When the world heard that Donald Trump had Covid, America trembled. He returned long awaited greatness to our fingertips. Now it could be all washed away.
Trump was among the riskiest patients. He’s 74, clinically obese, and suffers from a lifelong affliction of male compensation issues. Moreover, White House doctors refused to treat him. He’d been stiffing them on their bills for months. A mad scramble through the D.C. phone book found no takers unless he paid upfront.
Aides turned to Bocephus Jennings, a landscaper from Arkansas. He’d caught the president’s eye after recently appearing as a medical expert on Fox News. As Trump was evacuated to Walter Reed Medical Center, Jennings was seen furiously Googling “science” on his phone.
Yet the landscaper is adhering to the president’s own scientific theories to ensure recovery. Light fixtures have been installed in Trump’s orifices. He’s being administered heavy doses of Clorox and other household cleaners. Marv the Magnificent, a fixture at children’s birthday parties, has been brought in to apply magic. Anti-victimology serums are being used to relieve the whining.
Dr. Scott Atlas, a White House spokesman, says the president is “too manly” to fall prey to Covid, likening him to “those 132-year-old turtles you see at the zoo.” He points to Trump’s strict nutritional regimen of Diet Coke, Big Macs, and ketchup, which gives him “the constitution of a teenage girl.”
Others note the stamina inherent in the president’s exhausting work schedule. He begins his day with early rage tweeting, followed by two hours in makeup and hair, extensive television, a brief appearance in the Oval Office, then grueling exercise in which he’s driven around in a go-cart to hit a tiny ball. His day usually ends in mid-afternoon with another marathon round of television.
Aides further point to Trump’s legendary toughness. He grew up on the mean streets of East Coast boarding schools, spending years in the trenches battling siblings over his father’s will. Younger aides call him “President Liger” – part lion, part tiger.
“He’s the king of the jungle,” says one. “You know if he catches you, you’re about to be slathered with extra mayo.”
He’s also held in awe for his high threshold for pain. Once, a makeup artist mistakenly applied coral bronzer. Trump wanted apricot. The president spent 10 horrifying minutes enduring astringent removal. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” says a beauty consultant who witnessed the incident. “He only whimpered like three times.”
Sean Hannity is one of the president’s closest supplicants. He’s certain Trump is too tough to die. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he got Covid purpose, just to prove who’s better at killing,” says the Fox News dramatist.
Doctors say Trump isn’t out of the woods yet. As a precaution, Jennings has enlisted his buddy Herm, who runs a bait shop in Little Rock. Leeches were airlifted to Walter Reed. Back when America was great, they were commonly used to extra impurities from the body, before regulatory overreach discontinued their use.
The president is responding well to the treatment. Aides say he’s returning to form, shouting grievances and blaming others.
Yet outside the hospital, the mood remains tense. A vigil of white supremacists and bankers gathers in prayer. Junior aides hand passersby proposals for their tell-all books. Mike Lindell, CEO of MyPillow, has been pounding on the windows for days, urging Trump to ingest a toxic shrub to repel the virus. It’s been tested on neither human nor animal. But Lindell’s “pretty sure” it will work. “I got a shitload invested in it,” he says.
America can only hope that he’s right. If Trump falls to a virus that’s already killed 208,000 Americans, our last chance at greatness will likely be delivered a fatal blow.