Donald Trump Killed My Grandmother

Andrew Osborn
Nov 6, 2018 · 2 min read

It was fall of 2016 and Grandma Q was watching her shows. Nothing out of the ordinary except everything. Miggie was 92 years of grit and fury in a frail, immaculately dressed little old body. One boney hand held a wedding ring from decades prior and the other a Weller’s Reserve, one cube. Her Cadillac clean and her hair on point, always.

On this day our velvet stone matriarch was engulfed the coverage of the previous night’s debate and she was not pleased. Big League. Then Candidate Trump was spouting about taxes or women or immigration or healthcare or some other TRUMP (registered) brand of absurdity. This is pre “locker room talk” and Cohen flipping but post normalized racism and “The Wall” chants.

Who knows the exact sound bite or the precise lie grandma thought she had caught, but Miggie got pissed. Tremendously pissed. The most pissed ever in the history of grandmas being pissed. She unleashed hell on the artifact of a majority of her anger. Her TV was well accustomed to the abuse, it just sat there and took the berating. Today was different though. Today Trump would deliver a silence so deep the TV would regret ever wishing for it.

In a crescendo, Miggie leapt from her chair. She flailed her arms conducting the orchestra of pundits, each talking head louder than the next. As the finale approached, her biology couldn’t help but join. Her body released a sneaky blood clot hiding somewhere in the crevasse of her circulatory system. The massive stroke took her life two days later.

It was sad to lose Grandma Q, sure. But, I get a lot of joy from the family she led, her rich beautiful life. And that she got out just before this ship started sinking. So, if you’re able, you might consider voting today. Your grandma could be next.

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Andrew Osborn

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Everyone has a friend who gets them in just a little above their head. I’m probably that friend. Creative director for the outdoor and athletics industries