Before his inauguration, President Obama published an open letter to his daughters in Parade magazine, describing what he wants for them and every child in America: “to grow up in a world with no limits on your dreams and no achievements beyond your reach, and to grow into compassionate, committed women who will help build that world.”
America, in the years since my Presidency, I’ve spent much of my time painting. In fact, I’ve spent countless hours in front of the easel, putting paint to canvas—that’s what painting is. If I’m not painting, I’m sleeping, enjoying time with my family, or dabbling in the dark arts.
You heard me right. I’ve been getting in a lot of family time.
And, during that time, I’ve learned that the majority of Americans are unhappy with Donald Trump as President. Having been a President the majority of Americans were unhappy with, I know it’s an unfortunate situation that should be avoided at all costs.
That’s why I promise to ensnare President Trump’s mind, body, and soul inside one of my paintings, using a technique that I learned from a maleficent spirit daemon whose name can only be uttered by the eternally damned.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, America: What do I want in return?
It’s simple. I want my time as President to be remembered somewhat fondly. I’m not saying that you have to consider me in the same league as a Jefferson or a Lincoln. Those guys are some of the greatest political thinkers of all time! (I know this to be true, because I’ve conjured their spirits and spoken with them both at length.) It’d be crazy to compare my time in the White House with theirs. But to be considered on par with, say, Millard Fillmore or Rutherford B. Hayes would be nice. Most people don’t know what those two accomplished, but they also don’t associate their names with incompetence and almost choking to death on a pretzel.
That’s what I want, America.
Consider my Presidency mediocre and I’ll paint Donald Trump into a twenty-by-twenty-four-inch oil-based prison for all of time. I already have the pigments for his skin left over from when I painted Garfield for Laura’s birthday. Plus, I grabbed a tumbleweed of his hair at the Inauguration, so I can easily forge a Sixth-Level Body-to-Soul Spirit-Link. Even Dread Dragon Xaxiqui, “Death’s Stepfather,” is only bound by a Fourth-Level Link, so Donald should be rendered totally powerless. Then again, the code of the Dread Dragon forces Xaxiqui to accept defeat with honor, whereas Trump is not bound by such a code.
You probably think all this sounds crazy, but it’s true. Trump is not an honorable man.
I may not have been so honorable either when I sent all those American troops into Iraq and Afghanistan, or when I deregulated Wall Street, causing economic turmoil, or when I failed to adequately bring relief to Hurricane Katrina’s victims, but we’re all going to forget about that once the paint dries—won’t we?
If this seems like a whole lot to overlook, I’ll make up for it by entrapping Mike Pence in the magical painting as well. (I have a sample of his saliva I scraped off the Constitution after he spat on it for several minutes.)
Hell, I’ll include all of Trump’s Cabinet in the dang thing, if we, as a country, can agree that the “Mission Accomplished” banner business was just a horrible dream.
So what do you say, America? Will you allow me to save the country from a terrible four to eight years, for the small price of retroactively thinking of my terrible eight years as not so terrible?
If yes, the only place you’ll be seeing Trump is in my art gallery, home to all of the other poor souls I’ve trapped for the rest of eternity in my magical canvases of confinement!
That’s right, America. The horrible truth about me is finall