Trump's Prison

It's good to be King and have your own way

Get a feeling of peace at the end of the day

And when your bulldog barks and your canary sings

You're out there with winners, it's good to be King

Tom Petty

I feel a minuscule amount of sympathy for Donald J. Trump, but it must really suck to be him right about now, with everything he nears turning to shit and the legal screw turned by Robert Mueller and others tightening, and Democrats in the House preparing subpoenas left and right, night and day, probing and prying into his tangled affairs and murky revenue streams, and refusing to pony up money for the Great Wall. Trump clearly had no idea, none whatsoever, how hard the job of POTUS would be, particularly when you’re one of the laziest, most ill-prepared presidents in American history. In the still of the White House night, when Trump is all alone (Melania having retreated to her own room and dead bolting the door behind her) and the voices inside his head start talking, there’s one, clearly heard above all the others, that says:

“Obama was so smooth, so cool, and he made it look easy, the way he glided around and handled the job, from meetings with foreign leaders to speaking with school children. No batshit, incoherent Tweets at 3:00 a.m., no torrent of demonstrable lies, and no scandals. You’re in over your head, Donald. You’re like a blind mallard flying in the dead of night. You’re an embarrassment. Feeding fast food to college athletes. Jesus, what the hell were you thinking? Are you insane? You don’t invite the National Champions to the White House and serve them Big Macs and pizza. Stupid, no-class meathead. You’re a rich guy with a truck driver’s mentality, except that you’re so pathetic you couldn’t drive a truck if you’re life depended on it. How you think you’re running this country is beyond me. Honestly, Donald, you couldn’t run a meeting of the local chapter of the KKK without fucking it up.”

Daddy’s voice, always Daddy’s voice. Old Fred Trump, the patriarch who taught Donald to lie, cheat, dodge taxes and stiff contractors. Old Fred who bailed Donny out every time he failed, to whom Donny had to come begging, on his knees, hand outstretched, please Dad, I’ll do better next time. But next time is always like the last time. The casinos, the airline, the university. Failure, failure, failure. Three marriages, God-awful children.  

At night Donald paces his bedroom in the hated White House, pissed that he’s not in Trump Tower in New York where he calls the shots and nobody second guesses him, corrects his grammar or ridicules his intelligence. New York, where Ann Coulter can’t challenge his manhood, and porn stars are only a phone call away. Where damn near everyone he has known hasn’t turned on him, cut a deal with prosecutors. It wasn’t supposed to go this way, the run for the White House was a lark, a way to build the Trump brand. Hillary was supposed to win, but who knew she’d run a tepid, inept, tone-deaf campaign? Who knew the American electorate was so angry with the status quo that they were prepared to roll the dice on a wannabe dictator with a kit bag full of skeletons? Why did the stars align so malevolently?

And gnawing at the remains of Trump’s soul is the legacy of Barack Obama, the accomplished black guy with the silver tongue, who could read from a teleprompter and speak in complete sentences, who read books and understood how government works, who actually knew the difference between an executive order and a bill, who understood the function of the Federal Reserve and all the confusing Cabinet departments. Black people are supposed to be inferior to whites! White people are supposed to rule! The Bible says so, it’s the way it is!

The White House is Trump’s prison. Unable to sleep Trump stares morosely out the window and remembers what Putin said in Helsinki. “It’s much easier for me, Donald. I want to make someone disappear, I say the word and it happens. No one can investigate my little side deals. I am master of my domain in a way you can never be. What a pity. Plus, I don’t have man boobs. Take my advice, invest in Spandex.”

Just as the first hint of light appears over Washington, the voices in Trump’s head drone on, and a single tear slides down his face.