When I was invited to board the eminent Donald Trump’s private jet as a member of the press, needless to say, I was ecstatic. Finally, after countless words bled from my pen, the click-clack editing of a thousand typos and the too many The Apprentice fan-fics, my writing was finally taking me somewhere — to the very top of the capitalist chain, and Donald Trump was to be my guide.
First, let’s talk about this plane of his. It’s big business with literal wings. The amalgamation of millions of overseas dollars and giant screeching American eagles. Rolls-Royce engines bigger than the room I sleep in burning through more oil than (what Trump claims) ISIS is keeping from us. Huge, puffy leather seats, every inch emblazoned with the Trump crest. Multiple bedrooms, a bar, giant TVs lining the wood-paneled walls, dogs in small purses, women with angles constructed through years of selective breeding. This man had it all.
As I walked up toward the looming mechanical monstrosity (I’ll take two, please), and began boarding the steep set of stairs toward the money-maw of an entrance, my heart began fluttering with the apprehension of a plebeian meeting his king. Will he like me? Will he fire me? I took those fateful steps forward, and there he was. Clad in a suit that cost more than my entire wardrobe, his fingers and wrists bedazzled in bling. Ack! I was blinded. I stumbled over and my eyes took in the puff of strawberry blonde hair that sat atop his pudgy, richly nurtured head. It swayed in the breeze of the plane’s on-board air conditioning, hypnotizing me, begging me to come closer. I accepted its offer, willingly or unwillingly, it didn’t matter anymore. Like our economy, it’s safe to say that Trump’s hair is not in a recession. It was my master, and I was its prey.
I stumbled up to him, and he shook my hand the way a snake coils around a dying rabbit, looked me dead in the eye and muttered, “Thanks for being here, good to see you.” I was in awe. Senpai noticed me. This was just like one of my Japanese animes! I briskly ushered myself along, my be-shooken hand pulsing red, no doubt an allergic reaction to the thick coats of wealth wrapped around his snakeskin fingers. I took my place in the back of the plane’s cabin, though it was more like a plane’s mansion, if such a thing exists, and the press conference began.
Trump was in town for some kind of hoedown at the Citadel. A Republican dinner featuring the likes of Rick Santorum and other prominent conservatives. People asked him questions about his hair, his lifestyle and most importantly, if he was going to run in the 2016 presidential election.
What if Trump were to be my president? He explained his game plan. “Defeat China!” he shouted. “Make this country rich again!” A bottle of liquid capitalism smashed over my head, christening me an American warrior ready to take the fight to those job-stealing Chinese. Somewhere, an eagle cried triumphantly over the birth of its child.
He won me, and now I had to know, how would he win others like me? My voice cracked against the waves reporters and camera equipment and I asked my question: “If you were to run for president, how would you secure the votes of students in liberal arts colleges like the College of Charleston?”
He replied: “Defeat China!” “Make this country rich again!”
In fact, that’s how he answered every question that day. Blatant lack of understanding? Or was it a capitalist dogma worth barking about? Don’t be stupid. Cast away all doubts and get your ballots ready, because 2016 is going to be a game-changer of a year.
RIP China. RIP Liberal bias. The Trump card has been played.