This blessed Halloween season, what do you get for the man who has it all? What do you get for someone who already has the presidency, a very exciting if a bit shaky interpretation of reality, and an entire harem of GOP officials willing to enable him in this interpretation for as long as they find it expedient?
I think that what the holiday really calls for is a proper Donald J. Trump Haunted House. Customized to his every need.
A hallway papered in unedited pictures of the Inauguration Day crowds
As an added bonus, some added graphics featuring the popular vote should be there too.
A reanimated John McCain and Elijah Cummings
Sometimes, subtle horror works better. All the great directors know this, so why not haunted house operators?
McCain, for example, doesn’t have to scream “PRESIDENT BONE SPURS” while chasing Trump down the hallway from hell or otherwise do anything dramatic. Let him frown, giving an eternal thumbs down.
Elijah Cummings can dance with an angel, smiling knowingly over the angel’s shoulder.
A recording of Fred Trump
The president’s father should be heard up and down the haunted house, sighing perpetually and saying things like “I am very disappointed, Donald” and “The idea was to be proud that you are from Queens. Pride, Donald. Do you understand what that is?”
Melania Trump, gazing into the eyes of Justin Trudeau, Vladimir Putin, Secret Service agents, anyone, anyone
Say what you want about the First Lady, but she is very expressive around men who don’t resemble talking orange lumps.
Eric Trump as the new golden child
“I’m sorry, daddy,” Ivanka whispers, stepping off of her throne. “The responsibilities of having a narcissist’s entire hopes and dreams pinned on me is just too much. Eric is the favorite now. The one who will sit in on the meetings and pick up the phone when you have your old-man-yells-at-cloud moments.”
Eric emerges from the shadows, snarfing.
A room full of women not paid to smile at Trump
And every time he tries to grab one she cackles maniacally and turns into a rustling pile of Trump Vodka labels that blow away like so many dead leaves.
Kim Jong-un, Mohammed Bin Salman, and Xi Jinping
Sitting at a cafeteria table, yelling, “YOU CAN’T SIT WITH US!”
Tax returns
Reams and reams of tax returns. Tax returns falling out of closets a la shrieking skeletons. Tax returns unfurling like monster tongues. Tax returns materializing bleakly out of the fog.
Chipping gold paint
Revealing water stains and other slumlord trappings underneath while an occasional rat peeks around the corner rubbing its little paws delightedly and squeaking, “Welcome home!”
Mitt Romney’s spine
Clickedy-clacking down a dark hallway, searching for its master, knowing that it will find him eventually.
A Jim Mattis-Meryl Streep chimera
An imperious and cold being, trailing mute, bewitched admirers in its wake. Everyone holds its breath when it as much as coughs, let alone speaks.
AOC’s red lipstick kisses
Appearing on all of the mirrors alongside coy little Xs.
The ghost eventually writes down its number on one of the mirrors but, when you call it, you get Rudy Giuliani babbling incoherently about not needing a lawyer. Or maybe needing a lawyer. He’s not sure. Really. Can you call him back later. He’s on the can and this is turning into a literal shitshow.
Poor people
Poor people everywhere. Poor people roaming freely. Mixing with non-poor people. Constantly. Obscenely. Poor people frowning at Trump Wedge Salad and asking who on earth serves caviar with plastic spoons.
A million tiny, angry Greta Thunbergs
Swarming over everything.
Nancy Pelosi clapping
Always clapping.
Always.
Image credit: Shane Gorski