3 Minute Read

Happy Monday, and maybe lightning can strike twice. 

I happened to be a fly on the wall at Dear Leader Trump's Mar-a-Lago lair recently, and I can report that the ghost of Ronald Reagan almost didn't appear in Trump's private bedroom suite. 

Because it stank. 

It stank of candidate Trump's meal, his favorite, from the night previous:  A platter-sized steak cooked well-done, smothered in ketchup.  And it wasn't just the empty plates sitting on the coffee table in front of the TV (he had shooed the servants away during another tantrum). 

The other component of the reeking odor was obvious once I heard Trump flush his golden throne and watched him exit his marble-ish bathroom.

But being a ghost, and St. Ronnie on top of that, he was able to overcome the stench and he appeared in front of Trump.  It being 6 AM, Trump's wig was off, and he was standing there, fat, bald, and naked.  Well, except for the red MAGA shorts he was wearing, which barely concealed his, well, you know, mushroom, as his one-time lover Stephanie Clifford so correctly described it.

It was an abhorrent sight, but observing, and similar to a terrible car wreck, I just couldn't look away. 

Trump was oblivious to the ethereal presence of Saint Ronald Reagan - until he wasn't.  Indeed, the few remaining orange-dyed wisps of hair on his block-shaped head stood on end when he first heard President Reagan's ghostly, yet soothing, voice.  It was unmistakable.

"Hello and good morning.  I'm going to skip the niceties:  Don, you know the game's up.  Now, you're the old guy, and that's not the worst of it.  They tell me Kamala is sweeping the floor with you, money-wise, and boy, do I know you don't like that."

Trump was mesmerized, yet, out of habit, he reached for his wig and sprayed on some tanner anyhow.  Reagan tried to avert his eyes, but continued.

"Look, she's even getting more attention than you.  We both know that can't go on!  First you're shunned by Manhattan's elite, and now a black and Indian combo platter woman is getting all of the headlines???"

Reagan now had Trump's full attention. 

The fact he was appearing with the body of his daughter Ivanka also helped. 

"But Don, let me tell you what the real problem is.  The real problem is you're going to lose this election and let me tell you, there's a bloodthirst out there for you to go straight to jail when that happens.  Kamala was a prosecutor, for gosh sake, and she's not going to call off the wolves."

Trump took his eyes off Ronald Reagan's Armani-clad and shapely figure and tried to focus on his face, which looked a lot like the image above.  It was Reagan, but with something or someone lurking behind him.  Trump thought it somehow might be that foreigner Obama, but maybe it was the Adderall. 

Trump started whimpering, and as he did, a bit of drool made his tanner run.  Like a kindly grandfather, Reagan dabbed at it with his cowboy scarf.

"But President Reagan, what can I do?  I will do anything to avoid going to prison.   And I don't know which is worse, going to prison, or losing to that . . . that . . ."  Trump wanted to say the N-word but knew Reagan would have slapped him.  Reagan was a lot of things, but probably not a racist. 

And by this point, he was already growing impatient - not a good thing for a ghost his age.  His tone grew stern, but it still had that St. Ronnie lilt.

"Look, you don't have to lose to a black woman.  You don't have to lose the popular vote for a record 3rd time.  You don't have to lose both houses of Congress for us.  You don't have to go to jail.  You can play golf and eat."

Reagan knew right where to take this, I thought.

"You're going to sit down with Governor Hochul, Governor Kemp, and Attorney General Garland.  They're expecting your call to set up a meeting.  At the meeting, they're going to tell you they're ready to slow all of the state and federal felony cases against you to a standstill, and eventually drop them altogether.  You'll be a free man."

Trump was really drooling now.  "How, President Reagan, how can that happen?"

"You know the answer to that.  Don, the fact is, most of America wishes you'd just go away.  Sure, you and Vance are weird, and that attracts a certain weird crowd, but still - most of America wants you gone.  We're all sick of the chaos.  Even a lot of Republicans like me think that.  At least when we're being honest with ourselves."

Trump belched before whining, "What?  I've proven I can do anything and they still love me!  Didn't you see the convention?   And what about the poorly uneducated?  I love the poorly uneducated and they love me - it's ADORATION!  And the blacks!  The blacks love me!  The Hispanics!  My Hispanics!  They love me, too!  And didn't you see that convention?"

Reagan shook his head.  "Don, it's done.  You're going to stay out of Leavenworth by announcing you have an illness that can't be disclosed, and for the good of your family, you're stepping down from the campaign.  You going away is the only thing that will quell the desire so many have to see you in shackles and behind bars."

"But what if I win the election?"

With that, Reagan laughed that hearty laugh of his and said, "There you go again."  He then disappeared.

Being the savvy dealmaker he is, Trump knew a good deal when he saw it, so, and true to form, he quit and blamed others.   In a pitiful last tug at the spotlight, he announced his departure from the race, in a typically grievance-filled and rambling diatribe, the night before the Democratic convention. 

He mumbled something about bone spurs a heart condition, said yet again he won the 2020 election but now blames Rudy for it all, and that was that.  Trump was gone from American politics. 

Forever.

After the nation recovered from the hangover of its 3-day + celebration, the JD Vance - Tim Scott Republican ticket was later wiped out in the general election.  America elected its first woman as president - in a landslide.  And its first Jewish VP:  Congrats to Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro.

Trump?  He got more fat and more bald, but also even older.  He eventually died, like old people do.

In his case, from being the one of the biggest assholes this country has ever produced.

I am pleased to virtue signal say that I've enrolled in a creative writing class at the College of Marin.  It starts in October and ends in December.   

So while it may seem impossible for things like Maybe It Was Destiny to get any better, I am trying regardless.

And wait until I combine that masterpiece with Lottery Winner, London Calling, On Entrepreneurship, On Managing Teams, and a few select posts, and publish a best-selling book.   

Hey, it could happen.  

Well, perhaps with some help.

That's not true - maybe I can do it myself.  At least according to the famous British literary scholar Randy Smee, I can.

I wish I could say I upped the intensity intentionally in Maybe It Was Destiny, to match what had happened on the ground.  I did not.

But hopefully they'll teach me that stuff in writing school.

Thank you for reading this newsletter.  

For some reason, this is the first play for both this band and this fine album here on KLUF.  Featuring "Ghostdancing" and even entitled Once Upon a Time, here are Simple Minds with a perfect record for today.