Why I’m Sending Trump Into Space
Oh life. Every man’s Sisyphean rock. Counting the days like a man waiting for execution, except a lot less fun. As T. S. Eliot whimsically put it, ‘The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall/Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life/The last twist of the knife’. Cheery stuff. It must have been Eliot, or Beckett who designed 2020, in which we are impossibly stuck in time, wedged like an adult in a child’s swing, suspended, slightly sweating with anxiety, and regretting every decision made which brought the present moment to fruition. Future opportunity and past pleasures are all eradicated. Some wait for Godot, some wait for Boris’s 8pm address to the nation. Either way, you will inevitably emerge nauseous and perplexed.
So labours on 2020, a mere Plato’s cave of a year, where we remain transfixed by the forms of things as they were. In 2020 a thing may not be a thing, but may be a cake. How can we exist when the fabric of reality can be questioned thus? In 2020 there are people who exist who actually believe that corona is a conspiracy. That there is hope for the economy. That I will not, indeed, become a world-class acrobat – about which I would say during lockdown the results have been mixed. As gauged by my slipping grip on my own personal limits, there is no difference between dystopia or reality. But, a hopeless world is not in fact, all hopeless. Never fear: by acknowledging something is hopeless, you automatically qualify the fact that hope exists.
Armed with said hope, I began this week elated, for I have found a new job. I have been called on to exclusively handle President Trump’s PR in the run up to the election. It’s a long story, but it involves a wrong number, a dynamic lie, and a bribe. I am yet to get to grips with the role myself (it being extremely last minute, and strangely mutually exclusive to the writing of this article).
I admit, I may not be the best candidate for the job. But I am a complete narcissist and, as aforementioned, I have a weak grasp of reality, so I think I’m more than suited to the role. I don’t begrudge Trump his $750 payments of tax return. Not at all. Not just because it’s not true, but because if it were true, I appreciate that my client has a lot of necessary upkeep: he demands a steady stream of Coke to his oversized desk, and must maintain the orangeness of his undersized hands. Let the poor man rest for a hot minute! He has been slaving away at the machine of Presidency - and what credit does he get? He’s got an election to win, and I am to be the ideas man behind it. Or ideas woman. For the Trump presidency is anything but misogynistic.
Trump is actually, like, a great guy. As he said himself recently, ‘I’m not saying the military is in love with me; the soldiers are’ which seems like the sort of genuine, blanket statement drenched in truth which I can use to convince people that Trump is actually really likeable. On second thoughts, however, this expression of love is without consent and seems to be an infraction of rules of the workplace. The Whitehouse’s HR should get involved. Who even is their HR? I think they have been fired or lurk in some stuffy room in a disused cavity underneath the Oval Office where they eat bagels and clutch plastic American flags, googling ‘how can I best get offended’ - or whatever it is Americans do in their spare time.
I have been laying my plans, and it seems that as my client is a self-proclaimed ‘leader of space’, we should set our sights on the intergalactic. I’m talking about NASA offering businesses the use of the International Space Station to film products, and we can use it to win the US election. As they say, one small orange man, one giant leap for PR.
It is thus my executive decision that we should shoot Trump into space. He could take off – in his own words – in a ‘super duper missile [which is] 17 times faster than what they have now’. 17! That’s what you get if you add the number of times Trump stared directly at an eclipse (1) with his number of requests for foreign interference with the 2020 election (2), added to his references to himself as a ‘stable genius’ (7), his government shutdowns (3), along with 1 retweet calling a woman a skank, 1 joke about shooting migrants across the border and his use of 2 emojis in an ‘official presidential statement’. And they say he pulls his figures out of thin air.
I’ve always found my mind wandering to what would happen to Trump’s hair in space. Would it detach like the unearthly being it is, and suffocate the Space Station’s unsuspecting occupants Alien-style? If, indeed, Trump could endure the space food - he is no stranger to a processed meal - then perhaps he could learn to love the vacuum in which he can send his tweets. Admittedly, there is a risk that this would form some sort of new space race. China will be sending Xi Jinping and his hair and makeup team to the ISS faster than Trump can grab a pussy.
To boost the reputation of the scheme, it would be useful to join with an established company, with interest in space, shall we say Gwyneth Paltrow’s ‘Goop’. Paltrow’s ‘Body Vibe Stickers’ could make a comeback from their advent in 2017. ‘Made with the same conductive carbon material NASA uses to line space suits so they can monitor an astronaut’s vitals during wear’ they ‘target imbalances’ in the body. I envisage a new line. ‘Vibes are off’ ‘Corona Vibes’ ‘WAP vibes’, and British range of ‘Risqué Rishy vibes’ and ‘Boris Corona Vibes’ - which will probably leave you feeling a little confused, ashen and bumbling. According to Paltrow they will apparently leave you calmer. I’m sorry Gwyneth. Already the concept leaves me infuriated and stifling a scream.
Maybe we should leave him stranded outside the shuttle – as Trump said himself ‘accidents happen’. My last few words to Trump. Be modest. Be truthful. Never take up high level gymnastics in lockdown. And above all, please deposit a cheque for $2 million into my account for my thorough PR work.
Written by Esther Bancroft
A recent graduate of Bristol university, Esther has returned to the pen to write a little bit about a little bit of everything. When not staring at a screen trying to be creative, she likes to buy books without reading them and paint pictures of the sea - which is her healthy obsession.