You buy a ticket, you board the bus, and then you discover that you’re on the wrong one. You thought you were going north, but you’re going south. This bus is headed for Trump World. You’d like to get off, but it’s too late, and so you sit back and try and relax, but it’s like reading a Stephen King story you know things are going to get worse.
You arrive in Trump World, and it doesn’t take long—I mean a day or two—and you see lies lining up to be told while contradictions are being served on cornflakes at the White House cafeteria, and conspiracy theories are flowing from the drinking fountains.
Dunning and Kruger are awarding certificates of merit to the White House staff. Raffles award cabinet positions to the highest bidder. And there are the Russians—they’re everywhere—chatting it up with the raffle winners and purchasing condos from the president’s family.
Now you’re back on a bus on our southern border, with Donald driving and honking the horn. Eric and Don Jr. are there shooting coyotes and other critters out the window. While Kelly Anne and Bannon are arguing in the back, Jared and Ivanka are back at the White House watching the store.
And Donald, thinking he’s a rock star, starts singing and the wheels on the bus go round and round, and the others join in, and the wheels go round and round followed by a chorus of lock her up lock her up. They’re laughing, and they’re singing “Ninety-nine bottles of beers on our wall. Ninety-nine bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, and Mexico pays for it, pays for it all!”
Donald takes out his phone. He’s tweeting again, and soon his pants are on fire, and the bus is filling with smoke. Flames are growing bigly. Donald pulls to the side of the road jumps out and panics for a moment when he realizes the only water to put out the fire is in the Rio Grande. On the other side of our wall. He jumps out and rolls around in the dirt till the flames die down, and again back on the bus driving, and he’s still tweeting—“just foiled a terrorist plot to destroy your president and America.” And now we’re on a roundabout, and all the exits are off cliffs.
The wheels go round and round, and Mexico pays.