Drop Dead

Somewhere on this blog I wrote something along the lines of, “I hope I am never so self-debasing as to applaud the death of another human being.”

I stand by that statement, in principle.

But I have to admit that every time I hear the news alert chime on my phone, part of me thinks: maybe Trump has dropped dead!

So far, I have been disappointed each and every time.

I don’t actively wish for his death. But I don’t think it would be a bad thing, even if there is a long line of MAGA maggots ready and willing to immediately take his place.

Forecasting his sudden and unexpected death isn’t all that unrealistic. In spite of his absurd claims four years ago that he’d be the healthiest person to ever assume the presidency (merely another of his countless lies, and perhaps one of the more benign) he is obviously a gross and grotesque human specimen.

He is severely overweight, morbidly so; all those rounds of golf haven’t helped a bit. He is said to be partial to McDonald’s burgers, as well as meatloaf with a lot of ketchup. Probably hates his vegetables and loves his deep-fried French fries.

He’s also in his mid-seventies, and looks like the kind of guy who would be felled suddenly by a massive coronary – dead before he hit the ground. Part of me might like it if he cracked his skull on a rock first.

But it probably won't happen. He also seems like the kind of guy who will keep on living; keep on making everyone in his sphere miserable and corrupt; keep on exacting his psycho-sicko revenge on society for years and years, until he finally dies in his sleep.

Ding!