It should have been a good week for Donald Trump. A new ceasefire in Gaza went into effect. Back at home, while the government shutdown seems to be backfiring on the broader Republican party, for our president it just means more time for cheating at golf! Between rounds, he went to the doctor for his “semi-annual” check-up and was pronounced fit as a mildly obese fiddle. Also, while he somehow didn’t win the Nobel Peace Prize, the actual winner, Venezuelan opposition leader Maria Corina Machado, dedicated the prize, in part, to him for his efforts to foster regime change. So why is our precious POTUS all up in his feels?
Over the last couple days, Trump has lamented again that he’s unlikely to get into heaven, complained about the photo TIME magazine used of him for its new cover story and expressed the 10,000 percent accurate opinion that his body wouldn’t be “appreciated on the beach.”
“Sir, you’re the most handsome, bestest president ever. Everybody says so; certainly all of the highly-qualified people in your cabinet who don’t just flatter you because they know you’re a needy little b-tch. They really mean it! ”— Michael Ian Black
For whatever reason—age, illness, infirmity, self-loathing, the fact that the whole world hates him—47 seems to be a lil’ bit down in the dumps. We can’t have that! I won’t allow it!
Which is why I am devoting my column this week to cheer up everybody’s favorite POTUS: Donald, I come to you with tears in my eyes to thank you for everything you are doing for the country. With only a few, tiny exceptions which encompass most of American history, the nation has never been safer or more prosperous. Personally, I’m having the best year of my life. My inflatable frog costume business has never been better.
When my friends and I see you on TV, we all remark how well you look for a dementia patient. In fact, just the other day, we agreed that we almost couldn’t tell that you didn’t know the name of Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni upon your meeting her (again) at a geopolitical summit, and certainly didn’t think it was weird or unprofessional at all when you talked about how beautiful you think she is.
After all, if there’s a world leader who also happens to be a hot piece of a–, why shouldn’t you say so? Your press secretary, Karoline Leavitt doesn’t seem to mind her presidentially-dispensed sobriquet “machine gun lips.”
And you’re still a very attractive man yourself, Don! I think adult diapers have a certain je ne sais quoi. (The fuller they are, the more I like ‘em.) Same with spray tan. People often make fun of you because nobody taught you how to blend your foundation below the third waddle, but I think an au natural turkey neck is appealing. If tastemakers and elites are praising Pamela Anderson to high heaven for forgoing make-up, why not you too? Because they’re jealous, that’s why!
But whether the haters are antifa or former staffers, Fox News pollsters or fellow world leaders, Rosie O’Donnell or even the Almighty herself, their opinions don’t matter. Your record and your reputation speaks for itself. Which is why I’m also so concerned that you don’t think you’re going to get into heaven? Why would you think such a thing?
Is it because of all the people you effectively killed when you decimated USAID? Because your administration is kidnapping and torturing people, some of whom are migrants, some of whom are just unlucky Americans. Oh well. Because you cut off the healthcare of your brother’s infant son who was suffering from cerebral palsy? Because you were found guilty of sexually abusing E. Jean Carroll? Or just because of your lifetime of lying, cheating and stealing? Who knows and, honestly, who cares?!?
Of course you’re getting into heaven—you’re rich! Rich people get whatever they want. Hasn’t your entire life been about proving that very point? Besides, for billionaires, there’s got to be something like Super Heaven, right? Someplace where you don’t have to rub shoulders with weirdo do-gooders and tree huggers like Jane Goodall and Jimmy Carter.
Your heaven will be decked out in the same spray-painted gold tat you’ve got affixed to the walls of the Oval Office. It will be filled with golf courses on which you’ll score the most under par rounds ever, every time. And the women—beauty queens, all of them—up there with you won’t make fun of your mushroom weenie. It’s the kind of heaven where there’s always enough ketchup for your well-done steak and to throw at the wall if anything upsets you even a little bit. Which it won’t.
So cheer up. Enjoy the moment. It’s been a good week, sir. Of course, any week that brings us closer to the end of your administration is a good week. (Forget about that third term you totes deserve—you’re due a long vacation.) Any week that brings us closer to your own end ain’t bad, either. Not that I’m wishing for your death. Of course not. I would never!!! I’m just saying, whenever you’re ready, Super Heaven’s waiting.
The post Opinion: Why Downbeat Trump, 79, Is Suffering the Most Miserable Week of His Presidency appeared first on The Daily Beast.
