Dear Obama And Trump, Please Heal America (And Make Out)
I'm kind of confused how anybody who champions the tenets of a smaller, less intrusive government could be a fan of Donald Trump. You think Democrats and all their bleeding-heart regulations are bad? Once Trump stops looking dumbfounded and puzzles out an executive order to convert the Washington Monument into a giant nudie novelty pen which flips over every 45 minutes and causes the St. Pauli Girl's top to fall off -- and he will -- you guys will be super pissed. He will build one on every corner. This country will look like some deranged combination of Oktoberfest and ancient Egypt. It's like America is now ruled by a goldfish the size of the fucking Sun.
Hillary's emails? Jesus wept. You won't be able to escape whatever jolly escapade he and Vladimir Putin and your tax dollars and the goddamn Apple Dumpling Gang get into, because it will be splayed across every phone and TV and cookie fortune from Sitka to Boca Chica Key. You were so intoxicated by the pilot of a confusingly Manhattan-based reboot of Dallas that you bought the iTunes season pass, only to discover you bought four seasons of some weird KKK-approved version of Sex And The City in which all the characters' names are changed to Donald (all of them), and whenever the name "Donald" is said, the volume ramps up to 178 decibels. This dude is loud as shit and everywhere. You elected the fucking "Who Let The Dogs Out?" of presidents.
"Meanwhile, in Little Italy, DONALD was eyeing some cannoli of her own."
In case you thought I had fun writing all that, well, I didn't. Halfway through, I got too fucking horrified by the Russia-Bannon-FBI-deportations-pussygrabbing of it all that I had to immediately go to bed, because my only joy these days comes from nightmares about my teeth falling out. Well, that and the news that Barack Obama now has to exasperatedly dad-tutor Trump on being the leader of the free world, because why bother reading a memo if the Manhattan address where your golden elevator lives isn't on the masthead of the stationery? (Remember how everybody was so chortle-chortle-hur-hur smug about Mitt Romney's car elevator? OUR NATION WAS SO YOUNG.)
"It's like we found out Emperor Palpatine was three Ewoks doing it under an old tarp."
Why does this news, this news that America willfully elected a guy who can generously be described as "aggressively unqualified," make me even the tiniest bit happy? Well, my first thought was, "If Obama and Trump end up spending any substantial amount of alone time together, there's like a 100 percent Trump is going to cry in front of the guy he spent the past five years relentlessly shit-talking."
"Hey Bar, let me see your birth-SORRY. Force of habit."
And why wouldn't you cry, Donald? Being the president sucks. Everybody hates you most of the time, and you're forced to live in Washington, D.C., which is humid and boring and an elephant graveyard for the ambitions of asshole class presidents who gave up and got a job with the borax lobby. Every day, hundreds of dipstick tourists will invade your house to gawp at Lady Bird Johnson's prized spittoon or who cares. Your whole dumb life is now From The Mixed-Up Files Of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.
You want to fly home to the saturnine embrace of Trump Tower every night (like you did during the campaign), but you can't, because your very presence turns Midtown into a Checkpoint Charlie parking lot -- seriously, the Benihana on 56th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues is so fucked right now -- and because some dingus from Switzerland wants to talk to you about cuckoo clock tariffs at 9:00 p.m. on a Friday. You didn't expect this job, and now you have to study over Christmas break. You would quit in two seconds if you could get the entire planet to legally agree not to make fun of you for the rest of your life. You're debating only Skyping with Paul Ryan, and even then, there's a good chance you're going to try to hoodwink him with one of those motion-sensor witches built to delight trick-or-treaters.
"You want Gingrich's eyes? That's a weird request, but okay."
So yeah, I want Trump to be so overwhelmed with the shock of being forced to live in a museum run by twee furniture nerds that he fucking bawls out in front of Barack Obama. But I don't want to see him emasculated by tears -- that's the kind of macho rah-rah bullshit that got us into this historical punchline in the first place. No, I want our president-elect to be so psychically annihilated by fear of failure and embarrassment and being eternalized for centuries as the biggest putz in the history of the executive branch that he weeps, and -- in a perfect, crystalline moment of absolute humility and vulnerability -- finally learns love and empathy. And not the kind of love a grown man has for a $10,000 Dorian Gray portrait of himself. We're talking about stark, soul-shattering love.
