My friends, everybody has their down days, and during these long winter months it is especially easy to succumb to the doldrums and find yourself in a bit of a funk. But not to fear! I have a simple tip that’s guaranteed to pick you up and get you back in good spirits in no time, and here it is: Whenever you’re feeling low, just remember that I, Donald Trump, will be dead in roughly 15 to 20 years.
That’s right. In the not-very-distant future I will die and then be gone from the world for all eternity. You may even get to watch me in a casket on national television being lowered into the ground, never to be seen again. I bet you’re smiling just thinking about that.
Now, I recognize that the news out there in the world has been particularly depressing lately, and these days it’s understandable that one might begin to feel like there’s no hope and no reason to go on, but let me assure you that there is. Oh, boy, is there ever! Indeed, you can always take solace in the fact that the monstrous, unimaginable piece of shit that is me will stop existing fairly soon, and that I will continue to not exist for the remainder of your lifetime. Biologically speaking, I, the host of NBC’s The Apprentice and Celebrity Apprentice, have no more than two decades left to live. In fact, right now I’m just 10 years away from reaching the average lifespan of an American male.
How does that make you feel? Pretty good, right?
Sure, I’ll have a grand, opulent funeral that will be talked about and broadcast extensively, and all the news segment retrospectives on my life will probably be obnoxious to watch and listen to, and will very likely make you angry. But just think: all of those segments will end with a picture of my blustery, self-important face and the dates 1946–2031 printed beneath it. Or maybe 1946–2032. Or, who knows, maybe earlier! Even if you’re not feeling glum, I guarantee the recognition that my death is a concrete and rapidly approaching inevitability will make you feel even better.
And if my death in 15 or 20 years feels like it’s too far in the future to wash away your blues, you can take heart knowing that I’ll start to physically and mentally deteriorate well before then. Why, by 2020, I, a man who recently tried to extort the sitting president of the United States to release his college and passport records, might even begin to show signs of serious and unavoidable decline in mental and physical faculties, and doesn’t that just perk your spirits right up? Just imagine me shuffling along, hunched forward, with a noticeably shortened gait and perpetually haggard face. Heck, that might happen by the end of this decade! Of course there’s an outside chance I could make it another 25 years, but in a way, wouldn’t it be even more uplifting and enjoyable for everyone if I wasted away slowly and pitifully until I became a wizened and impossibly frail old relic—the pathetically impotent, papery husk of a once-powerful man?
Hey, I’ve got an idea! Let’s try a surefire pick-me-up that is certain to buoy your spirits right this very moment: let’s think of ways I could die! Perhaps I’ll suffer through a slow, excruciating kidney failure that leaves me in profound pain that the doctors just can’t treat. It could be a massive heart attack while I’m delivering a speech to investors, forcing me to clutch my chest in agony and stagger into the audience. It could be Alzheimer’s. Or I could even be diagnosed with a vicious form of cancer that at first appears to be responding well to chemotherapy but then takes a rapid and inescapable turn for the worse.
And of course there’s always the possibility that I’ll be declared brain-dead after a stroke and lie immobile on a hospital bed for a year or more before Melania finally works up the courage to pull the plug.
And if you need a real shot in the arm to get you laughing and smiling again, just remember that I could trip down a flight of stairs in my own ultra-plush luxury high-rise this very night and shatter my skull right there. Isn’t that great?
So there’s no reason to be wearing a frown, my friend. I will die, and I will die soon. And as long as you remember that, your days will be brighter. I promise.
I’m avoiding that emotion by indulging in another sentiment: the delicious sense of schadenfreude that washes over me when I contemplate the utter rage and despair that all this morbid pomp and circumstance must be eliciting the world’s most narcissistic man.
Let us cleanse the palate with an Onion: