Americans are feeling sick and laughter is the best medicine 

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I don’t know about you folks, but I’m getting tired of the dark specter haunting America, and I’m wondering when it will finally be gone.

You know the old expression, “Go away and never darken my door again?” It’s something every real American should be saying—I firmly voice that command literally hundreds of times a day, but getting rid of the orange buffoon Donald Trump is no easy task. That specter is as overpowering as the odor hanging over a morgue when the power’s been off for a week.

Sometimes I visualize it as a “cloud of noxious gas,” but other times it reminds me of an insect hoard. I’ve gone to extremes, including spraying my 60-inch flat screen with that long-banned DDT—you know, it’s one of the few effective treatments for getting rid of roaches. Even the DDT has had no effect; every few minutes of programming, there’s still yet another reference to the DJT infestation.

Lately, I’ve been having nightmares about my home being overrun by thousands of his cultist clones—all carrying little “Don’t Tread on Me” flags—darting out from under my furniture and across the linoleum floor during my late-night pee break. I experience waves of nausea as I consider the sickening crunch as my bare feet squish yet another of his band of brothers, the MAGA hoard of green-blooded, so-called Americans.

So, “Who do yuh call?” Ghostbusters? No, not this time.

Truly Nolan, bless its heart, has tried everything. But my bill is growing, and I think there may be more of those nasty little critters today than there were a week ago. It’s hard for me to understand why everyone—including the GOP—hasn’t hired a competent fumigator.

I guess I shouldn’t be so negative. After all, isn’t there some redeeming value in every human being? It’s a question I ask myself regularly, and the answer is always the same: “No.”

Well, as long as Trump persists in being America’s “greatest, smartest, richest,” shadiest, mouthiest and most corrupt self-declared patriot, one can only hope for the best. Maybe the time is approaching when he’ll be a changed man. After all, isn’t that the purpose of our prison system? Presto! A miraculous transformation and an actual commitment to spending his time righting his wrongs and trying to make America Great Again.

Maybe T-Rump could start a bona fide charity and do something good for the world. If he just saves up his 21 cents per day during his incarceration, he could have enough money in 30 years to buy a tube of Minoxidil or Rogaine.

That could be the beginning of a grand humanitarian effort. I mean, just think of it! The “DJT Nouveau Coiffe Foundation for Aging Eagles,” dedicated to re-feathering the heads of all the “Bald” ones.

Finally, we’ll all be able to see Trump in a completely new light, understanding that he really does have a heart. His Bald Eagle charity will make everyone smile. Of course, like everything he does, Trump will make sure that the rejuvenated birds carry his special brand, adding a few orange feathers as their crowning glory and renaming the birds “the American Orange-Crested Semi-Bald Eagle.”

Actually, Trump needs to learn to lighten up a bit, and I’m talking about more than reducing the thickness of his orange makeup. He needs to quit being so serious, needs to dump the idea that everyone’s out to get him, and he needs to trade his permanent scowl for a more friendly look. Maybe a little time-served can nudge him along.

A good start might be Trump jumping off the wagon—just like he did at the Libertarian Convention. (Oh, you hadn’t heard?) All his life, he’s avoided alcohol, understanding that every drink kills off a few of those essential neurons in the brain.

Yes, despite his obnoxious braggadocio, he was always acutely aware that he didn’t have any gray matter to spare, and that claiming he was America’s smartest would end when the last of it was gone. Using simple math, we can determine the effect of losing just one neuron—two minus one equals one, so it would leave Trump a half-wit. Actually, that could take some of the culpability away, providing a medical reason for all that crap that comes from his mouth.

As for the Libertarian convention, it seems that those people hold to an ideology that is pretty much aligned with patriotism and love of country, and they didn’t much like Trump claiming to be one of them. An unpleasant din had filled the venue, and Trump’s teetotaler image came to a grinding halt. It was, after all, a demoralizing event, for the “boos” had definitely ruined his evening. (Luckily, it had only been “near-boos,” so he was able to hang on to his last neuron.)

Well, we can dream, can’t we? Regardless of the outcome on his criminal prosecutions, Trump is probably incapable of any critical introspection, and that rules out the possibility of improvement.

Trump’s own Waterloo is likely approaching, and Americans may look to a time when he’s an all-but-forgotten bad dream.

The author is a retired businessman, novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and their adorable and ferocious dog “Poppy.” comments@cityweekly.net