Dreaming of a Nuclear Trump
There’s been a lot of debate about the dangers of a nuclear Iran. Does it constitute an existential threat to Israel? Will it embolden the Ayatollah and other Shiite Islamic leaders to engage in more terrorism abroad? Faced with a nuclear-armed Iran, is a Mideast nuclear arms race inevitable? These are serious questions, to be sure, and a significant amount of time and space should be dedicated to speculating upon them.
But I’d like to pose a different question: What are the consequences of a nuclear-armed Donald Trump?
Iranian clerics have possession of governmental power in their country, but no nukes as of yet. The spectre of Donald Trump’s rise to the presidency provides a perfect flip to that script. The U.S. is in possession of over 7,000 nuclear weapons, but currently lacks a leader with the same zeal for outrageous commentary put forward by Ayatollah Khameini.
Enter: Donald Trump.
Take a moment to imagine Donald Trump with his finger on the nuclear button…
It’s 3:32 AM; all is quiet at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
A lone secret service agent is pacing back and forth across the southern edge of the White House. The inside is dark, but the agent is bathed in the phosphoresecent light of his president’s ego. Atop the White House stands its newest addition, five bold, brightly lit letters spelling out the name
T-R-U-M-P
Convinced of his solitude, the secret service agent pulls out his phone, a special edition iTrump 7💵. He taps the phone into his earbud and starts listening to Drake’s newest hit single, “y’all fucked, sorry”, a contemporary blend of the Canadian national anthem and emotional R&B that includes the signature line: “Things got worse, and then they got worse, and then you elected Donald Trump. y’all fucked, sorry.” Few have accused the rapper of hiring a ghostwriter to pen the new hit.
Just as the jam begins its emotional climax, the secret service agent is interrupted by a flashing red light emitting from the Oval Office window. The agent jumps into action, radioing his superiors with the secret phrase, “Rosebud.”
Meanwhile, The Donald looks out across Washington, DC from the top of his penthouse suite in the former U.S. Postal Museum, now Trump Hotel. Restless, Trump sips from a flute of sparkling water debating over whether to lead the free world tomorrow, or have a shareholders meeting. When he notices the bright lights of his White House marquee blaring onto the Washington Monument he relaxes, realizing that that to do both is the same thing.
A knock at the door disrupts his momentary late night respite.
He motions his Mexican door attendant to answer the call. That Marcos, he thinks. What a good lad. And surprisingly not a rapist. I should really consider making him the door attendant on that wall I built across Mexico.
Marcos opens the door, and Trump’s National Security Advisor, Ted Cruz, rushes into the room.
“Mr. President/chairman of the board, we have a situation,” Cruz mutters. Sleep is still in the Canadian…Texan’s eyes. He’s wearing his “global warming is a myth concocted by the socialists to undermine our capitalist utopia free of government intervention” pajamas, and a Cowboy hat, his new signature wardrobe choice. He’s Texan for goodness sakes, and most certainly not a Canadian.
“Let me guess,” muses Trump, “those wackjob Chinese paid off the oceans to sink another American city beneath their salty, Communist depths. Never trust an Asian with control of manufacturing markets and deep ocean voodoo.”
Grim and tired, Cruz shakes his head and says a single word: “Rosebud.”
The orange color drains from Trump’s face. His hair, blond, godlike, turns white as snow. He turns to stare out the windows facing the city, his city, thinks about everything he has built here. The marquee above the White House; the new Trump Hotel; other buildings and stuff. The Donald had so many great plans for this country. Will it all go up in smoke?
No.
He turns to Cruz, determination written across his face. “Alert the Pentagon the nation is moving to DEFCON 2. Assemble the NSC. And bring me my lunch. I don’t want to miss Melanie’s turkey sub on a day like today.”
Ten agonizing minutes later, the National Security Council is seated around the president’s lacquered, Carpathian elmwood desk.
Secretary of State Donald Rumsfeld lays out the scenario. “Here is what we know. At 0313 EST, at least eight dozen Russian tanks approached the Estonian border. Upon gaining visual confirmation of the approaching tanks, Estonian president Toomas Hendrik Iives invoked Article 5 of the NATO defense treaty. Russia immediately responded by setting its ICBMs on alert.” Rumsfeld takes a breath, allowing the threat to sink in for all around the table.
Vice President Carly Fiorina slams her fist into the table, “Bad behavior doesn’t pay!” Unless it’s firing 30,000 workers, Fiorina thinks to herself. That pays just fine.
“What we don’t know,” Rumsfeld continues, “is how Iran will react to this provocative situation. And there are so many things that we don’t know that we don’t know. Especially dark energy. That stuff is crazy.” Heads nod in agreement.
President Trump lifts his hands up to quiet the table.
“Did you all forget I wrote The Art of the Deal? All you politicians think is what’s the right policy decision. I’ll tell you the right policy decision. The cheap one. I can hire people to direct a nuke right over Kim Jong-Un’s head. Because basically if Russia sees that I won’t deal with crazy guys there, then Russia will know not to be crazy in Estonia…it’s Estonia right?”
Secretary of Defense Mike Huckabee chimes in, “You know, God made our military so that it could do military things. Perhaps it’s time we stop acting weak and show the world that America is ready to do God’s business.”
Trump snorts, ignoring Huckabee, “As I was saying, the best way to do business in one place is to show you can do business in another place. That’s why I’ve invited you all here to see me make history. Rumsfeld, thanks for the situational overview earlier, but I’ve got this.”
The double doors to Trump’s office burst open and a shadow appears. Bright lights illuminate the figure from behind, hiding its features and masking its personage. The click of heels echoes across the office as the figure marches forward. Two cameramen follow the figure into the room, filming the confused faces around Trump’s conference table. The figure is a woman and she walks directly past the NSC towards the head of the table, where sits President Trump. One by one mouths drop as recognition passes over each advisor. The figure turns as she approaches the right hand of Donald Trump, and the lights reveal her to be Omarosa, celebrity personality first made famous on the TV show, “The Apprentice.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Trump orates to the camera’s, “in preparation for a nuclear standoff with the world, I’ve invited one-time nemesis Omarosa back into my office to star in a new season of ‘The Apprentice: Nuclear Edition.’”
Trump dramatically sets his hands on the boardroom table, and rises from his seat. With calculated panache and theatrical flair, he points into the camera and warns viewers, “Don’t mess with the U.S. planet Earth.
Or, you’re fired.”
*The story above is pure fiction. Everyone knows that Mark Cuban will be Donald Trump’s vice president.*
