Why Are You Guys Here?
Trump’s first instinct was to wet his pants. But he resisted.
As the two figures came clearly into view, he knew at once who they were.
He felt surer than ever that he had been drugged.
Damned security fuckers falling down on the job.
Yet he felt neither stupefied nor groggy but quite alive, more alive than he’d felt in a long time.
“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “I believe I have the honor of welcoming into my office Santa Claus and God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, or are you really as powerful as all that?”
Santa was about to speak, but he allowed God the privilege of beginning the conversation.
“That’s very perceptive for a sorry son of a bitch like yourself,” said God. “But I suppose Santa’s red suit and my flowing divine robes, not to mention my long white beard, must have given away the game right away.”
“My, you’re rather blunt.”
“No other way to be than blunt with someone like you. While you rarely speak true, I always do. Well, maybe not one hundred percent to Neale Donald Walsch.”
“Donald,” said Santa with a twinkle in his eye, “may I say it’s a privilege to be in your presence, even though, since you’ve been without fail on my naughty list your entire life, I’ve never once given you any presents. Watched you sleep, though/”
Trump was absolutely taken by Santa Claus.
His radiant joy and overflowing generosity made Trump instantly want to befriend and hang out with the jolly old saint.
“Let’s get to the point of our visit,” said God the Father. “We’re going to do our level best to change you into someone worthy of the chair you’re sitting in. Right now, I can’t think of anyone less worthy.”
“I see,” said Trump. “Just a tad judgmental of you, yes?”
“Well, since I’m the highest judge of all, according to those master legal theoreticians, Rogers and Hammerstein, judgment is part of my game. You might call it the central part of my game.”
Said Trump, “If you agree not to pull rank on me, I’ll agree not to pull rank on you.”
God glowered at the mortal’s temerity. “Fuck you, you miserable piece of shit.”
“Hey, dude, watch what you call me. By God I’ll nuke heaven if you don’t curb your tongue.”
The Almighty looked aghast.
“Donald’s not joking,” said Santa softly.
God peered inside the newly minted leader and saw the insanity coiled in wait there, just beneath the onion-paper-thin skin and the fragile ego.
“That’s it,” he said decisively to Santa. “We’re staying. Game on. And by God, we’d better win it.”
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