” said the ghost. “If you had given me the slightest hint of repentance, I would not have to do what I am about to do. But you have not. Therefore, let it be.” And the ghost uttered mystical words, and there was a flash of light, and Donald J. Trump was gone. Where he ended up, no one knew, or—let us be clear—cared.

  1. Brilliant!

  2. Thanks! I try to write well for my readers like you!

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