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Trump in the bunker

Sometimes I imagine certain scenarios in my head and laugh, sometimes I picture possible outcomes in my head and cry. Lately I have been visualizing Donald Trump’s presidency’s end (it’s comforting):

Propped up in bed with his robe thrown open (not for sex, that is long gone, but because he was rooting around for his phone), he digs into a bag of Fritos. Tweets unacknowledged, he has quit them. The ungratefuls are distancing themselves, proving they were never fantastic people. Melania is a ghost and the last one at some away school. Where went that praying sissy Mike and his dumpy wife, who had for a while come around, bible thumping bugging him? Bored, he levers himself up, shuffles over to the stereo, and puts that one country song about a boot in your ass on endless repeat. He likes that song, people had sung it at his campaign rallies. He closes his eyes, he can almost hear them. Now those were some fantastic people.


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