On the morning of the 4th of November, I had a near death experience. All the news feeds on the internet were showing that, instead of MAGA (Mega Arsehole Going Awry), Trump was doing a remarkable job of keeping his end up so to speak. Given his age, he must be mainlining Viagra along with his daily cocktail of orange preservative with a twist of hydroxy-chloroquine. No wonder Melania keeps giving him her icy slit-eyed Slavic stares and silent don’t you dares. Although Slow Joe had been quick out of the blocks, it seemed improbable to me that he could flip all the states needed to reach 270 votes as Trump was ahead in most. Being a straight up and down kind of guy, it further seemed unlikely that he would come from behind. Instead, MAGA flipped him and the world the bird as well as a few hamburgers which he chowed down to give himself strength for his 2am press conference after the polls had closed. Hoping to catch Slow Joe tucked up bed with a hot milk, he magnanimously claimed victory.
Viewing the next four years with dread, I started sharpening my carving knife as I contemplated slitting my wrists and then doing the coyote thing and chewing my arms off to make sure. In fact, I was in such a blue funk that for the next 24 hours I wussed out and did the next best thing – I became an ostrich and assiduously avoided the internet. I sulked around the house all that day casting hurt eyes at my computer until the next day when my brother phoned me. I knew what he wanted to talk about. Before he could say anything, I told him that I would speak about anything other than the election. At that point, he saved my life when he persisted and told me that there was hope.
I apprehensively fired up the internet and beheld a faint glimmer at the end of a grim tunnel that I perceived to be Trump’s large intestine. However, I was being pursued by Paula White [1] ranting like a demonic slam poet, “Take the sword of the Lord … and strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike, strike.” She then went on to call for angelic reinforcement from Africa (really?), “ …angels have even been dispatched from Africa right now, Africa right now, Africa right now, from Africa right now.”
I thought that I must be hallucinating now, hallucinating now, hallucinating now, hallucinating now, as I faintly heard the muffled strains of Maureen McGovern singing, There’s Got to be a Morning After.
At the end of the tunnel surrounded by the dimming light of old age, I could barely discern an old man. At first, I thought it was God but by squinting I could make out his mask and there was Joe biding his time hunting for his beau. I admit that I was about as confused as he was at the time having had nil per eyes for 24 hours.
Just then a brown angel appeared next to him. I thought that they were brown because we were in Trump’s colon after all, but Paula was right, the angels from Africa had been dispatched except they were coming for me. Instead of Harrising me, the angel gently said, “Kamalong now.” Just then another tall thin brown angel appeared on his other side and said, “Yes, you can.” I nearly platzed, but inspired by them, I managed to crawl through the valley of vile falsehoods in Trump’s colon and enter back into the light of the 24-hour internet news cycle.
I was regurgitated.
I kissed and hugged my computer and promised it an upgrade.
[1] Paula White is an American televangelist and exponent of prosperity theology. In other words, a charlatan just like Trump who appointed her spiritual advisor in the White House.
Check out https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4daeEacIVI invoking God to assist Trump on the 4th.
Paula White is an American televangelist and exponent of prosperity theology. In other words, a charlatan just like Trump who appointed her spiritual advisor in the White House. Check out https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4daeEacIVI invoking God to assist Trump on the 4th.