The Beautiful Poetic Possible End of Trump

Some endings are so perfect, so cosmically righteous that they are hard to envision by sheer virtue of their naturally unnatural attunement. Such is the case with Trump and his COVID-19 diagnosis, which is so profoundly too good to be true that social media is rife with conspiracy theories positing that maybe this whole spectacle is a sham to draw attention away from his tax returns or to avoid another disastrous debate. And yet, against all that is this wretched year of Two-Thousand and Twenty, there can be no doubt: Trump has the Rona’. 

At the time of writing, Trump has been whisked away to Walter Reed for precautionary observations, subjected to an unknown experimental treatment (presumably not hydroxychloroquine, UV rays, or bleach, but you never know), and is experiencing mild to “Very Moderate” symptoms, including “trouble breathing.”

Be still, my beating heart. This long and terrible year has worn me thin, and those old ventricles aren’t as sturdy as they once were. If this excitement keeps on, I might end up on the cold slab next to Donnie. 

Meh, there are worse fates.

But could it actually happen? After months of this endless fucking bullshit, could Trumps dual reign of stupidity and terror finally be undone by the very virus he declared not a big deal as recently as three days ago? Indeed, it was only this past Tuesday that ol’ Don mocked Joe Biden for being overly-zealous with his mask coverage. Last week, at a campaign rally in Ohio, Trump assured a crowd of boisterous supporters that the virus “affects virtually nobody,” before clarifying moments later that it mostly affects the elderly. 

Trump is 74 years old, though beneath the caked on layers of Clemson-orange foundation, the president doesn’t look a day older than 126.

It is, as previously mentioned, just too goddamn good to be true. Dangerously true, if some Twitter reports are to be believed, as physicists at CERN are rumored to be concerned that such powerful irony might warp the very fabric of spacetime; further consequences unknown.

A small price to pay to be rid of this fucking clown. 

While much of the country – and indeed, the world – waits with bated breath for word of this [Billy Butcher voice] leathery cunts timely demise, there are still some fools lamenting these rather miraculous series of events. There are the usual suspects: Trump supporters who, after months of spreading 24/7 crock shit about the fake news “ChinaVirus,” are now suddenly very concerned with the political incorrectness of wishing for someone to die on Twitter. This roster of suddenly reflective doofuses includes name many brand smut peddlers like Ben Shapiro who, seemingly amnesiatic when it comes to their own post history, cannot believe that the Radical Left could be so crude. 


Then there are the politicians, who have predictably reached across the aisle to flood the tubes with thoughts and prayers. Biden, Obama, Clinton, and Sanders have offered their condolences, in addition to countless other boring blue checkmarks across the political world. As expected; although Clinton only posted her well-wishes a mere twenty minutes ago, and possibly under duress. 

And there there is the third – and weirdest – group: liberals, celebrities, journalists, and regular-ass, Biden-loving people. The pasty white Wonder Bread neoliberal citizens, united first and foremost in their overwhelming desire to appear civilized and moral, terrified of being seen as anything rowdier than a particularly heated Maddow segment about Russian collusion. Despite having spent the better part of the last four years screaming online about how Trump is destroying this country, these very fine people now balk at the thought of wishing him dead from the Rona’. That sort of hateful thinking, these bland sponges of NPR talking points maintain, is simply too far, unbecoming of the modern, sophisticated liberal voter, almost barbaric.

Sure, they say, Trump is a monster, a vile, racist beast of a man, hell-bent on destroying the country on behalf of his alleged puppetmaster, Bad Daddy Pootin, concerned only with personal profit and his TV ratings, a xenophobe, a dictator, and someone who will almost surely attempt to steal the election away from the honorable and beloved prison-industrial lobbyist Joe Biden. But that doesn’t mean that we don’t want to wish him [Trump] a speedy recovery. 

Not me. I hope he dies, and sooner than later. The Death Watch is underway, and I could not be feeling more alive. Fingers crossed for a Herman-Cain type turnaround, one of the COVID cases that moves with the blistering speed of an Israeli airstrike, annihilating an entire neighborhood before the sonic boom even pops. After months of cutting down innocent people, the Novel Coronavirus has finally got a worthy victim in its clutches, and in the process traveled along a character redemption arc that would make Jaime Lannister (or Prince Zuko) proud. 

Who knew the hero of this shitty story was right in front of us all along? Godspeed COVID-19, please suck the life out of this bastard before he gets the chance to take us all down with him.