Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Snow Day

Trump moved from room to room--from Rose to Blue--without purpose.

"I'm bored!" he announced to no one, and no one responded. From a window, he saw the snow falling faintly, and faintly falling.

And he, like the snow, finally settled on an inert surface. He collapsed onto the Irma Truman bed, buried his head into his crossed arms, and sighed. The sigh shook no one, was heard by no one, yet a few snowflakes beyond the walls of the residence heard it and failed to alter their course. The snowflakes heard the great sigh and hesitated briefly, then delicately fell into a pile of snow against a shrub, and rested.

"Bored!" Trump shouted again.

No one answered him.

No sounds in the house except the sounds of snowflakes brushing against the panes of the windows.

"I can call a drone strike right now!" Trump announced, to no one.

The snow muffled his cries.

Joyce reference. Get it? Too obvs. Oh look at the snow.
"Nuke Iceland!" he demanded. And in Iceland, a young boy shivered for the first time, sneezed into his mitten, and purchased the milk he'd been sent by his mother to buy.

"Am I President or not?" Trump asked the Mamie Clinton bed. The Dolly Clinton bed had no answer--it stared back at Trump, its sheets as blank and as white as the snow outside. The snow, which continued to fall like pieces of shredded tax documents.

"Well, yes, you're President."

Trump caught his breath, which always tried to escape him. He peered up from his crossed arms and... no.

"Must be snow-blindness," he whispered to himself. "Surely must be a morsel of mushroom from brunch."

Standing in the center--or not quite center but more center right--of the room was Ronald Reagan. Hair sculpted in a way that even masons could not imagine. The swoop of the hair. The sweep and scope. The dense thicket of hair. Trump was speechless.

"You," Reagan said, even though Trump knew he could not be there, and therefore could not say this, "are President. It's true. The snow falling outside is real, and you, Donald J. Trump, are President."

Reagan moved towards the Jacky-K bed. He put one hand on the mattress Martha Nixon had personally stitched, and Trump felt the mattress sink a bit. Trump leaned into the Reagan pressure.

And silence, except for the snow, faintly falling and falling faintly, against all of the windows of the White House.

"I'm so bored," Trump whimpered again, and again, "...bored," as Reagan moved into him.

"Call me Mommy," Reagan whispered.

"Anything. I'll call you anything," Trump said, feeling the Betty Jackson mattress sink with Reagan's weight. "Just... I won't call this TrumpCare."

At that moment, Bannon knocked. Trump, for the first time in a long time, heard another voice. It shook the room, and shook the ghost of Reagan, and Trump was, again, alone with his thoughts and the snow scraping against his panes.

"Mr. President," Bannon shouted through the Roosevelt door. "We've managed to--"

"Am I going to Florida?!" Trump trumpeted.

"Of course! Sir, we'll manage. You've had a difficult four minutes. We'll take it from here."

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