Winter blues? Just remember, one day Donald Trump is going to die

If fantasizing about the demise of The Donald doesn't buck you up, you may be beyond help.

"[I]f my death in 15 or 20 years feels like it’s too far in the future to wash away your blues, you can take heart knowing that I’ll start to physically and mentally deteriorate well before then. . . . Hey, I’ve got an idea! Let’s try a surefire pick-me-up that is certain to buoy your spirits right this very moment: let’s think of ways I could die!"

-- from "When You're Feeling Low, Just
Remember I'll Be Dead In About 15 or 20 Years,"
a "commentary" by "Donald Trump" in The Onion

by Ken

I only just saw this "commentary" by "Donald Trump" from The Onion, as passed on by my friend Paul. Obviously it was written and published well before "Eulogize an Asshole Day," as our colleague Noah dubbed yesterday's orgy of kvelling over the passing of 88-year-old son-of-a-bitch former NYC Mayor Ed "How'm I Doin'?" Koch. Noah and I, you may have noticed, declined to participate in that particular exercise, at least in the regrettably traditional way, preferring to, well, call an asshole an asshole.

I thought I was being commendably gracious when I conceded that, while Mayor Ed "was a miserable self-serving son of a bitch," he "wasn't such an evil son of a bitch as to command a slot on my personal 'would like to dance on his grave' list." I'm not sure that even Donald Trump qualifies for that -- it seems like more trouble than it would be worth. But I think he will one day qualify for the list that I suggested "largely duplicates" this one, my "happy we're finally rid of him" list.

I'm flashing back to the sublime and tragically short-lived Jackie Thomas Show, in which Tom Arnold played an utterly loathsome human being who had magically lucked into a TV sitcom (of the same name) in which he became so generally beloved by televiewers as a sad-sack schlump that it became necessary for everyone involved in the show from the lowliest stagehand to the highest ranks of network management to put up with his obscenely savage behavior. Until, that is, the most ecstatically loony episode, when Jackie made such unimaginably sociopathic contract-renewal demands that the network brass (represented by old-time sidekicks Martin Mull and Fred Willard) called his bluff, and the writers were ordered to write a script in which the character of Jackie was killed off, and the long-suffering writers were so unhinged with joy that they began trotting out script ideas that, as head writer Jerry (Dennis Boutsoukaris) [pictured above] pointed out, weren't TV-Jackie's-death ideas but highlights of their real-Jackie's-death revenge fantasies.

(In the show, the network's idea was to kill TV Jackie off and replace him with Jackie's brother, who would move in with "Jackie's Family," as the episode was titled. So we wound up with a huge room filled with actors prepping to audition for the new role by doing their imitations of Jackie's signature ticks -- eventually including Jackie himself, wanting to audition for the role. I see that there were actually 18 episodes of The Jackie Thomas Show, which would make a splendid DVD package -- it was one of the funnniest shows ever put on the air. But I assume that the state of affairs between Arnold and ex-wife Roseanne, who presumably has a major ownership stake in the show, is so toxic that there's zero possibility of commercial release.)

It's in more or less that spirit that I approached The Onion's splendid fantasy of Donald Trump contemplating his own demise. It begins thusly:

My friends, everybody has their down days, and during these long winter months it is especially easy to succumb to the doldrums and find yourself in a bit of a funk. But not to fear! I have a simple tip that’s guaranteed to pick you up and get you back in good spirits in no time, and here it is: Whenever you’re feeling low, just remember that I, Donald Trump, will be dead in roughly 15 to 20 years.

That’s right. In the not-very-distant future I will die and then be gone from the world for all eternity. You may even get to watch me in a casket on national television being lowered into the ground, never to be seen again. I bet you’re smiling just thinking about that.

Now, I recognize that the news out there in the world has been particularly depressing lately, and these days it’s understandable that one might begin to feel like there’s no hope and no reason to go on, but let me assure you that there is. Oh, boy, is there ever! Indeed, you can always take solace in the fact that the monstrous, unimaginable piece of shit that is me will stop existing fairly soon, and that I will continue to not exist for the remainder of your lifetime. Biologically speaking, I, the host of NBC’s The Apprentice and Celebrity Apprentice, have no more than two decades left to live. In fact, right now I’m just 10 years away from reaching the average lifespan of an American male.

How does that make you feel? Pretty good, right?

Sure, I’ll have a grand, opulent funeral that will be talked about and broadcast extensively, and all the news segment retrospectives on my life will probably be obnoxious to watch and listen to, and will very likely make you angry. But just think: all of those segments will end with a picture of my blustery, self-important face and the dates 1946–2031 printed beneath it. Or maybe 1946–2032. Or, who knows, maybe earlier! Even if you’re not feeling glum, I guarantee the recognition that my death is a concrete and rapidly approaching inevitability will make you feel even better. . . .

And then, in the same spirit as that hilarious scene in the Jackie Thomas Show writers' room, Onion Donald invites us to fantasize about the manner of his demise.

Perhaps I’ll suffer through a slow, excruciating kidney failure that leaves me in profound pain that the doctors just can’t treat. It could be a massive heart attack while I’m delivering a speech to investors, forcing me to clutch my chest in agony and stagger into the audience. It could be Alzheimer’s. Or I could even be diagnosed with a vicious form of cancer that at first appears to be responding well to chemotherapy but then takes a rapid and inescapable turn for the worse.

And of course there’s always the possibility that I’ll be declared brain-dead after a stroke and lie immobile on a hospital bed for a year or more before Melania finally works up the courage to pull the plug.

And if you need a real shot in the arm to get you laughing and smiling again, just remember that I could trip down a flight of stairs in my own ultra-plush luxury high-rise this very night and shatter my skull right there. Isn’t that great?

So there’s no reason to be wearing a frown, my friend. I will die, and I will die soon. And as long as you remember that, your days will be brighter. I promise.

I don't know about you, but I sure feel better! The feeling may not last, but hey, it's something. And I'll bet the principle can be extended to any number of other human excrescences whose departure would not only upgrade the physical human stock but provide at least a momentary buck-up to the spirit.

#