NOTE:  The idea for this blog materialized yesterday following three news stories which came together in a perfect brainstorm–announcement of a forthcoming book about Donald T****’s last days in the White House, the 40th anniversary of John Lennon’s murder outside his Central Park residence and the unanimous decision by the Supreme Court to reject an application for injunctive action to stop certification of Joe Biden’s victory in Pennsylvania.

Yesterday, Washington Post chief White House correspondent Robert Costa and investigative reporting icon Bob Woodward announced they would team up to write a chronicle of Donald T****’s final days in the Oval Office.  This will be Woodward’s second such effort following publication of The Final Days, documenting the end of the Nixon era, co-authored with former Post colleague Carl Bernstein.

Highlights from Woodstein’s (the moniker given to the two then rookie journalists by Post editor-in-chief Ben Bradlee) collaboration included Nixon’s conversation with portraits of previous presidents and his asking then Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, the night before his formal resignation, to get down on his knees and join the soon to be ex-president in prayer for the nation.  In memory of John Lennon, on the anniversary of his death, I thought it would be an apt tribute to “Imagine” what one of the juicier tidbits might be in this forthcoming narrative of how another delusional commander-in-chief coped with his pending exile from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  Imagine the following excerpt from the Costa/Woodward book.

Truth Wars
Episode Four/A Final Hope

The news had not been good.  But no one should have been surprised.  If you are going to pick a metaphor, select one that matches your desired outcome.  If you want to destroy an enemy, do not compare your means of doing so to the Empire’s “Death Star,” as did T**** campaign manager Brad Parscale.  He obviously slept through the last ten minutes of every Star Wars film in which the rebel forces destroyed this ultimate weapon over and over again.  Or refer to the emergence of a less-than-crack legal team as “unleashing the kraken,” another fatality in the annals of cinema.

But hope survived.  T**** had assembled a rag-tag trio of Supreme Court appointees akin to Luke, Han and Leia–otherwise known as Neil, Brett and Amy–who he believed would secure a victory in the face of insurmountable odds.  As one by one battleground states certified Biden wins, T**** became more despondent and reached out to the only person in the White House who had long-past tested positive for the coronavirus or was not currently quarantined–Third Lady Melania.

As T**** entered the outer office to Melania’s private quarters, he noticed an open newspaper on her aide’s desk.  And there it was, a giant headline, “Supreme Court Delivers.”  “I knew it,” T**** shouted.  The master plan had succeeded.  Once again, everyone had underestimated him.

The jubilant president burst through the door to FLOTUS’ office to deliver the good news.  “Stop packing,” he cried.  “We won.  We won.  The Supreme Court delivered for me.”

Melania could only laugh.  She then explained, “Dahnold, ‘Supreme Court’ is the contractor I hired to install the playing surface in the new tennis pavilion.  And as promised, they delivered the surfacing materials, at no charge.  I thought you would appreciate that.  This is just an advertisement, silly boy! “

“Haven’t you been watching the news?” she continued.  “The Court just unanimously rejected Mike Kelly’s application for injunctive relief to stop Governor Wolf from certifying the Pennsylvania results.”  She handed him a copy of the court order.

“That’s it?” T**** asked.  To which Melania replied, “In more ways than one.  But, on the bright side, Jill Biden will be the one who has to work HER ass off on all this Christmas stuff for the next four years.”

The couple is distracted by a bell ringing three times in the background.

Confused, T**** inquires, “Melania, what’s that?”

“In the old country, my teachers always said, ‘Every time a bell rings, a Supreme Court justice grows a spine.’  Happy holidays, dear.”

“Damn it, Melania.  I told you never ever say that.  For the last time, it’s ‘Merry Christmas, MERRY CHRISTMAS!  Even when it’s not.’  I may need those evangelicals again in 2024.”

ENDNOTE:  Of course, this is fiction.  But, based on the last four years, it is probably not nearly as crazy as what will actually take place.

For what it’s worth.
Dr. ESP