Reports of President Trump’s feigned illness have been greatly exaggerated. In fact, his brief stay at Walter Reed Military Hospital will undoubtedly be recorded in history as the Immaculate Infection — in stark contrast to seven million Americans whose suffering is far more severe, not to mention some 210,000 who are now bona-fide saints. Like Norma Desmond, Trump owed it to Der Furor’s fans, whose proud colors sport the same interlacing wreath as as Hitler and Mussolini favored when the fascist aesthetic was in fashion. Axe me no questions, and I’ll tell Kelly Conway no lies, Mr. Lincoln.
Trump treated networks to the rare sight of himself waving bye-bye — as if he were simply dying to give us false hopes. Now that he has done a double-take re-entering his ersatz palace, it would thrill the world if he filmed his last exit from Whitey Whale House on or before January 20. Now there’s a prime-crime spectacle! The Triumph of the Ill: no fabled victory lap, but the sick soul on goose-step parade, one final time, attended by a retinue of SS men, wearing the Emperor’s new gowns. Regardless of what happens next, Trump won’t get it unless we stage the Immaculate Election next month. Don’t pray for a miracle — only work will make you free. Grab a shovel. They’ve already dug their graves — just postmark the right box twice. And don’t discount the poll booth, even if it lies beyond the end zone.
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