Trump was outraged when he learned that Time Magazine had selected the Novel Coronavirus as its “Person” of the Year.
“That’s disgraceful,” Trump roared. “I should be on that cover, not some damn bug. The stock market is cooking, well it was until lately, until that stupid coronavirus came around and messed up my plans. Unemployment is still low. The Mueller report fell flat thanks to my good buddy, Bill, plus I escaped being convicted during my impeachment trial.
“But who gets all the attention? A damn virus! Time is a very bad magazine. Very bad!”
On the eve of Time’s release, Trump tosses and turns in bed until suddenly awakened by a bump on the shoulder. He rolls over and is confronted by a giant gray ball festooned with spikes resembling party toothpicks capped off with red cellophane flowers.
“Jesus Christ, what the—!” he cries, flailing off the covers so he can sit up.
“No, not Jesus. You can call me Candy, Candy Corona, here to have a chat.”
“Get out of here. Get out!” Trump reaches for his phone. “I don’t want to catch you.”
“Your crew all went home. Remember the CDC guidelines? Sick? Go home. I’m having a blast all over the world, me and my little virus minions, infecting people by the millions.
And I have you to thank, Donald.”
“Me? What did I do?” Trump scowls.
“Quite a lot, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“Oh but you are. And what a bad-ass virus I am. Thanks to you and your slash and burn approach to healthcare, I’ve become the second most successful virus in the history of the world, and I ain’t done yet!
According to my research, you cut billions from the CDC, the National Security Council, Department of Homeland Security and Health and Human Services—all their programs set up to fight upcoming global pandemics. What were you thinking?”
“Wha-at?” says Trump and lies back down.
“Was it just a coincidence that these programs were funded by Obama and Hillary Clinton? I think not, my little tub of lard. Just can’t keep your jealous id under control, can you? And now, my brethren and I have you to thank for giving us an opportunity to spread and spread and spread.
“You brag about your business acumen? You ain’t got nothing on us—we’re infecting the whole world. How ‘bout that for market share! You’d kill for that kind of success, wouldn’t you?”
Trump groans.
“There I was hanging onto a snake in an open air market in Wuhan when I spied a tasty human and jumped over to her. I’m very opportunistic, like you. I rode her like a rented mule until there was nothing left but a shriveled husk. Then I hopped to another and another and another. Me and my progeny—we can reproduce faster than Mormons in Spring!
“What’s that you say? You don’t feel well, you’re getting feverish, you have a cough? Well, then, I guess my work is done here. Aw, shucks, just when I was enjoying our little chat.”
Trump gurgles, shudders, turns on his side, limp and gray.
“Over and out, Mr. Trump. Back to whatever sh*thole country you came from. Bye Bye.”
Rosie Sorenson is a humor writer in the San Francisco Bay Area. You can contact her at: RosieSorenson29@yahoo.com.
From The Progressive Populist, April 15, 2020
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