Trump Throughout History
Why should our age be the only one to benefit from such magnificence?
Everyone knows Donald Trump is the greatest leader in history, admired around the world for his intelligence and emotional maturity. He is the personification of everything that’s great about the USA. He’s self-evidently the most supremely supreme leader that’s ever lived (along with the wonderful people’s savior Kim Yong Un of North Korea and the knee-tremblingly magnificent Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow of Turkmenistan).
But while we can count ourselves truly blessed to live in this gilded Age of Trump, what about all those who were born too soon to experience his orange awesomeness? Fortunately, through the magic of counterfactual narrative we can remedy this cosmic oversight. And so, without further ado, let us imagine the triumphant Trump at various pivotal moments in history.
We are now, gentle reader, some hundred thousand years back in prehistory. A group of tired and weary hunter-gatherers cluster around a fire located near the mouth of a small cave. Outside, rain pours unrelenting from the skies. The women are exhausted from foraging and trying to keep the younger members of the group from being eaten by predators while the able-bodied males are spent from a day’s difficult hunt. Only one male seems untouched by the day’s activities. He sits, flabby and for reasons no one has ever understood, bright orange. The group has always humored him, knowing that he is even more dull-witted than the average hairy hominid, and understanding that his compulsive lying comes from a place of deep fear and insecurity because his father constantly beat him and made fun of his tiny misshapen penis.
“I make the best fires, the greatest fires,” the orange ape chatters away happily, oblivious to the fact everyone present knows he is incapable even of knowing what a flint looks like, never mind striking it for long minutes on end to create a spark. “I invented fire. Nobody knows that but me. I’m the best fire-inventor that’s ever lived. Everyone says, ‘I wish I could make fire like you, Don-don’ but they can’t. Only I can do it. I’m the greatest.”
A little later, a feral cat wanders into the cave and before one of the children can shoo it away, Don-don begins to cry in terror and wets himself. Several members of the group shake their heads in pity before resuming the long and arduous process of chewing the tough burned meat that is their dinner. Don-don waits until no one is looking and then steals a piece of pre-masticated meat set aside for the smallest children.
Much later, when the rest of the group is fast asleep, Don-don wanders into a dark corner where he squats for hours, grunting and straining in a desperate attempt to loosen his constipated bowels which perpetually cause him such discomfort that his weak little chin constantly trembles throughout the day and night.
Let us now, dear reader, leave the squatting Trump and advance through the millennia, pass through the last Ice Age, and so find ourselves in Çatalhöyük, or what is today called the Konya plain in central Turkey. A large religious center is being constructed. We are at the dawn of the Agricultural Revolution some 11,000 years ago. This astonishing leap forward is thanks to a chance genetic mutation that causes the calorie-rich seed kernel of grass to detach itself more readily from its stalk, thus making it possible for humans to use the technique of threshing to amass with little effort a significant bounty. For the very first time, thanks to this historically unprecedented surplus of calories that can be dried and stored for months or years, some humans are freed from daily food-gathering and can be set to construction-related tasks.
As we gaze around we see the first signs of what we will come to regard as civilization: stone-walled houses in which families live with their semi-domesticated animals: chickens, pigs, dogs, goats, and now and again a small wildcat that comes to eat the mice that make sport in the granaries.
In the fields women and a few men tend crops; at the religious center men labor moving heavy blocks of stone. Everyone has a job and everyone is busy.
Except one man.
He sits, ignored by everyone, an outcast of sorts, perhaps because of his bizarre orange skin that looks like no disease any human has ever suffered from before. He is talking to himself in the middle of a field. “I invented plants. Nobody knows that but me. I invent the best things, the greatest things. Nobody invents things like I do.”
The orange creature tries to pull up a plant but cuts his hand on the stalk and begins to blubber. “I didn’t do that!” he shouts, to no one in particular. “I never cut myself. I’m the greatest at pulling plants out of the ground! Nobody can pull plants like me!”
The inhabitants of this place tolerate him for the very good reason that he makes an excellent scare-crow, shouting and gesticulating to himself in the middle of newly-planted fields. This is the first and sadly the last time in history that the orange creature will have a somewhat useful purpose. Though, in reality, the crows and magpies are not at all disturbed by him. They recognize him for what he is: a mindless imbecile incapable of stirring his flabby body to perform any meaningful action. The birds, out of pure pity, simply pretend that he is effective in order that the other humans keep feeding him instead of deservedly letting him starve as a totally worthless sack of orange pus.
Let us now, indulgent reader, meander on our historical journey towards a more familiar period: the brief golden age of Athens. Two thousand six hundred years ago the Academy flourishes underneath the magnificence of the Parthenon and philosophers wander the dusty ἀγορά debating every aspect of human existence. Most of the ideas are pure madness, but here and there what will later be discovered to carry a kernel of insight spills into the general discourse.
One-trick Socrates continues to irritate people and Plato continues to lap it up while Aristophanes deservedly parodies the annoying little man in his satirical play Βάτραχοι. Meanwhile Aristotle and Anaximander are beginning their attempts to find underlying laws that explain observed phenomenon, which much later many people will regard as the first inklings of what ultimately will become empirically-based scientific inquiry.
Over to one side of the ἀγορά, in the shade of a small market stall, a misshapen orange homunculus sits playing with a twig, scribbling meaningless shapes in the dust. The creature, having long ago lost all control of its bowels, stinks of feces but is entirely unaware of the fact. “I do the best philotomy, the greatest philbosimy, no one does philately like me. I’ve got the best thoughts, everybody says so, ’cause I’m so smart. I’m like the smartest smart person who’s ever been smart. Even if my dad always calls me dumbdumb loser. He just says that stuff ’cause he loves me so much.”
At this point Socrates comes over to the stall with the intention of purchasing a peach. Seeing the orange homunculus he forgets his errand and turns to his amanuensis Plato and asks, “Do you see that sad malformed thing squatting in the dirt?” Plato, pulling his linen chiton up over his nose in an attempt to moderate the stench emanating from the pathetic creature, nods.
“Would you say it is a man?” Socrates asks. Plato, knowing Socrates’ habit of proceeding with the intention of turning everything around upon itself, nods again, cautiously. “It has a head, and arms, and legs not entirely unlike those seen on more well-formed men,” Plato replies. “So perhaps it is some kind of diseased man, or perhaps some other creature that merely has the vaguest resemblance to a man by sheer chance alone.”
“Indeed,” agrees Socrates. “It has some elements that do resemble those seen on the bodies of properly-formed men. But regard its strange color: what true man is bright orange? And what man of even the slenderest mental capacity has such empty eyes, such a fatuous pouty little mouth, and such evident weakness of chin? Does it not more properly resemble some unfortunate accident of nature, or perhaps the result of an ox emptying its bowels precipitously after a particularly unfortunate meal of rancid wildflowers?”
Plato, wishing for nothing other than a hasty departure from the reek of the creature, desperately tries to think of a response that will satisfy Socrates and permit them to remove themselves from this place. “It clearly has no brain,” Plato begins, trying hard not to inhale deeply, “and it is clearly repellent in every aspect of its misshapen body. Therefore, it is not a man. I agree it could be a steaming pile of manure and this indeed seems the most plausible explanation. Why don’t we go and visit our friends Phaedrus, Alcibiades, and Aristodemus? We can present them with the question so that they may consider it in the abstract and not be diverted by its physical repulsiveness.”
Socrates, in whose insensitive nostrils the stench of the orange creature has finally made itself known, agrees. The two philosophers hurry away as the stall-keeper begins to dismantle his shack and pack away his peaches into burlap sacks.
The stinking orange shape huddled in the dust continues to scrape away with his stick, muttering endless self-aggrandizing phrases and completely unaware of the stray dog urinating all over his head.
Brace yourself now, attentive reader, as we hurtle toward modernity. The year is 1812, the month is June, and Napoleon Bonaparte is in his commander’s tent contemplating destiny. His favorite general, Charles-Etienne Gudin, stands nearby, eager to hear what the Corsican genius intends to do next. Over in the far corner of the tent a peculiar lumpy orange shape is bent over a tureen of soup that has briefly been left unattended by Bonaparte’s personal chef. The orange thing dips a soup ladle into the tureen and then lifts it up, spilling most of the contents onto his feet. He begins to cry, even though the soup is only lukewarm.
Hearing the whimpering noise the orange thing is making, Bonaparte turns around. He smells the spilled soup and his appetite makes itself known. “Bring me a bowl of soup,” he commands and turns back to inspecting the large map laid out on the great wooden table he takes everywhere with him for good luck.
The orange thing whimpers more loudly now. Why are people always telling him to do really hard stuff? But then he tells himself he’s the greatest soup-bringer in the entire universe (even though five minutes ago he’d never even seen a soup ladle) and he’s great at bringing soup, the best soup-bringer in history, nobody knows it but him, everybody says so.
After only forty-seven attempts at ladling some soup into a bowl, the thing finally succeeds in covering the bottom of the bowl with a layer of liquid. This makes him so happy he forgets that he’s soiled his pants yet again. He turns and waddles towards the seated Bonaparte but just as he comes close he trips over his own feet and the meagre contents of the soup bowl are jettisoned over the map the French commander was studying.
“You moron!” shouts Bonaparte, seeing his map ruined. “You incompetent imbecile!”
The orange thing smiles happily: these are the nicest words anyone has said to him in a very long time. Then general Gudin kicks the thing hard in its rear-end and deep in the recesses of what passes for the thing’s brain stirs a memory of his father. Gudin continues to kick and beat the thing until it stumbles out of the tent and sprawls face-first into the mud outside.
When Gudin returns to Bonaparte’s side, the Corsican is staring at the map. “I was planning to march the Grand Armee down to a little village I’ve heard about called San Tropez. I thought the men could do with a long summer holiday by the seaside. But that orange thing has obliterated the route entirely, and without the map we could easily get lost.”
Bonaparte sighs deeply. Then he brightens. “Look here,” he tells Gudin, pointing north-east on the map. “This part of the map is untouched. There’s Poland, there’s Russia.” He pauses for a moment, deep in thought. “Well, why not? It seems the hand of destiny is pointing us toward Russia. We can invade, conquer Moscow, and be back in Paris in time for Christmas. What could possibly go wrong?”
Our final vignette, patient reader, finds us on the S.S. Titanic on its maiden voyage. As the ship was bought and paid for by his father, the captain is one Donald Jackoff Trump, esquire. Although The Jackoff, as everyone calls him, is the world’s most incompetent sailor ever to have lived, his father’s wealth has purchased for him the illusion of importance. Meanwhile the real sailors pretend to listen to his orders and then ignore them completely.
The course the ship is supposed to take will carry it across the mid-Atlantic towards New York. Although this route is somewhat longer than the norm, it has been specially selected as the least likely for The Jackoff to screw up. The 2,208 passengers aboard have no idea that their destiny lies in the trembling hands of a total imbecile.
Two days into the journey The Jackoff waddles onto the bridge. He didn’t mean to be there as he was actually trying to find a lavatory because he’s already blocked the one in his quarters, the one near the officers’ mess, and one he found by accident when he mistook the cook’s quarters for his own room. But now that he’s on a ship’s bridge for the very first time ever, he thinks he should take advantage of it.
A junior officer is on the watch. This junior officer is unaware that the ship’s Standing Order Number One is “Ignore everything that comes out of the mouth of the orange halfwit dressed in a captain’s uniform.” So when The Jackoff tells the junior officer that the North Pole is fake and that there are no such things as icebergs and he wants the ship to head north, the junior officer obeys and alters course.
Two day later, the ship’s second-in-command comes rushing into The Jackoff’s cabin. “We’re four hundred miles off course!” he shouts. “Did you have anything to do with this, you infantile moron?”
The Jackoff looks confused. He’s preoccupied with trying to remember really difficult and important things like what he had for breakfast an hour ago and what his name is.
“There are dangerous icebergs all around!” the second-in-command continues. “You’ve put the ship in grave danger!”
The Jackoff pouts. Fortunately, he knows just what to do in situations like this. “There’s no such thing as icebergs,” he says complacently. “It’s all just fake news. This is the greatest ship, the best ship, it will never sink because I’m the greatest captain, everybody says so.”
The second-in-command stares at the bright orange thing half-dressed in a captain’s uniform. By what madness of fate is this creature in command of anything more complicated than a flannel towel? he wonders. But before he can say anything, a terrible low growl sounds throughout the vessel and it shudders violently. “We’ve hit an iceberg.”
“Icebergs aren’t real,” the orange halfwit replies. “Fake icebergs. I’m the best captain in the universe, all the other captains want to be like me. Icebergs can’t hurt us because this is the strongest ship in the entire universe and it won’t ever sink. Because I say so.”
The second-in-command shakes his head and leaves, heading for his post where he can oversee the evacuation of the ship. The orange lump picks up a crayon, intending to color in his Big Boy’s Book of Ships, but then changes his mind as he always does and eats the crayon instead.