Donald J. Trump steps in to his office and shuts the door, his heart full. After so many years – nay – his whole life, he can set out to do what he was born to do. Finally, he can change the United States of America for the better.
Donald heaves a sigh of relief. The campaign has exhausted him. Making sure no one can peek in the office, he unstraps his comb-over shaped cap and places it on the Wig Table. Long ago he had donated all his real hair to children in the Solomon Islands. He pats the wig with contentment. This synthetic one is so much better than the last one, which had been made of steel wool. Science is amazing he muses.
He collapses in his chair and lets the air hit his bald head. Few, if any people knew the REAL Donald “DJ” Trump. Not even Melania knew that the “J” in his name stands for “Jesus,” mostly because, like Christ, he believes in turning the other cheek, but also partially because he is 3.7% Mexican on his mother’s side.
Most people thought DJ was a dumb, narcissistic, xenophobic symbol of everything wrong with the world, but it’s not so. DJ had worked tirelessly at his genius. The Donald J Trump character was solid. Peter Sellers would have wept. Donald J Trump was DJ’s Inspector Clouseau.
In truth, it pained him to call women names & make horrible kissy-lipped advances. He’d anonymously sent them all Rosie the Riveter greeting cards with encouraging notes afterwards. I respect those women so much, he thinks regretfully in his chair, & attaches a safety pin to his lapel. But it was for the greater good.
How else could he provoke the American people? How else was he going to bring out the hidden votes to take the White House? To break the cycle of the political elite?
“Pussy-grabbing!” he’d shouted as he awoke from a God-given dream. “It’s the only way.”
More than anything, he needed to keep the world guessing.
In the past he’d almost been found out. Years ago he’d been so distraught about the death of Mother Theresa and the statistics of pit bulls euthanized on a daily basis that he’d let his acting slip. People began to notice his humble and generous nature.
He’d panicked. “USE THE CHARITY MONEY TO BUY A GIANT PORTRAIT OF MY FACE!” He demanded. When the painting arrived, he’d felt ashamed. That night, he’d added more lashes to his self-flagellation ritual. He couldn’t wait to be plain ol’ DJ again.
Back in his office, DJ sets aside an article on the latest advancements in green energy. He opens Twitter and channels Trump the Character. “Just had a very open and successful presidential election. Now professional protesters, incited by the media, are protesting! Very unfair!” he types. DJ chuckles. Professional protesters. No one will know what that even means.
There is a note on his desk that the KKK are holding a victory parade in his honor in North Carolina. “Disgusting people,” he mutters. “I will tell them so,” and he writes down a reminder on a post-it.
DJ stands by the large window and looks out over New York city. “My people,” he coos. “I will not fail you.”
His eyes twinkle when he thinks of the diverse cabinet he will appoint, and the weekly Book Club he will start. He thinks of how he will offer warm hugs to every American, all while metaphorically punching Vladimir Putin in the face under the clever guise of frenemies. He chokes back a sob imagining the speech when he’ll tell the American people he prefers to be called Papa Bear. He hopes one day to encourage all people to donate their hair to children in need.
DJ picks up Mr. Mewmew, the Persian cat he keeps in his office for special occasions such as these, and gently runs his fingers through it’s fur. It is shedding rapidly from anxiety.
“That’s right Mr. Mewmew,” he whispers, and Mr. Mewmew bats at DJ’s bald scalp. On his phone, DJ opens a news broadcast of the Occupy Oakland protestors and wipes away a single tear.
He begins typing, and chuckles thinking of the last tweet that he’d sent not long ago. “All I need is to keep them guessing for a little while longer.” he says, and presses ‘Send’:
“Love the fact that the small groups of protestors last night have passion for our great country. We will all come together and be proud!”
“Time to make America Great again,” he whispers.
Mr. Mewmew dives for the Wig Table.