how the hell did i end up here?

(Apologies to Charles Dickens for ripping off his story to prove a point.)

CHRISTIAN LOVE WAS DEAD, to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. The confirmation of its burial was signed by prominent Christian clergymen, the Congress, the Senate, the Supreme Court and at least 40% of the U.S. population. President Trump signed it. Christian love (another name for Jesus, the God of love back in the day and said to have been born on Christmas day) was as dead as a doornail.

There is no doubt that Christian love was dead in the United States of America during the Xmas season on the eve of Christmas 2025. This must be distinctly understood or nothing wonderful can come of the shamelessly ripped-off Dickens’ tale I am about to relate.

Oh man! The 47^th President of the United States was a wicked, cold-hearted, perverse, cruel old man who worshipped gold—a covetous old sinner was he! Trump was the color of a Halloween pumpkin with blond hair that was the texture of straw. But his “best” demonic quality was that he was a consummate liar. He would choose to lie when the truth would serve him better in a given situation. No one with half a heart would ever countenance an audience with him if they didn’t want to lose part of their soul in his presence. He salivated over money, authoritarians, and billionaires with an unrequited passion and disdained the poor and disenfranchised as if they were diseased-infused manure. But in spite of all of his money and friends in high places, he had no taste or class. Everything he touched and everywhere he went, tackiness followed him.

The country Trump ruled was split into two camps in his mind: the “haves and the have-nots”. The “haves” happened to be light of skin, and the “have nots” were of darker complexion who he reasoned had, at one time or another, immigrated from what he called “shithole countries.” One of those citizens worked as a night janitor in Trump’s massive White House scrubbing toilets and collecting trash for minimum wage. Although his hair was totally grey indicating a man of advanced years, he was the size of a pre-teen child having suffered from malnutrition most of his life.

“A Merry Christmas, President Trump, God save you,” said the ‘shithole janitor’ one evening, in a much too cheerful voice for his circumstances. “May I collect your trash, Sir?”

“A Merry Christmas, you say,” barked Trump. “BAH HUMBUG!”

The janitor could barely make ends meet due to his meager salary and lack of healthcare, but despite the fact that he was facing eviction and had no money for Christmas gifts for his kids, the janitor’s face was all aglow and full of good cheer. “Christmas, a humbug, Sir?” said the humble janitor. “You don’t mean that, I’m sure. Weren’t you the one who promised to bring back the greeting of ‘Merry Christmas’ cheer to our country?”

“I do, and I did,” grumbled Trump. “But I don’t really believe in any of it. Christmas is for suckers. I just said I supported Christmas and Jesus to get votes from the MAGA Christians (talk about suckers), although I’ve been wondering if I’m going to get into Heaven because I haven’t been feeling so great lately. Weird shit keeps happening to my ankles—they’ve turned into disgusting cankles. And for some reason I can’t stay awake in meetings; plus, not enough people are loving Trump throughout the land as they should. I’m not feeling the love from God either, or else he’d make this Epstein shit completely vanish.  Am I going to die soon? Although, I have enough money to buy my way into anywhere, but still….

“Oh, BAH HUMBUG! Anyway Janitor, what right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? Judging from the look of you, you’re poor enough—too poor to get into a garbage dump—let alone Heaven. Here’s the secret: If I could have my will, every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled in fried chicken grease and buried with a stake of holly through his heart!”

“There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited,” replied the dark-skinned janitor. “But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time—apart from the honor due to its sacred name and origin (if anything belonging to it can be apart from that)—as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, Mr. President, though it has never put a Bitcoin or a share of stock in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good and will do me good; and I say God bless it!”

“Oh, bah humbug,” replied the pumpkin-faced old man. “What a load of crock you speak. Where’d you learn to speak English so good anyway?  Don’t answer—not interested in your stupid life. Get out of my face, little brown piggy before I extra-dict, extra-doct, extra-dose…oh, whatever, before I drop kick your smelly, cat-eating carcass back to the shithole country you came here from. No one gave you permission to disturb me. I’m starving. I need to go and get something to eat. My nightly two-patty Big Mac sandwich, Double-sized World-Famous Fries, and a large Diet Coke are waiting in my personal dining room.”

