Donald Trump and Jim Carrey as Ebenezer Scrooge In A Christmas Carol

by Jack Neworth (with help from Charles Dickens)

Decades ago, Jacob Marley and Donald Trump were business partners. Marley died but not before Trump ripped him off,  as he would everyone for the next half-century.

In 2018, days before Christmas, Trump is in his White House bed watching Fox News wearing a MAGA hat and “made in China” pajamas embroidered with “No Collusion!” After wolfing down a bucket of KFC and chugging a six-pack of Diet Cokes, Trump falls asleep.

Hours later,  wearing a sleeping mask with “Witch” covering one eye and “Hunt!” the other, Trump’s snoring like a walrus. (Melania’s asleep in her bedroom wearing noise-canceling headphones.) Trump’s startled by an ominous metallic noise and seconds later sees Marley’s ghost burdened by heavy chains.  “Remember me?” Marley asks.

“You didn’t get the check?!” Trump asks nervously. “Damn post office. I should privatize it.” Marley shakes his head, “Still ‘Don the Con,’ huh?” Insulted, Trump mutters,  “At least you’re not Bob Mueller.”  

“I’m here tonight to warn you,” Marley says ominously, “you will be visited by 3 ghosts. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls One.” Trump asks anxiously,“They won’t have subpoenas, will they?” but the ghost had vanished.

The next night, Trump watches Fox News while polishing off  Happy Meals. Stuffed to his triple chins, he’s overcome with fatigue.

At exactly 1 a.m., a blinding light fills the room and the curtains are mysteriously drawn. Trump wakes, stunned to find himself face to face with an unearthly visitor. “Secret Service?” “Actually, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past,” the spirit says and instantly the two are in front of a dilapidated apartment complex in Queens at Christmas time in 1973.

The spirit holds a Trump rental application with a handwritten “C” in the corner. “This is where your racist father and you discriminated against minorities. Do you recall what the ‘C’ stood for?”

“Is this a perjury trap?” Trump asks. As the ghost glares, Trump stammers, “Did the ‘C’ stand for  ‘cash?’” “Colored,” the Spirit replies harshly. Just then a dejected black family exits the rental office. The young daughter, with mournful eyes, stares at Trump disdainfully.  “I just remembered,” Trump says to the spirit, “I’m due on the 1st tee at Mar-a-Lago.”

Suddenly Trump was back in bed. Exhausted, he gobbles a handful of french fries to comfort himself before sinking into heavy slumber.

Trump tosses and turns from a nightmare, muttering incoherently,  “I’m a stable genius…if there’s a shutdown, I’ll own it! I’ll own it!”  On his last “I’ll own it” Trump wakes only to see a menacing-looking spirit armed with a sword and wearing a wreath of icicles.  “Good evening ‘stable genius,’” he says trying not to laugh. “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

“Yeah, well I’m the President of the United States!”  “With 17 investigations, maybe not for long, buster.” Suddenly the two are at the depressing Migrant Youth Detention Facility at the Southern border. “Separating 10,000 kids from their parents?”
“Ever consider their parents shouldn’t have brought them?” Trump says defiantly. “Ever consider you shouldn’t be president?” the ghost counters. “Or should I call you ‘Individual 1?’ By the way, that’s some Christmas present you gave Putin… Syria!”

Trump grumbles, “You’re a regular Shecky Greene, now can we go?” “Yes, but at midnight tomorrow you will be witness to the Christmas of  your future.”    

Suddenly, Trump’s back in bed amidst scattered fast food wrappers. Thunder and lightning fill the bedroom causing Trump’s bloated body to jolt awake. Standing over him is a hauntingly stern figure that looks remotely like Robert Mueller.  “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,” the spirit warns as Trump’s tiny hands tremble.

Suddenly the two are in front of the White House on a rainy Christmas as a handcuffed Eric Trump is led into an FBI van. Trump shrugs even as Don Jr. is also led away. But when Ivanka, in a revealing dress and high heels, is arrested, Trump’s distressed.  “You know if she wasn’t my daughter, I probably would have dated her.” “So we’ve heard,” the Ghost says with disgust.

Finally, Trump sees a vision of himself being handcuffed and arrested. The ultimate indignity is when the rain reveals he’s more bald than Stephen Miller who uses hair paint to hide his shiny dome! (Apparently his barber is Sherman Williams.) “Alright, alright!” Trump pleads. “Please tell me how I can avoid my horrible fate.”  

The ghost lectures Trump.  “Stop your impulsive lying to the American people, mocking minorities, the disabled and women; attacking Gold Star families; using charities as your personal checkbook; and firing your Secretary of  Defense. Start confessing your crimes and permanently delete your damn Twitter account!”

Cowering, Trump contemplates redemption. “When you put it that way… I’d rather be impeached.”   A broad smile comes to the ghost’s normally stoic face. “I think that can be arranged.”

Jack is at:, and

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