The American dream
I’m on a mission. I’m inside the body of Donald Trump, looking for a heartbeat. I’ve got a flashlight, a digital recorder, and my cameraman. For the purpose of this high-risk assignment, we’ve both been ‘nanonized’ (reduced to the size of nanoparticles). I don’t know how we got in, but we’re in.
We’re moving down a narrow, dark, dirty corridor. It’s a blood vessel, but there’s no sign of blood or any kind of life, and it’s cold. I hadn’t expected this—no warmth at all, which doesn’t bode well for the success of our mission. There’s no fresh air, either. We’re gagging, anxious to get this done.
We hear a noise and stop. It could be a heartbeat… but, no. It’s coming from much further south—somewhere deep inside the ego-system—and we realize it’s a drum roll. Our best guess: Donald has just walked past a mirror or some other reflective surface.
We head southwest to take a quick look at the liver. We can smell it (I’ve never liked the smell of liver—even a healthy one), so we know we’re getting close. Suddenly, there it is. It’s huge, with eye-watering fumes rising off its slimy, pulsating surface. It’s jaundiced, too, as if it’s had to process too much fake-tanning lotion, and it’s having a hard time doing its job. It’s got all kinds of things sticking out of it. I see what looks like a shoelace, or maybe a string of licorice. Ugh. It’s a worm. We quickly move on to investigate the intestinal tract—but just the small intestine; we’re not going near the other one.
At the end of another empty blood vessel, we emerge into a much wider tunnel, with puckered, squelchy walls and lots of brown-green gooey bits protruding from all sides. It’s bulging and bloated, full of twists and turns, and the cameraman has a hard time getting his equipment around some of the tight corners. Suddenly, everything seems black and white… but then we realize we’re looking at a massive pile of undigested Oreos, wolfed down very recently and barely chewed. Already, the heap of sugar, cheap oil, starch and high fructose corn syrup is heaving with hordes of scavenging bacteria, frantic for their fix. We look at each other, shaking our heads. Fuel for fools, murmurs the cameraman. His words echo ominously down the tunnel, like some kind of dire prediction.
We press on, and I suddenly realize that the walls are seething with all kinds of hideous creatures—pulsing parasites and belching bacteria that look far from friendly. They leer at us, licking their lips as we go by. I’m nauseous, lightheaded and wobbly. The dreaded DTs…
Then we hear voices. We come to an alcove—some kind of holding area for stuff that’s awaiting processing—and, there, in the putrid dimness, is a group of Mexicans! They’re huddled together, arguing, gesticulating and looking very pissed off. We approach and I ask them what’s going on. They all respond at once, waving their arms, cursing and spitting on the floor. They don’t seem very happy. They were made to feel verr-ee, verr-ee esmall by Señor Trumpet, they say, and then he ate them for lunch. We’re not surprised to hear this, but I can’t help wondering how they survived the stomach acid… They soon set me straight: He doesn’t digest things, they say; he just swallows them whole.
This makes sense, of course. But now I’m starting to panic. What if I get stuck down here, like them? The possibility of spending the rest of my life in here doesn’t bear thinking about, and I start to hyperventilate. I force myself to take some deep, calming breaths, even though I know I’m breathing foul air. But it’s not helping. I have visions of getting washed down the tunnel with the next expensive, oily restaurant meal …and ending up in deep shit, no matter what I do to try to save myself. I can’t reason with him. I’m small fry—not important enough to get his attention. And I’m not a hot-shot CEO with loads of money to bribe my way out of this mess. So I’m going down… I knew this mission would be risky; hoping for a heartbeat in a barren wasteland like this was utter madness.
I feel depressed, disillusioned… that decent people can be Trumped like this. My knees give way and I sink into the smelly squishiness. Instantly, the suckers are all over me, eager to leech the life out of me. They want me weak and submissive, unable to fight back. But I must! Now that I know what goes on in here, I must tell people. They need to know how this dysfunctional, parasitic place feeds on others. Nothing good can possibly come out of it. I must warn them, before it’s too late!
…and then I wake up.
It was a dream. I’m okay! I’m not trapped in Trumpdom, doomed to a nightmarish existence, with no escape from the ego-driven empire, kick-started by Daddy, and built on the backs of unsuspecting governments who fell for his Trumped-up strategies and manipulation.
I’m safe—back in the real world where justice prevails, the right people win, and intelligent voters won’t be deceived by blatant self-serving agendas. Right?