Donald Trump is sitting on a toilet seat in the White House, in the same spot where Abraham Lincoln used to sit.
How he misses his New York penthouse with its golden toilet seat, solid gold 14 karat.
“What a screwed up old dump this place (White House) is,” Trump tells himself. “Lots of old rooms with sh’..ty furniture with floors that creak when you walk on them and paintings of old guys most of them losers (former presidents), except for Andrew Jackson.”
Trump thinks he (Jackson) was cool he wiped out the Cherokees and beat a guy to death on the front lawn of the White House (this last part is historically inaccurate, but Trump doesn’t know American history).
“I’m too good to be living here.”
(Trump has an ever-moist sense of self-pity).
Trump goes to bed alone.
He hears a rattling at the door and sees a light. A ghost enters wearing chains.
“Who the F are you?” Trump says.
“I am the Ghost of Misbehavior Past,” the ghost wails.
“Get the F out of here.”
“Make me,” the ghost wails.
“Okay.” Trump hops out of bed and raises his fists. Trumps fancies himself a boxer and once put the body of actor Sylvester Stallone from a movie called Rocky, another fictional boxer, and transposed Stallone’s body over his own fat body, to send it out as a tweet.
Trump throws a punch. It goes right through the ghost, to no effect.
The ghost screams and rattles his chains. “Sit down and shut up!” the ghost yells.
“Remember that scam college you founded, Trump University?” the ghost says.
“It was not a scam,” Trump yells.
The ghost smiles and rattles his chains. “Illegal business practices, false claims, racketeering; using the word “university,” when it was not certified to be a university.”
“It…trained….winners!” Trump yells.
“Yes sir.” Trump sits and meekly points. “Where’d you get those chains?”
“I bought Manhattan Island in 1626 today called New York from some Indians by giving them worthless beads. I did like you do, give nothing, promise everything, slash and grab all I can. You’ll have your own set of chains to wear, come November.”
“Me?” Trump points to himself. “I’m the most mistreated president in history.”
“You will next be visited by the Ghost of Endless Lies.”
The Ghost of Misbehavior Past fades through a wall. Trump goes back to bed.
“Loser,” he mumbles to himself.
Another ghost appears. “I am the Ghost of Endless Lies.”
“Oh c’mon man!”
The ghost points a finger and smiles. “Obama was born in Kenya, COVID-19 won’t come here, it’s only like the flu, drinking disinfectant knocks the coronavirus out, only a thousand dead a day in the U.S. is progress and the lowest in several categories of death worldwide, Nazis and Klansmen are fine people, Joe Biden was spying on you, no collusion with Russia, mail-in voting is rigged, the economy is the best in the world, more people attended your inauguration than any president…. you lie all the time about everything, and if you ever caught yourself telling the truth, it would only be a slip of the tongue, an accident.”
“It is what it is,” Trump yells.
“You’re right, a crook in the White House, that’s the first truthful thing you’ve said all day.”
“The truth is whatever I say it is,” Trump tells the ghost. “If I say up is down, it is, get out of here.”
The ghost points a finger. “You will be visited by the Ghost of, All-Out-of-Options Future.”
The Ghost of Endless Lies disappears.
Trump goes back to bed. He mumbles. “Loser.”
Another ghost appears.
“I am the Ghost of All-Out-Of-Options Future.”
The ghost waves a hand. Trump and the ghost are flying through the air.
Trump finds himself in jail. Next to him sits Paul Manafort.
“You sonofabitch,” Manafort says.
How dare you say that to me?” Trump snarls.
“It’s easy,” Manafort says.
A week passes.
Trump complains to a guard. “How come I never get any mail?”
“You picked up all the mailboxes thinking it would help get you elected,” the guard says. The guard leaves.
Trump begins to rattle on the cell bars with a tin drinking cup.
“Will you guys hold it down?” someone yells.
“Who’s that?” Trump asks Manafort.
“Roger Stone. He’s in the cell next door.”