I must be getting bored with the willfully blind who continue to swirl about in Trump’s wake, and really bored with continually seeing the same message in the tea leaves about the vast incompetency of those same Trump followers.
Astute readers may have noticed I didn’t live blog the DNC, and am not blogging the RNC. I’ve watched neither. I’m not a political animal; I blog about politics as part of being an American adult who occasionally takes his civic duties seriously, not because I particularly enjoy it.
But a lurid fantasy or two makes the debacle pass faster – take that as you will – and so, in response to concerns raised by Trump’s frantic claims that this will be the most rigged election ever, I present this.
The date? January 1st, 2021.
The context? Most or all of the states have completed tabulations, and Biden, by all counts, has comfortably won the day.
The setting? The Oval Office.
Donald J. Trump is vengefully typing a Tweet, designed to stir up his supporters, suggesting once again the election is rigged and he will not vacate the highest Office in the land come Inauguration Day.
The phone on his desk – the official Presidential phone – rings.
He stares at it. It’s not that it’s unusual for it to ring, but the news of late has not been good. Fewer sycophants have been calling to slather him in compliments and good wishes. He vaguely wonders if they have come to disbelieve in his eventual victory, achieved against all odds, by … the plans are vague in his mind. He’s not in the mood for more bad news, but it’s persistent.
It rings again. And again.
Fine. It doesn’t look good to hide from bad news.
“Hello, this is the President!” Best to project confidence.
“Hello, Mr. President. This is the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” Trump was unsure of which one of the chiefs of service it might be. It was a manly, gravelly voice, the sort of voice with which he associated a chiseled, possibly scarred face, hard eyes. And a good nickname. A nickname’s a brand, a brand sells, and selling brings money, sweet sweet green. He pulled himself out of the old day dream.
“Oh, hello, er, sirs. Is there a problem? Something in Syria, maybe?” His pulse quickened. Flames world wide would be –
“We hope not, sir, but we thought that we should remind you of a little known fact.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, sir. By the fact that we call you ‘sir,’ Mr. President, makes you a de facto member of the military.”
“Well, yes, of course.” The President puffed his chest out. They remembered his time at a military school. He felt vaguely proud, but also –
“And we felt it incumbent to remind you, sir, that places you under military discipline.”
“Eh? What?”
“To wit, sir, your commanding officer is the electorate of the United States of America. If, sir, you have not properly vacated the Office Of the President of the United States by the time of the Inauguration of your successor, three weeks hence, we will be forced to find you insubordinate to the lawful orders of the electorate.”
“WHAT?”
The gravelly voice paused – for effect, the reality show star President absently noted – and then continued.
“A court-martial will be convened on charges of treason, a capital offense, and you will be so tried.” The phone clicked.
President Trump stared at his now-dead handset, replaced it in its cradle, and placed his head on the desk.
