A Trump Christmas Carol

McCarthy was dead to begin with. So were Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini, all the enemies of America, internal and external, dead and buried, gone and forgotten, doornails all.

Trump knew it. How could it be otherwise? Trump learned at the feet of McCarthy’s counsel and heir, Roy Cohn, who taught him to make his way in public life. Roy would be proud. Trump had made his way all the way to the White House without ever compromising the principles Roy had taught him.

Trump looked forward to his first Christmas in the White House, toward the ceremony where he would light the National Christmas Tree, and even more to the Christmas ceremony where he would be presented with his weight in gold on behalf of the adoring American public. That was a thing, right? If not, it soon would be. To think, people made fun of how much pie he ate. He was a better strategist than they thought.

As Christmas Eve drew to a close, Trump wished White House employees a Merry Christmas. A few of them seemed to linger at the White House before leaving, as if they were expecting something, though what he could not imagine. It wasn’t as though anyone was going to give them their weight in gold. NORAD was conscientiously tracking Santa’s progress. (The Santa Tracker was one federal agency that was fully funded and fully staffed.)

Trump was in his bedroom, happily tweeting Christmas curses to a long list of enemies, when he felt a strange chill and heard a strange clanking, sound, as if someone were dragging chains. A shadowy figure appeared in a corner of the room. Its face was strangely familiar. Surely it was not the face of the long-dead Roy Cohn. Maybe there was such a thing as too much pie. “Who are you?” Trump asked.

“I was your mentor and role model, Roy Cohn,” replied the figure. “I have been wandering for thirty years in a void I created in my life, and now I have come to show you what I have learned since death.”

“You are covered in chains,” said Trump, and indeed the figure was weighted by massive chains that appeared too heavy for it. An expression of annoyance passed over the figure’s face. “It’s called bling,” he said. “I have come to teach you about Christmas.”

“But you’re Jewish,” objected Trump, secretly proud of himself for remembering a fact about another person,

“True,” said Cohn, “But I’ve seen enough Fox News to know that even Jewish conservatives are required to be partisans of Christmas. Let’s go.”

“Are you going to take me yourself?” asked Trump, “No Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future?”

“They’ve been downsized as redundant,” replied Cohn. “Let’s get moving.” The ghost did something magical, and they were on their way.

“First stop,” said Roy. They were in a rowboat, surrounded by other rowboats. “What’s this supposed to be? I don’t see me in this picture.” said Trump. “That’s because it’s Christmas, 1776. That’s George Washington over there, leading his troops across the Delaware River for a surprise attack on the Hessians.” “Who knew Christmas could be this much fun?” asked Trump. “But what are Hessians?” “German mercenary troops hired by the British to fight the Americans in the Revolutionary War. The point is that even stodgy old George Washington knew how to combine Christmas with your other favorite thing, war fought by people who are not you.“ “I always thought Washington was a wimp,” said Trump. “Wouldn’t be king and wouldn’t tell a lie. But this surprise attack thing rocks.”

“Enough past, on to the present,” said Cohn, and waved his arm.

They found themselves in the corner of a small apartment crowded with children and two harried parents. “That guy looks familiar,” said Trump. “Don’t you recognize him?” asked Cohn. “That’s Bob Cratchit, the contractor you hired to build your latest golf course. He lost his company, and then his house, when you didn’t pay him for the work. Now his family is scrounging for a Christmas dinner. ” “He did a lousy job,” replied Trump. “Do you know what I shot on that course? Who’s the funny-looking kid on the end?” “That’s Cratchit’s child, Tiny Tim. He has a preexisting condition and the Cratchits are afraid he will lose his medical coverage under Trumpcare.” “More like Whiny Tim,” sniffed Trump, imitating the child’s limp. “God bless us, every one,” said the little boy. “God bless us, every one,” sneered Trump in a plaintive falsetto. “What a bunch of losers.”

“One more stop,” said Cohn.

They were looking at a White House barely recognizable under baroque gold leaf curlicues, topped by neon signs that flashed “TRUMP” in both directions. “I like this place,” said Trump. “Is it Christmas?”

“It’s Russian Christmas, January 7th. Russian Christmas has been celebrated in the United States since you made it a tributary of the Russian Federation. Your supporters agreed to the new date once you pointed out to them that it gave them two more weeks to make other people say “Merry Christmas.”

“Good point. I’m always doing things for the American people”

“I see my whole family in the White House except for my son-in-law. Did something happen to him?”

“The alt-right came for him a long time ago. He thought he’s be okay since he was your son-in-law, but whatever they call themselves, Nazis are Nazis.”

“So my daughter is single? Good to know. Why are there so many people in the street? Are they fans?”

“Actually, they’re all homeless. The American economy was devastated after you banned immigrant talent and removed workplace discrimination protections for women and minorities.”
“Too bad for them. What about all those coal jobs I created?”

“Mandating a lump of coal in the Christmas stocking of every person who voted against you doesn’t actually create all that many jobs.”

“I knew there weren’t really very many of them. But what about my one-postcard tax reform?”

“The one where every working person got a postcard with the name of which billionaire they should send their paycheck to? It gutted the economy and was actually massively unpopular with everyone but billionaires. Who knew?”

“Oh, well. No one really understands economics anyway. Enough about all those boring other people. Am I on Mount Rushmore yet?”

“A prime spot between Joe McCarthy and Jeff Davis.”

“Good. And how is Trump Enterprises doing?”

“With all the tax breaks, government contracts, mandatory free advertising, prohibitions on criticizing you, moratorium on investigation of money laundering, and foreign leaders trying to curry favor with you, it’s doing better than ever. It’s the highest-earning company in the world. By the way, you didn’t ask about Tiny Tim. Like millions of Americans he died when you abolished health insurance.”

“I should try to remember to tweet some thoughts and prayers sometime, if I think of it.”

Cohn spirited Trump back to his White House bedroom. Trump’s cell phone lay abandoned where he had left it.

“That’s the end of the tour,” said Cohn. “You’ve seen everything you need to see. Have you learned your lesson?”

“You bet I have,” said Trump. “I’m perfect.” With that, he picked up his phone to tweet Christmas curses to more people he didn’t like. He smiled. “This is the best Christmas ever.”