The Reign of Trump: Year One
It just flew by
Just 12 months ago, a lot of people were worried about the impact Trump will have on the world. A lot of people. Even those that voted for him, much like Aesop’s fable of the python who tried to swallow a moose and is halfway and still has the antlers to go.
But here we are, living it, and despite all the hoopla: today was just another day.
I woke up alive and well, safe in my bed. I said good morning to my wife, furiously packing her bags with staple foods and shiny things she could trade for safe passage over anyone’s border.
I kissed my children one by one, which took less time now that the girls had been taken away to the slave camps to become cocktail waitresses, and I sat down for breakfast.
What would be on the menu today? I say menu, obviously choice and consent is forbidden. What wet unpackaged surprise had farted through the food/syringe disposal chute today? A tasty bowl of Honey Nut Trumps? A tasty two bowls of Honey Nut Trumps? No, it’s disposed syringes.
Still, do I cry, like a queer, which is illegal, punishable by homosexuality? Heck no, because life is good.
I still have two arms, two legs, and a terrific just beautiful mane of straw.
I can still go outside, give my bubble gum pink poodle a steak the size and taste of a wheelie bin, wonder where all the brown people went, bask in the sun now fixed on Miami summer temperature twenty four seven nine eleven, and enjoy the only form of writing allowed; The Art of the Deal sky-written letter by letter by a team of cackling racist witches in dollar bill bikinis.
Everything is fine. The New Jersey Generals are now a basketball team, and they win the Superbowl of basketball, which is now known as The Supertrump, and bowls everywhere are now called trumps, and Trump invented basketball. Everything is fine.
Fine! We were so worried a year ago, just one rotation around the artificially over-heated sun by this little planet we call Trump One Leisure Planet and Casino: Come Fuck our Whores Space Invaders, No Foreign Alien Losers Please.
Everything is fine. There are no more babies, animals, or breathable air.
Everything is fine. Everything is terrible. Everything is fine.
Terry Fator has a television show. Fuck.