The Just Desserts of DJT
Where does a President Donald J. Trump go when he can’t sleep? Why, he tucks himself away from the world in his favorite secret space in all the universe, the reportedly mythical, but really real Trump Trophy Room. From its snug walls, the gleam of gold from all his trophies and awards, honors, tributes, prizes, and picture frames shimmers down upon him, making him feel cozy, special, safe, tingly. Within the shower of sparkles of all that gold, he can relax. One terrible, sleepless night Trump had been in this very room relaxing. So deeply relaxed had he become, absorbed in admiration of his favorite award — his golden hockey stick — that the discovery of a group of Swiss billionaires standing silently before him filling much of the room struck him like a thunderbolt.
“Oh, ho!” Trump cried, his head jerking up. The hockey stick slid from his lap and thudded heavily onto the carpet. “Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you find me? Who let you in? What do you want?” Seldom had Trump shown such fervent interest in second persons.
“Oh, Sir!” The spokesman of the elegantly membered group stepped forward and gestured with unmitigated obeisance. “We know you require absolute solitude to figure out how in the world to lead your country to greatness again; that you are heavily weighed down — mired, one might say — in war excursions with the notorious Iran terror regime out to destroy your country; that you must exert constant, devastating pressure to destroy Cuba before Cuba destroys you; and that your all-knowing, all-penetrating operations rage even as we speak to drive those millions of vote-stealing migrants out before they, too, destroy your country. In other words, we know you are busy.”
“Very busy,” Trump muttered, not quite sure what was going on. Seeing the potentate’s momentary confusion, the spokesman, whose name was Gus, beamed at him and bowed, waiting for a sign. Trump grunted magnanimously for him to continue. Overjoyed, Gus proceeded with his address, for it was an address:
“With all those issues howling for your attention, we know you require this very room to contemplate your many, many options, and how best to do that but to contemplate all the many honors you have accumulated these past 14 months for your efforts in those selfsame 14 months to shake up this tired old world and set it back down firmly on its head. And if its head smashes, well, it just wasn’t that robust, was it? Not robust enough for you, Sir.”
Gus lifted an arm passionately. “But! That is exactly why we were anxious to catch you, that is to say, before any global smash occurred, which some of our more prescient have said is imminent.”
Trump didn’t know what “prescient” meant or “imminent” for that matter, but he ignored words he didn’t know, as long as there weren’t too many of them. No one ever seemed to notice. Meanwhile, the chatterbox rattled on:
“Sir! You have accomplished more than anyone has ever accomplished ever, which is why the world couldn’t help but inundate you with awards. Didn’t Speaker Johnson bestow on you the most wonderfully named ‘America First’ award for ushering America and all the world into this wonderful golden era? Didn’t FIFA recognize your brilliant contribution to the Israel-Gaza ceasefire with its FIFA Peace trophy? Didn’t the world-renowned Washington Coal Club crown your glory with the ‘Undisputed Champion of Beautiful Clean Coal’ award for your heroic efforts in firing up the moribund coal industry?”
Trump squirmed. Such a lot of words, so many at once, all squishing together. He could hardly pick out the ones he did know.
Noticing the great man’s discomfort, Gus responded like quicksilver: “Sir! To be brief! We felt time was running out for names. So we decided to hurry up and come up with one of our own so we could be the first to present you with this.”
Trump watched mesmerized as the Nazarene carpenter negotiated the great, gleaming block off the hand truck and onto the plush carpet a mere three feet from where the tips of his shiny black shoes began to tap together all happy-like.
Gus took a crisp step back as a carpenter dressed exactly like Jesus of Nazareth before world fame carefully wheeled in a hand truck conveying a single block of great size and considerable weight made of stuff that gleamed with a dull gleam that made the befuddled president perk up just a bit. Trump watched mesmerized as the Nazarene carpenter negotiated the great, gleaming block off the hand truck and onto the plush carpet a mere three feet from where the tips of his shiny black shoes began to tap together all happy-like and his hockey stick lay forgotten.
“Of what is this . . . ” Trump hesitated as he squinted at the exceedingly large block. He formed his next word with care. “Made?”
“Made?” Gus echoed. “Sir! It is made of gold.”
“Solid gold?” Trump asked mistrustfully, but feeling better than before.
“Solid gold.”
“And the block?” The clever Trump queried, his mind racing. “Not hollow inside?”
“Sire!” Gus’s reproach was soft, almost chiding.
“What K?” Trump’s power of incisive inquisition caught fire.
