Hallelujahs echoed across the Blue Media late last week when the news broke that Donald Trump tested positive for coronavirus.
For four years the president had foiled every ambuscade set along his path by a morally-inflamed, predatory Resistance, and each time he beep-beeped his way around the trap. But, now, with a little help from a pitiless universe, they had him! A gazillion tiny, viral assassins were stealing through his bloodstream like so many microscopic jihadis, primping him for an agonizing death: his alveoli withering, red corpuscles robbed of their vital O2, pink foam issuing from his nostrils, toes and fingers turning blue-green — and most deliciously of all, he’d remain conscious of his imminent defeat, of the life (which he’d never deserved in the first place) draining by degrees from his wicked, orange, bloated, supine carcass…
Except… wait a minute… what the hell…? How could it be! Late Sunday he somehow arose from his bed-of-death, ordered pizza (with meat!) for a thousand imps and demons camped outside Walter Reed Hospital, and walked under his own power (!) into a limousine to take a ride around the block and wave at his unholy minions! The cheek of this man!
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