Your Independent Journal from the Heartland
Midnight, December 15, 2025. Chilly, dreary Washington, D.C. nnThe 47th President, Donald J. Trump, dozes at the Resolute Desk, then wakes up and stumbles over to one of his golden sofas and promptly falls asleep. Melania, gone away as usual, is enjoying New York City with her son, Barron.
Trump wakes with a start at 2:30 a.m., jerking upright and swiveling his head this way and that, trying to locate the source of the sound that interrupted his sleep.
Trump stares through the dim light toward the second golden sofa, squinting and trembling at the ethereal presence floating above it.
“Yep, it’s me, Donald,” says the ghost of Jeffrey Epstein.
“Holy c-crap,” Donald hollers, leaping up and walking back toward the desk. “W-hat are you doing here? You’re dead. Of course you’re dead. I made sure of that.” He reaches toward the phone.
“Not very nice of you, Buddy,” says Jeffrey the Ghost floating toward Trump.
“N-no, get back,” Trump cries. “There’s no such thing as a ghost.”
“And, yet, here I am. Put the phone down. I’ve de-activated all your devices,” grins the Ghost.
“I’m gonna holler for the Secret Service!” says Trump.
“And, say what, Donald? No one can see me but you. They will for sure start proceedings under the 25th Amendment if they know you’re hallucinating, especially about me. Think about it, Dude,” says the Ghost.
“What do you want?” cries Trump.
“To make amends.”
“What’s that?”
“To do something at last to make up for all the rotten things I’ve done in my life,” says the Ghost.
“Like what?” says Trump, shaking his head.
“I want to see you impeached for taking advantage of my girls—to confess your sins and resign.”
“I’ll see you in hell before I do that,” says Trump, glancing toward the door.
“Yes, most likely you will.”
“What do you want?” Trump asks.
“Write up a confession that says you’ve seen the light and that your Christian conscience has forced you to come clean and apologize for the all the girls you … you know.”
“I do NOT know. I didn’t DO anything.”
“What about Virginia Giuffre? What were you doing in that room with her for hours, reading her a bedtime story?”
“Well, uh, no, but … “
“But nothing,” says the Ghost. “You owe it to Virginia, who is now dead, in case you missed that story on Fox News, or maybe they didn’t even report it.”
“Not my problem,” says Trump, pacing.
“I just made it your problem.”
“Why would you betray me? We were such good friends!” Trump says and throws up his hands.
“Dude! Did you not read all the emails I wrote about you, behind your back, saying how dangerous and demented and horrible you were? Not exactly friends! I could have destroyed you then, with all the dirt I had on you. Now. I’m going to let you destroy yourself.”
The door to the Oval Office swings open.
“Melania!” cries Trump and rushes toward her.
“I missed you,” she says. “I wanted to see you. You don’t look well. What’s going on?”
“Ah, nothing, never mind. We can talk in the morning.”
“I’m worried about you,” she says.
“You’re planning to divorce me, aren’t you?” says Trump, backing up a step.
She blushes. “Well, no not exactly, but I don’t want to be here any longer. No more of this First Lady sh*t. I’m moving out and staying in New York permanently.”
“You can’t do that,” Trump hollers.
“Watch me,” Melania says, stomping out, leaving Donald and Jeffrey to confront their shared demons.
“See?” hollers Jeffrey. “I made her do that. You’re toast in this town, Donald. Resign now, or I will release all the videos I have of you and the little ones …”
“You won’t!”
“Watch me.”
Rosie Sorenson is a humor writer in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her column is satire and, like Fox “News,” cannot be believed as fact. She has a new (serious) book, “If You’d Only Listen: A Medical Memoir of Gaslighting, Grit & Grace,” available on Amazon if you can’t find it at your neighborhood bookstore.
Email RosieSorenson29@yahoo.com.
See RosieSorenson.com
