Last week Donald J. Trump lost the election. You know why I know? ‘Cause last week I projectile vomited, and I think I did so as a collective exasperated expression of at least 63% of the nation and 80% of the world.
I went to a funeral interment for a friend (at a cemetery, socially distanced, masks required), and I couldn’t even comfort my other friend (his wife) with a hug. In the midst of my grief as I was leaving the burial grounds, I was made aware of President Trump’s callous, unrepentant, re-emergence onto the scene after his bout with Covid-19 (a sojourn that I hoped would be a come-to-Jesus moment for him). But no…he had a meeting all right, but judging from the results, it must have been with Satan himself. It was then that I decided “yesh gvul” (Hebrew for “enough is enough”)—this man had to go.
As you recall, Trump tested positive for Covid-19, but instead of it becoming his “aha” moment of broken-hearted repentance and empathy (as I had prayed) for the hundreds of thousands of people he had caused to get sick and die due to his ineffective handling of the virus, he returned to the White House crazier than ever. Upon hearing his stupid, boastful rantings as I left my friend’s funeral, I got so upset that I projectile vomited all over the inside of a fairly new Lexus (ceiling, steering wheel, windshield and control panel)! As my husband side-eyed me in abject horror, I continued to vomit into a designer handbag, spew chunks of turkey roll-ups all over his Brooks Brothers suit and his face, all over my cute leather suit and dress boots, down my blouse into my bra, and all over my glasses and new wig. We drove home in silence, completely covered in slime, as we contemplated the metaphor of “life under the Trump regime” that had erupted from the nether regions of my tummy.
No, I don’t have Covid. However, I do have Ménière’s disease which is manifested by an intense ringing in the right ear whenever I am stressed out, which causes a wicked case of vertigo that turns my tummy into a tilt-a-whirl. I can handle most everyday stress—including a funeral or two. What I can’t handle is our country sliding into Hell for another four years. I did not have Ménière’s disease before Trump became President—I got it the day he was inaugurated. I’m sure there are scads of other people who have contracted all sorts of stress-related problems since the Orange horror became president.
But I realized something encouraging last week: The majority of Americans are as sick and tired as I am and are motivated enough to send the Grand Imposter packing November 3rd with a win that will be too big to rig. I’m seeing evidence that all good-hearted, sane, intelligent people have had enough and they are not going to take it anymore! I think my vomiting was a sign to be broadcast to the Nation: November 3rd, purge Trump so that our national nightmare comes to an end!
I’ve been gathering testimonials from the various coalitions who are working day and night to defeat Trump, and I can feel the momentum. For the first time in years, I have hope! I know Democrats are afraid of falling for another 2016 heartbreak, but this feels different. (Of course, Trump is trying to cheat every which way but Sunday, but let’s hope and pray his efforts are obliterated.) People are tired of the crazies. They want normality—dullness even. They (we) are all tired of stupidity and being led by a reality TV star—we did not audition for this movie. The people of the world (except for Putin, Kim Jong Un, White Supremacists, and White Christian Trump supporters) are tired of vomiting whenever the bloviated Orange one causes the world to tilt with his ineptitude.
Anyway, in order to calm my agitated nerves and tummy the night of the great Vesuvius turkey-roll eruption, I slept with a diffuser that emitted lavender oil fumes. I must have put too many drops in the little thingamajig because my dreams were hallucinogenic. I dreamed that I was summoned to the bedside of the fly who occupied Mike Pence’s head for two minutes and nine seconds on the night of the VP debate. It seemed she wanted to alert America about the horrors she had seen being a fly on the wall in the Oval Office and what she gleaned from occupying Pence’s hair. Turns out the fly’s name is BeelzeBUG and she hails from the City of Fraud from the country of Dante’s Inferno 8th circle of Hell.
Ms. BeelzeBUG, I was so stunned to hear from your people who asked me to do an interview with you. They said you had an urgent message for America. More than happy to oblige, but if the truth be known I thought you’d be dead 24 hours after the debate ended.
I am a black fly—not a mayfly, you “nyekulturnik!” Mayflies live 24 hours; black flies are the superior fly and live as long as twenty-eight days—sometimes longer. From my calculations, I should have 5 days to go, but it’s probably going to be just minutes given my trauma in the White House and how long I’ve been farting around with you humans.
I’m not a “Russian uncultured lowlife” Ms. BeelzeBUG, but I’ll let that insult slide given your condition. Speaking of condition, shouldn’t you be tripping the light fantastic by visiting copious dunghills and laying tons of eggs inside garbage cans before you have to go back to Hell? What gives?
I have Covid-19, that’s what the hell gives! I got it from that kiss-ass, Mike Pence. I didn’t know this about him before I landed on his head, but his hair is like white sticky fly paper from all the hair spray he uses. I got stuck and almost died in there.
Why were you even at the debate? Were you there to sabotage Kamala?
Initially, that’s what I was sent here to do by Sneaky Snake. Satan’s a huge Trump supporter. Surprised? I know you’ve been told that Trump is Jesus’ main man, but that’s a lie like just about everything else in Donny’s life. Lucifer said, “buzz around Kamala’s ears, fly up her nose, and irritate her until she goes all mad-Black woman on Pence’s ass. You know, get her to lose her cool.” But after hanging around on the walls of the Oval Office for a few days, I just couldn’t follow through with my mission. I secretly love your country—best garbage on the planet! And so much of it, too. I had to help you out.
I live in the 8th circle, known as the Fraud dimension, which is the part of Hell where most politicians end their journey. It is where “anyone who has committed fraud against humanity is punished.” So, I know a skanky politician when I see one. I came to Earth knowing what a fraud Trump was (the Devil has had his eye on that dude for years), but I was clueless as to the smelly corruption of Pence. Thought he belonged to the other guy in the sky. But hanging around your VP for a few days, I quickly learned he was as bad or worse than Trump. He’s one sneaky son-of-a-bitch hiding under a pro-life cloak. Here’s a little known secret: Pence is auditioning to take Trump’s place if he croaks or to become President in 2024. I came to the VP debate hall to warn America to pay attention to this man. He says he’s a Christian, but he certainly doesn’t act like one—he’s a power-hungry fraud! I was the fly on the wall that watched him for days. I wanted your voters to know that when you take out his boss, make sure Pence goes down the sewer pipe with him. Not only is your country’s future at stake, but so is the rest of the world and the planet. Heaven and Hell needs America to get your shit together. Go! Tell everyone who will listen. This election is not a test. A fly from Hell saw the handwriting on the wall, and I am afraid—very afraid!
OMG! The situation is worse than I thought. I can’t imagine four more years under a Trump/Pence presidency. Anybody with half a heart and a brain will be projectile vomiting every day out of terror and fear. What are we to do to save ourselves?
Vote! Vote as if your lives depend on it because they do! Now I’m gonna shoo out of here. Back to Hell which is a lot less scary than what I’ve witnessed in America during my brief visit. Sayonara, Human.
Eleanor Tomczyk is an author and a humorist who is an award-winning voice-over performer. In 2011, she created the blog, “How the Hell Did I End Up Here” which features mostly satirical posts that have thousands of readers around the world—although she was recently banned in Pakistan (for real!). Tomczyk’s three books were featured in a recent book festival: “Monsters’ Throwdown,” “Fleeing Oz,” and “The Fetus Chronicles—Podcasts to my Miseducated Self.” Currently in her 70s and living life like it is freakin’ golden, she is a consummate storyteller and much sought-after motivational speaker. If you don’t believe me, just ask her!
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