by William Skink
Trump is in your head. He is dribbling out of your fingers. You go to bed at night with his bulbous face dancing across those final conscious moments before drifting off to a restless sleep.
Is he sicker? Is he better? If he doesn’t succumb to the Covid what does that say about the pandemic? What are the pundits saying? What is Claudia Conway saying on TikTok?
I think he’s sweating underneath the makeup. I think he’s scared. Rachel told me Mussolini did the same thing. Something about strongmen and balconies.
Has Trump tweeted this morning? Has he sickened more of his aides? Can we impeach him for this?
Should we pray? This secular humanism thing is starting to feel a little empty. God, are you out there? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, God, please explain why you don’t smite this orange menace from your holy creation?
I hear days 7-10 are supposed to be the bad ones. You still have time, God. Please hear our prayers!