Absence makes the heart grow fonder, dude

by David Benjamin

“By April, you know, in theory, when it gets a little warmer, it miraculously goes away.”  — Trump

MADISON, Wis. — Yo, Big Don. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, But hey, it fits. I mean, big? You’re larger than life, yo. And you are the Don!

So, anyhow, I was thinking. Just spitballing here, Big Don. But you might’ve noticed that it’s April and this virus hasn’t exactly gone away.

But maybe you should. Go away, I mean. Get the hell outa here.

Seriously. Think about it, man. Really, who’s done more to fight the virus than you? Name one. You can’t. Nobody can. Because you’ve done ten times more than anyone else. I mean, you’ve exhausted yourself, talking and talking to America every afternoon, day after grueling day. And tweeting your thumbs to the bone. 

I know, dude. You’re too humble to admit it, but you’ve done a fantastic job. Tremendous, dude. I mean, that snarky reporter with the stupid rubber gloves forced you, against your will, to give yourself a “10.” Nobody got the joke. But everyone knows — they’re all saying it — that “10” is an understatement. Talk to Kellyanne, and she’ll give you an “11” in a heartbeat. And hey, that hot new blonde you brought in, Kayleigh something-or-other? She’s good for at least a “20.”

Thing is, Big Don, you can’t risk hanging around the White House any longer, now that you’ve brought this pesky bug totally under control. Let’s face it, stud. You’re too precious to us — to all the world — to be playing Marcus Welby M.D. in the middle of a city that’s crawling with germ-infested riffraff. 

It’s time to blow this popstand, big guy. Think Mar-a-Lago!

I mean, look at the place. It’s a freakin‘ fortress, bro. It’s a velvet-upholstered castle. There’s even a moat. It’s got gates and alarms and government-issue bodyguards — paid by somebody else. And rooms? Gag me with a spoon, man! Ballrooms, function rooms, big rooms and small rooms. Spas and suites and alcoves, restaurants, bars, coffee shops, boutiques and gazebos. It’s all there, and it’s yours, bro. Why on earth would you want to hole up in the East Wing with nothing but Melania. Heck, you’ve got enough rooms at Mar-a-Lago to store a Miss Universe contestant in every one. Hey, talk about eeny-meeny-miny-mo! 

Remember what Eric Burdon said, man: “We gotta get out of this place!”

Look, you’ve been calling the joint the Southern White House for three years. So, drop the “Southern,” move in and give the Americans who love you, trust you, believe in and pray to you — give them a vision of pandemic response that will leave them gasping for breath. You’ll be the shining example shames every other world leader and political enemy, because there you’ll be. Sheltering in place, in opulent surroundings that truly befit your stable genius. 

I mean, it’s embarrassing every day to see you in that cramped briefing room in the White House, with that crappy lectern, fending off the jabs and slanders of the fake-news mob. Besides, spouting health advice and feigning empathy is beneath your station. You shouldn’t have to worry about Cuomo’s ratings, or whether hospitals have PPEs, or if the “woman in Michigan” is hawking ventilators on the black market. Move the show to Mar-a-Lago and suddenly you’re Napoleon in exile, roaming the vast corridors, posing beside marble pillars, lifting your chin and fixing your steely gaze on a hundred hungry camera lenses. 

Really, chief, what have you got to lose? In one swift move, you wash your hands of all the doom-saying party-poopers of the deep state— namely Dr. Fauci and that gloomy Birx broad. They’ll be stuck with mopping up the damage they caused by never ever mentioning to you, for months and months, that there was going to be a pandemic, or explaining to you what “pandemic” means.

That’s it. That’s my case, Big Don. But here’s the cool part. You’ll love this.

While everyone’s still talking covid-19 24/7, you go silent. Not a word. We can see you, but we can’t hear you. You leak a few clips that show you shmoozing inaudibly with Shinzo in your beautiful restaurant, or inspecting MBS’ latest batch of harem girls. But you starve America of your charisma. You make us suffer. 

Months pass. Millions sicken. Thousands perish. Biden campaigns ditheringly. A nation turns its lonely heart to you. At last, welling up from the grass roots, a vast mute chant reverberates across the virus-riddled land: “Send him back! Send him back!…”

Finally, one day, you preempt “Fox and Friends.” You speak, and the nation breathes a sigh of relief. That day and every day after, in the shade of palm trees, you air your famous Mar-a-Lago “poolside chats.” On one side of you, Hope Hicks, on the other Kayleigh What’s-her-name. Both in glistening gold bikinis, saying “ooh” and “ah” to your every sonorous utterance, crossing their perfect legs, tossing their manes, pursing their rich, full lips just-so. Sprawled in your suit, your four-foot necktie and your arms hanging down between your legs, you string a direct line to your loving base. Unfiltered, politically incorrect real true news pours forth from the only trusted source left anywhere on earth — You!

Instantly, “Poolside” is the hugest-rated show in presidential history. Billions drink in your every syllable. Fake-news vultures try to “fact-check” you with slurs and innuendo, but you fight back with the “Chloroquine Five,” an all-star medical brain trust — Rudy Giuliani, Jared Kushner, Peter “I have a Ph,D.” Navarro, Dr. Oz, and Larry Ellison — that makes Alexander Fleming, Jonas Salk and Linus Pauling look like the Andrews Sisters. Heckuva team, big guy!

Anyway, the thing is, man, right now, you’re not at Mar-a-Lago. Hope and Kayleigh are pale and fully dressed. D.C. and New York are festering time bombs. This disease is everywhere. You have a sacred creed — “I’m not responsible at all” — but there are people who don’t get it. They want you to take charge. 

Which is why you have to go. To Florida. Now, man!

And here’s why it’s gonna work. While all the land languishes in pestilence and terror, you will send forth the sunny glow of fortress Mar-a-Lago. Lounging on the couch by the pool, you will fill the hearts of the coughing, puking masses with dreams of coconuts, turquoise water and babes in bikinis sipping mojitos. 

I can hear you now, your voice cool, gentle, unsentimental…

“Lots of you are going to die, folks. Sad. But it’s your fault, not mine. You live too close together, in places crawling with germs. You shake hands, you hug one another. You touch people and let them rub against you — strangers, foreigners. Mexicans! You don’t know where they’ve been, who they kissed, what their kids and dogs have been rolling around in. Yecch. But soon, this horror will end. Many of you have survived by taking lots of hydroxychloroquine — still available, exclusively at trumpcure.com for only $19.95 plus shipping. When it’s over, you will attend a few funerals and look around. There, you’ll see, first of all, me — tall, healthy, powerful, deeply tanned. And you’ll see my new America, purified by the virus, cleansed of all those weaklings who were too feeble to fight it off. 

“Together, we will sanitize America, expunging foreigners, expelling Muslims, deporting immigrants, purging inspectors general and whistleblowers, aborting abortionists, ridding ourselves of the New York Times, CNN and Rachel Maddow, excommunicating oversight committees and Adam Schiff, banning lawsuits by nasty women who were asking for it, cancelling Democratic campaign ads and Democrats and campaigns… and elections. No more partisan bickering.

“My fellow Americans, the virus is beaten, and the virus lives. I have become the virus. I will make you sick, every day, forever — sick of winning! 

“Trust me.”