“Well then, I bid you good night Sir, and God bless you—God bless us, everyone!” replied the inordinately cheerful janitor.

“BAH HUMBUG!!

The janitor scurried off to his next chore, as he shook his head in sadness and prayed for the sorry state of the soul of his country’s leader. The Orange King removed himself to his melancholy quarters in the White House to eat his melancholy dinner. No one else lived there in this part of the mansion—not even his wife—not even a mouse. The only other occupants were his gold-plated artifacts and his piles of graft money he’d made since he took office the second time. He gorged himself on two helpings of Big Macs, put on his night bonnet to keep his perfectly coifed hair in place, and opened his social media account to begin the night’s hateful, vile, insipid comments against his perceived enemies.

And then without warning, President Donald J. Trump collapsed into a very deep sleep.

‘Till this day, the President could not remember how long he slept. However, I’m told he remembers very clearly what shook him out of his deep slumber. He heard bells—scores of cacophonous bells ringing in his chambers accompanied by the sound of dragging chains. Trump then remembered he once heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains. The White House was certainly old enough to entertain ghosts. At that moment, his dining room door opened with a booming sound, and a colossal flame which engulfed three figures, appeared before the President’s eyes.

“Who are you?” screamed Trump. “Secret Service, Secret Service, come quickly, I’m being attacked by Antifa.”

“We are not Antifa, and your Secret Service team has fallen asleep under our spell and will remain so until our work here is done. We are the three ghosts of Micah 6:8 from the Bible you say you believe in.  We have been sent to you by the God of Christmas,” said all the ghosts in unison. “We represent the mandate given to all people who say they believe in God, and who claim they want to get into Heaven.”

“Mandate? What mandate,” said Trump. “I didn’t set up any Micah 6:8 mandate, and if I didn’t pass that bill, it ain’t happening! Get out, get out, GET OUT!”

In a perfect Greek chorus recitative, the three ghosts once again spoke in unison. 

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”—Micah 6:8

“If you want to fulfill the true Christmas spirit, look at the PowerPoint slides scrolling across the wall over the fireplace and you’ll soon know of the sins for which you must repent.  For the sake of your pathetic soul, look, listen, and learn….”

THE GHOST OF JUSTICE

“I am the Ghost of Justice,” said a young woman who was the spitting image of all the Epstein young women who were ever defiled by Epstein and his buddies. “We could have all been your daughter’s age at one time or another. I seek nothing more but justice—the truth and nothing but the truth—for I am one face of a thousand. Open the windows and let in the light and expose all you know about these horrific crimes, and I will stop the torment. I can’t give you any guarantees, but it might go a long way in getting you an audience with the powers that be for your application to get into Heaven.

THE GHOST OF MERCY

“Hola, hombre despreciable. Soy el fantasma de la misericordia (‘Hello you horrible man. I am the Ghost of Mercy’)!” said the specter, a Hispanic woman who, all in one glance, looked like every immigrant who had been unjustly and cruelly terrorized by ICE. “If you will call off your ICE savages, restore the lives of those they have destroyed, and slavishly work to implement the quote on the Statue of Liberty (‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free’), I will forgive you because doing so would be the embodiment of Christmas—the ultimate Christmas gift—but I can’t make any promises about Heaven.”

THE GHOST OF HUMILITY

“Umph, umph, umph,” said a plus-sized Black woman who was a doppelganger of the actress Da’Vine Joy Randolph, and who represented an angry ass-whoopin’ for all misbehaving old White men down through the ages. “I don’t really know what to say to you, you sorry-ass old excuse of a human bein’. I am the Ghost of Humility, but I’m not feelin’ very humble toward you this evenin’. I just feel like kickin’ your ass from one pillar to the next post for all the mayhem and chaos you done brought upon all the peoples on the Earth who ain’t rich, White, and male.  Ain’t you the one that’s been goin’ around tellin’ folks you the ‘Chosen One’—comparing yo’self to Jesus? Boy, you ought to be ashamed! If I had my druthers, yo’ sorry ass would roast in Hell for all eternity, but I am in no position to judge—I wish I could judge you, but I can’t. Unfortunately, I have to leave that task up to God. But I’ll tell you one thing, if you look at me cross-eyed this evenin’, I swear to God that I’ll pray the Lawd Almighty will strike your fat ass right down to the very bottom of Hell.!”

