Donald Trump Followed Me For 3 Hours
About an hour ago, I got a notification that I have some new followers on Medium. Imagine my shock when I discovered one of them was Donald Trump. The real Donald Trump.
I have no illusions that he actually read my stories and became enchanted with my guileless personality and goofy wit. Because if he actually read my stories and responses, he’d know I am about an inch to the right of being a revolutionary and eschew everything he represents.
I’m certain it is a marketing ploy and that he is suddenly following everyone on Medium, in hopes that they will watch his video filled profile page, drink the Kool Aid and become ardent supporters of his presidential bid.
Being endowed with a highly overactive imagination, I couldn’t resist buying into the remote possibility that Trump was actually reading my stories on The Coffeelicious and was charmed by me, in spite of himself.
As he read my whimsical stories and subversive comments, lightening struck and he suddenly realized “these are the people I need to reach out to. This is the audience I’ve been oblivious of. The dreamers, the artists, the freak-flag wavers, the outsiders. These are the people I need to touch and let them know, “Hey, I’m not so different from you.
I’m a rebel. I speak my mind. I’m creative in a business way. I totally get you. I grok you.”
Next thing I knew, I was imagining Donald Trump’s people calling me and asking to set up a meeting. They want to offer me a book deal. Arrange for my art to be shown all over the country. Write an original song for Trump’s campaign. They want me to be their outsider freak poster-child and it’s starting to sound just a wee bit appealing.
I discuss it with my husband, who is only a bit less of a radical leftist than I, and he agrees - I have to at least take the meeting. I mean it would be crazy not to, right?
I am at the meeting. Sitting across from Trump in his huge ostentatious office, utterly devoid of anything that could be considered good taste.
I begin to get a headache. Ever since I was little, ugly shit has given me headaches, a visceral reaction that I have no control over.
Trump begins to speak enthusiastically about my creative genius, the book deal, the art tour, the revenue stream, the international recognition of my incredible talent. He hints at a Pulitzer and his connections. Wink, wink.
Suddenly his hair doesn’t look quite so bizarre. It’s kind of Rockabilly. Those pouty lips look a little less full. His crazy starts to make a little sense to me. His enthusiasm is contagious. My headache starts to subside.
He offers me a glass of Kool Aid. I politely decline because of all the sugar in it. I tell him he’s given me a lot to think about and I’ll get back to him in a couple days.
Back home, I check my Medium profile and reading list. I see a Donald Trump video and decide to watch it. His hair no longer looks remotely Rockabilly. His lips look more pouty and petulant than ever. He’s talking about how Mexicans are ruining the American Dream. My niece and nephew and 2 grand nieces are part Mexican.
I heave a sigh of relief that no Kool Aid was ingested. And then I go to Donald Trump’s Medium profile and click the “block” button.
Footnote: Since writing this a few hours ago, Donald Trump’s Medium profile has disappeared into the ether. I suspect it was a misguided attempt at PR spam but who knows? At least I got a story out of it.
