I mean, we’re all excited now about Trump being prosecuted and going to prison and, yeah, it might go that way, and that would be more ecstatic than being the first astronaut to pop ‘shrooms in orbit, but the fact is, the old shitbird could blow out a ventricle any minute, especially when he’s watching those hearings, and the last thing he would see on this planet is Liz Cheney telling him what a whiny little tiny-peckered bitch he was.
So are you really ready? No, right? Unlike your prepper neighbor, who has a whole underground shelter full of Cap'n Crunch so he can wait out the End Times, or the Asteroid of Doom, or something else that just might happen, you haven’t bought a single cherry bomb, polished your cymbals, practiced even one dance step or memorized the lyrics to “Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead.” You are in serious danger of being caught flat-footed if Trump finally has that coronary infarction he’s been begging for.
He’s a fat guy who lives on cheeseburgers, hopefully triple bacon cheeseburgers, and the only exercise he gets is flicking the “on” switch on his golf cart and watching porn. Like everybody else who gives him advice, his personal physician knows better than to give him bad news. Unlike our doctors, who are regularly telling us to stop smoking, drinking, being fat or having intestinal polyps, Trump’s physician tells Trump he's a "vibrant young man," even as he prescribes Trump's daily dose of Lipitor, Adderal and boner pills.
If we follow our doctors' advice, we get to stay off that Slip ‘n Slide to eternity a little longer.
But Trump doesn’t even have that going for him. Judas, who has the same job in Hell that St. Peter has in Heaven,* is waiting on the shore of the Lake of Molten Brimstone, with a beach chair labeled “Trump” in his hand even as I write this, and he confidently expects to seat Trump's doomed orange soul in it soon.
So do your bit. Head to North Carolina, where they sell fireworks that are illegal in all other US states and most members of NATO, and stock up. If you can play a musical instrument, particularly of the noisy, party kind, or a tuba, or really, anything but a recorder or the bagpipes, keep your instrument polished and ready. If you aren’t musical, buy a metal washtub. You probably already own a hammer. Samba lessons? Hell, yeah. You want to be able to dance on your rooftop like a Muslim while Trump circles the drain.
If you actually want to attend Trump’s funeral, which will no doubt be held in the Rotunda of the Capitol, just like a better President’s, which are all of them, some measure of decorum will be expected of you, but don’t let that slow you down. Nobody can stop you from saying “SHIT, I thought this was the line for the taco truck,” when you pass Trump’s lifeless corpse. Try to start a round of golf-clapping among your fellow mourners, or even the Wave.
So be in a constant state of readiness for Trump to gack out, just like you were waiting for the Rapture, except that Trump’s death will definitely someday happen.
Some pundits worry that we could have civil unrest even if Trump died naturally, what with FOX ghouls and Alex Jones seizing the chance to start yammering about Hillary, or the Deep State, or the ghost of Epstein mysteriously killing him, but I wouldn't worry about that. The only civil unrest predicted here is possible brawling between the factions at Trump's grave that want to dance on it, vs. the ones that want to urinate on it.
And if it doesn’t happen soon enough? Well, you’re all set for when Mitch McConnell closes his shell for the last time, then.
*Not orthodox theology. Made that one up.