Only the Lonely
President Trump was wearing a white Johnny with the back open, something that was not a pretty sight. He was almost totally bald and it showed because he was in the hospital and there was no reason to spend hours doing the comb-over and this too, was not a pretty sight.
His complexion was pasty, also because it didn’t make sense to slather on his normal, daily dose of orange makeup when he was in the hospital, and this, too, was not a pretty sight, in fact, there was nothing pretty about the situation.
He just looked like a pathetic, sickly, obese 74-year-old man who never took good care of himself because he thought he was somehow invincible, probably because of his upbringing when he was spoiled rotten and now he is suffering from the plague.
It was quiet except for the hum of some kind of medical equipment. The President lay in a prone position on the hospital bed with an IV tube in his left arm and he felt vulnerable and very much out of control, something that did not sit well or lie well with him. He was running a high fever and the prognosis was generally not very positive for the leader of the free world, even if he didn’t act like much of a leader, to recover from the COVID-19, which is what he sarcastically called China Flu, which, regardless of what you call it, has killed 209,000 Americans and the number could very well be 209,001 in a short time because of the President’s incredible vanity and stupidity.
Melania was also had tested positive for COVID-19 but she didn’t have to be hospitalized and was allowed to stay at the White House because she was only 50 and ate sensibly most of the time and her prognosis was better than that of her husband, who was a very bad golfer.
Although hospital rules strictly forbade it, she knew rules involving mere mortals did not apply to the Trumps and she was visiting her husband who was almost a quarter of a century older than her.
“I don’t feel very good,” the President moaned to his wife, as a spot of spittle dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, to which she responded, without even a scintilla of empathy, “maybe that’s because you didn’t wear a face mask like everybody told you to because you thought it made people think you were indestructible.”
The President was hungry and he asked if his wife could order him a double Whopper, large fries and supersized Coke, to which she answered, again with absolutely no compassion, “No Jabba, I’m not going to be your partner in crime while you kill yourself.”
“I hate it when you call me Jabba, Mel,” he growled with all the strength he could find, and that wasn’t much, to which Melania reacted by rearranging a bouquet of Chrysanthemums, roses and carnations in a vase on the table next to the President that were sent by the Vice President , with a note that the Vice President believes the President is God-like and would do anything for him except for being with the President and another woman in the same room if Mrs. Pence was not present.
The President was looking at the only, two get well cards he had received. One was from Nancy Pelosi, who wrote that “it sucks being you” and the other was from Stormy Daniels, who also wrote “it sucks to be you.” Though he did provide flowers, Pence didn’t send a card and the President was thinking he might remove him from the 2020 ticket.
Those were the only get-well cards he had received and they were not exactly expressive of love and concern. None of his spoiled sick children had sent him cards, not Ivanka, Barron, Donald Jr., Tiffany Trump or even Eric. His brothers, Fred Jr. and Robert, did not send cards but they had a good excuse, they were dead.
His sisters, Maryanne Trump Barry and Elizabeth Trump Grau aren’t dead but they had other reasons for not sending cards and will probably write about it in tell-all books about the Trumps. In fact, the President was a solitary figure who was never very good at golf and he was pretty much alone, except for the nurse who came in to take his temperature, rectally.
The President dozed off for about an hour and upon awakening found he was alone.
“Mel, Mel, Mel,” he called out. “Mel, Mel, Mel.”
And he saw a note on the table next to him explaining why Melania had left. The President and the his trophy wife were known to have drifted apart since the day they were married and Melania made it perfectly clear in her note that she was taking care of number one and had nothing in the tank for the President, knowing full well of the treasures she would receive because of their pre-nuptial agreement she had signed in event of the sad passing of the President.
“I’m feeling much better so I am out of here. Sorry but I’ll be very busy over the next few millennia and won’t be able to visit,” she wrote, ending with the now-familiar salutation, “Sucks to be you.”
There also was a gift wrapped box on the table with a card from Mitch McConnell who the president never liked and behind his back, called him a turtle who looked dead. The President quickly ripped open the gift in evident glee only to find a copy of “The War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells which focused on how a tiny virus was able to topple the gargantuan Martian invaders. The President did not understand the metaphor because he had not read the book because he didn’t believe in reading.
The President used all the strength he could muster to turn on the remote to Fox news or whatever it is, hoping to find someone who cared about him. He listened as commentators lamented about the President’s health while he could almost see them jockeying for the support of whoever might replace him, just like leaving the body before it is even cold.
And meanwhile, all those politicians who had previously prayed that the President would die a painful, slow death were now publicly saying that they prayed that the President would recover, all spewing the same crocodile-like tears.
The chickens had truly come home to roost.