A regal smile lit the face of the slumbering Great Trumpkin.
In his dreams, he sat upon a velvet-upholstered throne, a golden crown high atop his head. Members of his court quailed as he barked orders.
“Get me my fools!”
Puzzlement abounded. The hand of the king mouthed “Which ones?” to a member of the small council. A Secret Service agent glanced anxiously at the Oval Office’s maximum occupancy sign.
A few moments later, Mike Pompeo and Mike Pence came running in.
“No,” thundered the Trumpkin. “Not those fools.”
Advisers parleyed. Shortly, Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham made their entrance, bowing and scraping.
“You wished to see us, sire?”
The Great Trumpkin shook his head.
“NO, NO, NO, I want Jared. And Don Jr. And Eric,” he roared – roared so loudly that he woke himself up.
Ah to sleep – and perchance to dream. He’d been engaging in royal fantasies ever since his return from England. How he had loved the pomp and pageantry! For their part, the royal family had divined his zenith envy. Perhaps it was the moment when, having contemplated a portrait of Henry VIII, he had asked over dinner if they thought he resembled the legendary monarch.
“Well, his reign was certainly a Stormy affair,” Camilla said in arch tones.
“To King Donald,” said Charles, raising his glass.
“The Burger King,” said Camilla, triggering a different sort of twitter than the one to which the Great Trumpkin was accustomed.
“Burgher, as in a prosperous, solid citizen, of course,” she said.
She looked slowly around the table, smiled, and winked.
A frowning Trumpkin surveyed them all; you could never tell if the royals were mocking you.
Thankfully, the Queen had no truck with witty raillery. She was sincere, from the heart.
“Donald,” she said, “you’ve done such a brilliant job! But now you must think of yourself, as Prince Philip has done. He has retired from his royal duties and spends his days golfing and watching the BBC.” Substitute Fox News, and that didn’t sound so very different from his own life, the Great Trumpkin had thought.
A voice interrupted his reverie, bringing him back to the White House.
“Sir, they want you in the Situation Room.”
“No, no. Only shows with loyal subjects. Um, friendly hosts. Just ‘Fox & Friends’ and Hannity and Laura.”
“The White House Situation Room.”
Oh, that place with maps marking the world’s most vexing problems. And surveillance photos of Kim Jong Un, whom the Great Trumpkin regarded the way the Skipper had Gilligan. Hearing his foreign policy team speak harshly about his Little Buddy annoyed him almost as much as seeing a ship honoring John McCain might.
Foreign affairs never got any better, so he’d ceased paying attention — and his aides had finally stopped putting briefing memos on his desk. The only thing he found there now was a folder marked “Latest Polls,” though it really should say “More Fake News,” since almost all of them showed him losing to Sleepy Joe Biden.
Led to the Situation Room, he was surprised to see that all the charts and screens had been covered with soothing beige bunting.
Assembled there were all his fools — um, Cabinet secretaries and advisers — with party hats on.
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” said Mike Pompeo. “Not a single trouble spot remaining. You’ve solved all the world’s problems!”
“No need of tariffs any longer!” chimed in Larry Kudlow.
“Rod Rosenstein and I reviewed it all: You’ve succeeded at everything!” exclaimed Attorney General William Barr. “Nothing left to do.”
“You deserve a golden retirement full of golf and honors,” cooed Kellyanne. “We could make next year’s Fourth of July celebration a huge good-bye party for the best president ever.”
It was just what he’d always thought! What he’d long said! All true!
Then Barr leaned toward FBI Director Christopher Wray. From the corner of his eye, the Great Trumpkin spotted a quick facial flick, which made him suspect yet again that the entire world was laughing at him. The entire world except for the dear, gullible, low-information little Trumpkins, that is.
The Camilla wink.