And if reality REALLY wants to get its shit together, he and Barack Obama must have a forbidden tryst over the next two months. It's the only way I'll believe in a semi-rational Universe again.
I ship them as "Bodt." (Get it? Ship? Bodt? I'M GREAT.)
Hear me out. Nothing makes sense anymore. Not the polls, not the American public's baseline capacity to sniff out total bullshit, not Trump's stump promises. Is Obamacare being dismantled or not? Who fucking knows at this point. Bill Mitchell is apparently Nostradamus now. Liberals are now praying for Karl Rove to come back from whatever Wyoming logging camp where he spent the last eight years punching tree stumps and getting Rambo-jacked. George W. Bush is now an eccentric folk artist. Christ on a cracker.
It's now impossible to distinguish the 43rd POTUS from your estranged cousin in Asheville, North Carolina.
America, this was seriously a presidential campaign in which one of the two major candidates had to be headlocked by public opinion into choking out, "Nuh-uh, the Ku Klux Klan is bad." Remember when the Republican National Committee was desperately trying to recruit black and Latino voters to prevent itself from honkying itself into irrelevance come 2050? Boy howdy, was 2009 a wild time to be alive! So yeah, probably the only thing keeping me sane at the moment is the crazy-eyed fugitive hope for a cataclysm that feels as cosmically impossible as President Donald Trump did this time last month. I'm praying that the quantum underpinnings of the universe will course-correct this mouth-fart election with such whiplash velocity that Donald Trump and Barack Obama deeply, utterly, and inexplicably fall in love during Remedial Presidenting 101.
"The passion choked the room. It was like walking face-first into a sweaty souffle."
I'm being farcical, but I'm also really not. Even though I've spent the past 1,000-odd words making fun of him -- and I'm not trying to concern-troll or normalize the eldritch stank his campaign unleashed when they surgically grafted a portal leading to Cthulhu's tomb onto their candidate's epiglottis -- our president-elect seems like a sad guy.
Think of it this way: Imagine you're Donald Trump. You've just won the presidency. You've got your wealth and skyscrapers and your model wife and your daughters (about whom you inexplicably keep making weird incest jokes) and your wealth again (so nobody seems to care about those jokes) and your sons (who out of filial devotion or genetics, copy your haircut). WHY DO YOU CARE WHAT THE NEW YORK TIMES THINKS, MAN.
Yeah, they're your hometown newspaper. Yeah, they're the liberal rag of record. But you'll soon have Breitbart breathlessly reporting on every piece of toast you eat. Also, The New York Times runs dumb shit like this:
Why do you care? More importantly, why did you run for president? If I had your self-reported stacks of gruno, I wouldn't be writing this. No, I'd fuck off to a villa in the Pyrenees where nobody would bother me or question my usage of "gruno" as my own personal nonsense synonym for "currency." Look, man, we've already established that your politics are a mystery box of shouting. Are you doing it for validation from the crowd? You're bringing the rallies back. Was there some legitimate sadness between you and your dad? We've already brought this up, but holy shit, that eulogy at Fred Trump's funeral:
But enough of my pop psychologizing, Donald. You and Barack are going to be spending a bunch of time together! Historians will devote entire books to the next two head-scratching months. As for me, I'll need a hobby to stave off my existential dread for the next four years, so I'm going to get lost in a richly erotic fantasy world where you -- you, Donald! -- experience such radical undeserved empathy that you vow never to be history's most lamentable president. (It'll be like Frost/Nixon, only with way more nudity.) Only love can make America great again.
"What's your cologne?" "It's Trusk. Trump plus musk. Redolent of sandalwood and the victory gland of a timber wolf." "It's nice."
Cyriaque Lamar is a managing editor at Cracked. He is open to offers from Hollywood, even though he hasn't written anything yet. That's the art of the deal, mofos.
Also check out How Half Of America Lost Its F**king Mind and How Actual Nazis Are Influencing Trump (More Than He Knows).
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