For hours on end, the PowerPoint presentation of all the President’s sins and misdeeds flashed before his eyes, and he saw what his future held on this Earth when justice finally caught up with him.

Somewhere midway through the presentation, the Spirits transposed Trump’s own children and grandchildren’s faces on the victims of all his cruel acts. Some of the pictures and clips were so graphic that at least one of the President’s Big Macs erupted through his volcanic piehole to splatter itself all over his clothes and feet. When he couldn’t take it anymore, seeing his own family tormented to such horrid degrees, he begged and begged the Spirits to stop and set him free. At that point, the Spirits roughly scooped Trump up and took him to Arlington Cemetery where one could hear his voice on a loop over a loudspeaker screaming: “Why should I go to that cemetery? It’s filled with LOSERS, LOSERS, LOSERS….”

Then the Ghost of Justice pointed to one of the gravestones which read:

COMING SOON…

DONALD J. TRUMP

Here lies the most despicable human being to ever walk the Earth

He will forever be mocked and scorned by all future generations

For his cruel, vile, deplorable, heartless comments and actions

Even Satan asked if he might reside someplace else other than Hell

“Before I draw nearer to that gravestone,” said a sobbing Trump, “answer me one question. Are you three the end all and be all of my life? All human lives might foreshadow certain ends, but that doesn’t mean things can’t change before they die. Have you no mercy?

The Spirits were immovable and said nothing.

The President began to sob and shake uncontrollably as he groveled at the feet of the Ghost of Justice. “No, Spirit! Oh no, no! Spirit,” he cried, tightly clutching the robed arm of the Ghost of Mercy. “I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! Hear me! I am not the man I was at the start of this night. Your presentation has made me see the error of my ways. I saw my family in the faces of those poor wretches. Come on guys, why show me my gravestone if I am past all hope?”

“Good Spirit,” Trump continued, as he fell before the Ghost of Humility, “your nature should intercede for me, and pity me. Assure me that I yet may change these images you have shown me by an altered life?

“I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God. I swear to God, I’ll change if the spirits of all three of you will strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that you teach. Oh, tell me I may erase away the writing on this stone!”

At which point, the spirits suddenly vanished and the 47^th President of the United States woke up with the morning sun from the East window baptizing him in a stream of redemptive light as it reflected off a Big Mac wrapper stuck to his left orange cheek. However, he paid the food wrapper no never mind, as he gleefully rang his Chief of Staff.

“Susie, call a meeting of my Cabinet for the day after Christmas and tell them that the agenda will focus on multiple urgent matters to begin with: complete exposure of the Epstein files to the public (let the chips fall where they may), a total reversal of ICE orders, securing lower fair prices for Obamacare, and the cancelling of my social media site (between the junk food and my late-night hate-rants on social media, I’m having some awful nightmares).

“Also, send someone with enough groceries fit for a Mar-a-Lago Christmas dinner to the night janitor’s home. Find out if he has kids and grandkids. If he does, please send a truck load of presents. Grab one of Melania’s Christmas trees and take it to the janitor and his family, and when we return let’s take a look at his salary—let’s increase it to a substantial living wage.  What’s his name, by the way? He never properly introduced himself.

“What, Susie? What’s that you say? The janitor’s name is Micah Sixate? (“That old man was ‘Micah 6:8,’ the place from which the three spirits of my nightmares hailed?”), muttered the President. (“Well, I’ll be damned….”) And with all the joyous release of a prisoner having escaped a date with the guillotine, the President began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh with overwhelming joy!

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, SUSIE!” shouted President Trump into his phone. “May God bless you, my friend, and may God bless ALL THE PEOPLE in the United States of America!”

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