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Trump gets COVID


Trump woke up that morning feeling bad.

Granted, he usually awoke grouchy, but this was more than that: his head ached, his muscles hurt, he had chills, his throat was on fire, and the pillowcase on his bed was wet with what he suspected was sweat.

His first impulse was to ring the valet for his usual breakfast: a bucket of KFC Extra Crispy with a side of Mac and Cheese and biscuits, followed by a bowl of vanilla ice cream. But then he realized he wasn’t in the least bit hungry. That was weird: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up not being famished. But not today.

Huh, he thought, trying to remember what he’d eaten last night, and what time he’d gone to bed. Oh, yeah, of course: he’s eaten alone in his bedroom, while watching Fox News. Arthur, his night valet, had brought him two Porterhouse steaks—well-done, the way he liked his beef; a plate of meat loaf; a cold shrimp salad—well, two, actually; three orders of McDonald’s French Fries; and a large chocolate shake. That must have been around 9 p.m., because he recalled Hannity was on (good old Hannity). He must have gone to bed around 10, just as Laura Ingraham was starting. He liked Laura, although sometimes she was a little too liberal, but he’d been really tired, so he called Arthur again and told him he was hitting the sack.

It hadn’t been a particularly large dinner, in other words, so it was puzzling why he shouldn’t be hungry now. Then he realized he was feeling a little hot. He rang the valet buzzer: it was Henry, the morning guy. Trump asked for a thermometer. Henry brought the digital one from the bathroom, and Trump inserted it himself in his mouth. After a few moments, it beeped. Trump removed it and read his temperature: 102.

Henry had been watching. “Everything okay, Mister President?” he asked. “Want me to call the doctor?”

“No!” Trump yelled, a little too loud. “There’s nothing wrong with me. This damn thermometer isn’t working.”

“I get you another,” said Henry.

“No.” Trump realized he’d been a little violent with Henry. “It’s all right, Henry. You can go now. And please, not a word of this to anyone.”

Trump turned on the T.V. It was still tuned to Fox. America’s Newsroom was on. There was a graphic showing how coronavirus was surging throughout most of the country. It was especially spiking in Oklahoma and Arizona, two states he’d just had rallies in. Of course, Trump would never admit in public that he trusted the numbers—one of his tactics was to call such statistics “fake news from Democrats.” But he wasn’t stupid; he realized that the disease was spreading. Could he have been…(it was hard to form the words in his mind)…infected?

He dialed Donald Jr. His elder son was one of the few people in the world he trusted. Junior’s girlfriend, Kimberley, answered. “Hi, Mister President,” she said. Trump wasted no time. “Get me Junior.” “He’s not feeling well,” Kimberley replied. “He woke up sick, with a fever. I’m thinking of calling the doctor.”

That jolted Trump. Don Jr. had been with him at both the Tulsa and Phoenix rallies. Could they both have…?

“Don’t call anyone,” Trump ordered her. She was a nice girl, Kimberley, hot… It was weird that she’d been married to that psycho out in California, Newsom. But Junior liked her.

“Why not, Mister President?”

“Just don’t. Let me figure this out.” And he hung up. If he and Don Jr. both had COVID-19, the public impact would be horrendous. He’d be a laughingstock, even among many Republicans. He’d spent the better part of the Spring telling the country that coronavirus was a Democrat lie, that it would go away soon on its own, that barely anyone would die. Then, when his own CDC issued their orders, with face masks and all, he’d told America that masks were idiotic, that nobody needed to wear them, that it was okay to go out to ballgames and malls and bars. If he, and his son, were now to come down with the disease, he’d be the target of every comedian in the land. He might even lose the election.

So there was only one approach: complete silence. Not a word was to be leaked to anyone. He would simply disappear from public view for a few days. He’d done it before; maybe go to Mar-a-Lago and play a little golf. He’d let the news cameras catch him from a quarter-mile away; the photos would show that he was healthy. As for Don Jr., ditto. No public announcements, no appearances, just lay low and keep your mouth shut.

That afternoon, the coughing began. They wracked his body with explosive blasts. The chills got much, much worse. The fever shot up to 104.5; he was hallucinating. At one point, he saw fiery, erotic devils, fornicating; and he heard hysterical laughter. Henry came in to say Melania was wondering if everything was all right, and could she see him for a few minutes? “No,” Trump wheezed. He took four Adderalls, hoping they would help him sleep. They did not. There was no respite, no relief. Agony was all this sick, desperate man had.

  1. Ahhh if only this were true🙏

  2. Thought force : >

  3. Timothy McDonald says:

    Funny as could be. 100 points on that! Hope you are well sir

  4. And 100 points back at ya! Cheers.

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