Imagine if you will, an old, balding man, sitting in a cell. He’s managed to bribe the guards into what looks akin to a somewhat comfortable life albeit of confinement, more or less. There are rumors about seeing him wearing a red hat on the golf course on some weekends. Nobody seems to know for sure. He’s arranged to have KFC, McDonald’s and, every once and awhile, have a steak flown in from his favorite NY restaurant, the 21 Club.
Nobody knows how he did it. His assets, including Trump Tower NY and Mar-a-Lago were liquidated via federal auction long ago to pay for his too numerous to count civil and criminal cases filed against him.
He has a television so he can still watch what’s left of Fox News. It’s not that he is interested in world politics anymore. He just waits until they on occasion drop a kind word or two about the “good old days” of his administration. He is pleased there are still those who remember, at least somewhat fondly, unless a loved one or someone they knew died of the plague, his years in office.
He has several naked pictures of mostly women pinned to his wall. None of Melania. Several of Stormy. He has no photos of his children in his cell. Nobody knows where they are. Out of fear of being discovered, they have never visited him. Without the need for further pretense, he proudly displays several homemade swastika and SS tattoos.
On his best, partially lucid days he dreams of returning to the limelight. He dreams of the rallies, the sea of red hats all chanting in unison their admiration for he who was “beloved leader.” He who is perfect of mind, body, and spirit. The chosen one. On his “off” days, when he refused or forgot to take his meds, he’s in his own mind (at least what’s left of it) greatly maligned and misunderstood. Clearly, the victim of the deep state along with assorted other wholly imaginary, reeking of self-pity and loathing conspiracy theories.
He’s gained about 50 pounds. He has exercise privileges but refuses to use them. He prefers to sit in his cell, day after day, reminiscing, ruminating, and mostly, planning his perfect, beautiful revenge.
However, this all pales in comparison to his latest, greatest, biggest, possibly last (he’s not in good health), accomplishment. He has procured a cell phone and secretly arranged through a back-channel (Jared?) to send his tweets, sometimes as many as 300 a day, not to the public in general, but directly to a secret Aryan survivalist society of followers hunkered down in the backwoods of Idaho for praise, cataloging, page numbering and most importantly, safekeeping on a secret server hidden in an abandoned ICBM silo until, soon, when the time is right, he/they will release a collection of his rantings (he rants too!) for all eternity. To stand along-side with the greatest works of similarly misbegotten “patriots” and “geniuses” (madmen and murderers) such as Mao, Lenin, Stalin and yes, his all-time favorite psychopath political martyr, Adolph Hitler.
It will have a plain red cover, published by MAGA Press with the simple, yet poignant, and elegant title embossed in white lettering, “Mein Tweet.” As a final touch to a life he believes should be the envy of most, it will be a New York Times Bestseller for sure. But with an asterisk, just like his presidency as he’s pre-arranged for the racists to buy it in bulk.
Did you get your fill of Phil?