The question made Gus, otherwise so assured, blush. “Oh, Sir! You have read our very souls! We tried so hard, we did indeed try so hard for the enriched 30. We even consulted the greatest expert burrowed deep in the mountains under a desalination plant I am forbidden to name. But even the Mountain King was not able to enrich gold as Midas was reputed to have done. And Midas, well, he left without telling — because . . . uh . . . at that point he . . . uh . . . couldn’t divulge anything having suddenly and completely unexpectedly, so to speak, touched his own self and that was that. Such a pity because we all know, of all people, he would have shared his secret with you, because you keep secrets so well. It would have been safe with you.”
“What K is it?” Trump cut through the blathering like a blade. He was in fine fettle now.
“Your run-of-the-mill and I have to say I — we — ” Gus gestured backward to the group who shuffled, looked down, and rubbed their chins in extreme embarrassment. “We must ablute.” Gus wondered at his choice of words, but he was simply not himself before this great man. His undershirt was soaked with sweat and he itched so.
“What K?” Trump repeated, ignoring another stupid word he had never heard before. Damn good thing he was so good at ignoring them or he wouldn’t get anywhere.
“Twenty-four, for which we are so ashamed. We hope you will accept our abject, that is to say, our considerable, that is to say, our humble ablutions.” Gus blanched. What was the matter with him? He was messing up his entire delivery, but he was so very nervous and so very itchy.
Trump grunted. Another stupid word. What a lot of them there were! He shifted abruptly in his chair, grunted again as he squished down over himself, and reached a puffy, discolored hand toward the block. Once extended, Trump suspended its motion as if to savor the next sensation all the more. Then, after that odd pause, he gently stroked the block’s surface. “Ablution accepted,” he murmured.
Gus felt a rush of relief. He gestured to his delegation and turned with them to leave.
“Hey! Wait a minute, you!” Trump rasped, snapping upright in his chair. “Aren’t you going to put it somewhere?”
Pivoting smoothly, Gus smiled gently at the squishy man of steel. “Others are waiting, Sir, to present you with their awards. We wouldn’t think of keeping them waiting lest they miss their opportunity to honor you, which would mean you would miss out on all your puddings — ah I mean desserts, your just desserts, your tremendously just desserts. Perhaps you can decide where to put all your awards once the ceremony is completed?”
“Oh, it’s a ceremony?” Trump asked, wheezing somewhat. Unsquishing himself had slightly taxed him, but like every challenge he faced, he had managed it perfectly.
Gus enthused, “Yes! It is the America Tops Award ceremony. That’s the name we came up with. We couldn’t think of any better name because there’s no doubt about it, Sir, you’re tops. Now, if we let the others in promptly, the ceremony won’t take long at all because they all promised to drop off your awards and go so you can get back to your wars and migrant purges and voter rescues and crypto brokering and the ballroom demolition site as soon as possible.”
“Let them in, but they better hurry,” Trump warned. “I’m busy.”
The remarkable carpenter reappeared, now dressed fastidiously in a loincloth to look just like Jesus after fame struck.
As the Swiss delegation bowed itself out of the Trump Trophy Room, a second group of compact individuals with dark, cheery faces took its place. The remarkable carpenter reappeared, now dressed fastidiously in a loincloth to look just like Jesus after fame struck. He was greased as well to look sweaty with effort, or maybe he really was sweaty because, once again, he pushed a hand truck bearing a gleaming block of gigantic size and great weight such as Trump had just received from the Swiss.
“Gold?” Trump asked, his pulse quickening. “Solid gold?”
“Si, Señor!” Pedro, the spokesman of this delegation, chirped.
“And you are from?”
“We love you, Señor!” Pedro burst out. “We love you so much! We love you more than anybody! We, also, could only find ordinary 24K gold for you, but made the best block out of it for you. A perfectly symmetrical block of perfectly ordinary 24K gold to thank you for all you did to save us from Maduro.” Pedro suddenly clammed up, remembering he was not to talk, just deliver the gold and go.
Trump’s insides tingled. “You liked that, did you?”
“Si, Señor!” the delegation answered in chorus. “We love you!” They began jingling the little bells that hung from their hats and belts. One woman softly beat a large flat drum.
“I’m honored, I guess,” Trump said humbly.
As the Venezuelans jingled out, Trump called them back. “You’ve got to put these things somewhere.”
“But Señor!” Pedro protested. “Others wait to honor you. They come now. So many!”
“There are more?” Trump asked, overcome with a rush of tingles.
“You have done so much for so many! So many peoples have you to thank you and have been waiting so long. Have pity on them, Sir! Let them honor you as we have had the honor to honor you.”
“Are they bringing me nice big blocks of gold, too?”
The Venezuelan faces blazed with smiles that caused Trump to raise a pasty hand to shield his eyes. With full heart, Pedro gave voice to their jubilation: “Nice big fat blocks of gold for you because you are so tops! The tops one! The tops leader! The America Tops person of the century! Of all time!”
Once the width of the room had been spanned, the carpenter — who wasn’t a carpenter at all but an overhead projector assistant named Phil — began stacking the blocks in tiers.
