Humorous / Satire
Trumpissus was wandering sadly through the sylvan District of Columbia, the visor of his MAGA cap pulled low over his eyes to shield them from the harsh klieg lights of reality, and all the ugly and dumb reporters and staff following him. Only Natalie with her echoing harp could match his melancholic stride. Without purpose—as with all his decisions—he accidentally stumbled upon a reflecting pool, which coincidentally happened to have a presidential lectern in front of it.
By David Breitkopf
He wished desperately to be loved by the millions, even billions, to be honored with multiple Nobel Peace prizes, and to be anointed Emperor for Life. But he knew deep, deep in his sole lifts that he had stolen millions from those millions, (and wanted to steal trillions so he could beat Musk), that he had ignobly started a war that had killed many innocent people (not to mention all the Venezuelan fisherman he’d summarily murdered), and while he had already anointed himself Emperor of America, Greenland, Venezuela, Canada, and the Vatican, he knew he’d soon find himself exiled on the remote isle of Saint Mar-a-Lago.
It was because Trumpissus feared that he was going to…NO, he could never say that word, never! Instead of thinking about the worst word in the dictionary, he bent down as if to pray—his tie hanging between his legs like a red ladder down to hell. He removed his cap, and tried to bend over to see his reflection in the pool, and by doing so, he hoped to discover the best words, the goldenest words—and he cupped his small hands in front and moved them about as if he might catch them.
Despite the wind, his coif remained stock still because he’d recently plaited his hair with gold, as had all his staff, even Steven Miller.
“Oh woe is me,” Trumpissus moaned, which was instantly echoed by Natalie’s harp, “Oh, woe is me.”
It is Ken Paxton’s and Chuck Schumer’s fault,” and his words returned like some taunt from Natalie’s harp.
He tried to lower his knees carefully onto the edge, but due to all the gold on his head, he collapsed heavily smashing his knees, arms and chin against the concrete. The nib of his tie dipped into the pool and turned it blood red.
“Help me up!”
“Help me up!”
“Don’t repeat what I said, help me!”
“Don’t repeat what I said, help me!”
They sighed plaintively one after the other, and on his own, Trumpissus managed to regain his balance and he leaned slowly over the pool to find those best words, the winningest words to convince the American rabble of all the winning he had done for himself, and convince or—to shorten that word—to con them into voting for him one last time, legally or illegally, even though he wasn’t on the ballot.
He stared into the pool as if waiting for a teleprompter to scroll the best and most tremendous words, but the pool was so clouded with the floating debris of his deceptions, it only reflected what to him appeared to be Jon Husted’s backside.
“Hmmm, that’s a big piece of muscle,” he said lustily, and instantly Natalie’s harp amplified and broadcast those words through the cameras and microphones, echoing to the east, west, to the south, and across the Heartland of America—Trumpissus’ final closing argument.
David Breitkopf teaches English. He was writer and journalist who worked for a number of newspapers over the years, including The American Banker. His writer’s Web page is DavidBreitkopf.com