An eerie satisfaction took hold of the America Tops commander as, hour after hour, group after group tramped in, always accompanied by the same carpenter. With the sweat streaming down his lean body, his skin now shone brighter than the gold, although he seemed in danger of losing his loincloth, which he clutched wildly from time to time. But ever true to purpose, he pushed their hand trucks bearing their massive tributes and positioned them, one gold block after another, in a perfect line across the Trump Trophy Room. Once the width of the room had been spanned, the carpenter — who wasn’t a carpenter at all but an overhead projector assistant named Phil — began stacking the blocks in tiers, which took enormous effort because there were so many blocks from so many, many groups from so many, many countries that came far and wide to render up to Trump his many just desserts, always in the enticing form of a solid gold block.
Trump sat as one paralyzed as the tidy tiers of gold blocks rose rather high. In fact, Trump realized he could no longer see the gleam of gold, it had gotten so dark. The blocks shut out most of the light. Only a chink here and there let in any light at all.
“Hey!” he called to the Greenlanders who were silently exiting. Phil had just painstakingly positioned their gold block on the very top tier of the massive line of gold blocks that now ran straight across the Trump Trophy Room. “You got to do something with these things.”
“Sir, you are the greatest builder in the world,” the Greenlanders praised him with one voice.
Trump agreed. “I build like nobody’s business. Ballrooms, for sure. Now I’m doing bunkers under ballrooms. Building’s even more relaxing than war because it all starts with knocking something down I can watch. I love that. Knocking buildings down, other people’s buildings. Like ladies, if you’re famous enough —”
“Sir!” A brave Greenlander — who wasn’t green, by the way — selflessly interrupted Trump’s fortuitous slip. “That’s why we — all of us together in the whole world — wanted to present you with this solid gold wall you could put just anywhere.” Trump could not see with what great pride the Greenlander threw up her arms as if to embrace the impressive structure that spanned the Trump Trophy Room from side to side and floor to ceiling. She even blew a kiss to the man who, huddled in the dark, could not appreciate it, because, lo, he could not see much of anything.
But Trump found something to grouse about. “That’s no wall,” he called out. “Gaps all through it. You can’t call this anything but maybe that cheese with all the gaps.”
“But, Sir!” the Greenlander cried out plaintively to the unseen Trump. “One more group is ready to honor you. They asked to be last so they could finish the job and conclude the ceremony, after which you can hurry straight back to the wars and purges and rescues and partial government shutdown you are excavating now.”
“Oh, all right,” Trump grumbled, but his skin and all his insides, too, were tingly. Too tingly. Waiting to receive one more tribute was getting a little too delightful. Or maybe it was because he had to go to the men’s room. Luckily, before Trump knew it, the foretold and final delegation had entered. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear it.
“If you brought me just one block of gold, it won’t be enough,” Trump called out petulantly. “Hey, you over there?”
“We are prepared to finish the job, Sir,” a voice called back.
“You better,” Trump retorted out of all patience. He did have to go. “No gold and you can just hustle your asses out of here.”
“We brought you the finest gold,” the voice of this last delegation reassured him. It was a deep, beautiful, sonorous voice.
“And it just better be enough,” Trump warned though his heart leapt with joy at this news. “There are holes all over the place in this mess.”
“We have enough, Sir!”
“So what kind of finest gold did you bring me? More of that average 24K stuff?”
“No, sir. We brought you the rare, enriched gold of Midas!”
Flabbergasted at the news, Trump squished his mass back against the back of his chair and listened as this particular delegation went about its work. Trump could tell it worked efficiently because the gaps in the wall were swiftly filled in, at which point he found himself sitting in utter darkness. And silence. All work had stopped. The wall was apparently completed.
“Hey!” Trump called out.
“Sir?” he heard faintly from the other side.
“Hey! You’ve got to put all this somewhere,” he fumed.
There was a pause. He strained to hear the answer, but there was none.
“I said, you’ve got to put all this somewhere!” he repeated, panting. Not only was there no light, the oxygen had gotten rather thin.
“But Sir!” came the velvety reply.
“Yes?” Trump prompted.
“We have.”
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Trump cried. But no answer came. All was still. The ceremony was over, the delegations had left. He was all alone staring into a darkness so impenetrable that he couldn’t see his brand-new solid gold wall three feet before his nose. Partly built of enriched gold, he mused. What country might have come up with that? Restless to get his hands on some of that enriched gold for sure, he instead fumbled for his Coke button, at which point panic seized him. The Coke button was on the other side of the wall. So were his cell phones. So was the men’s room. He squirmed as the unimaginable dawned on him. If something didn’t happen pretty quick to pull him out of there, he just might end up sitting in his own mess.