I had a dream of the Trump of Doom last night. He appeared as a great shambling, orange-coiffed mythical Big Foot. The number 47 glowed red on his forehead, followed by a pulsing MAGA.
His torso arched across the Middle East, paws striking at centers of deceptively small but mighty beings with angry stings. They made Big Foot do a painful, jerky dance. One paw struck Tehran, another, Riyadh, yet another stomped Beirut and the fourth stumbled deep beneath Hormuz. Every time he slapped one trouble spot, another halfway across the region erupted, stinging his pads and claws.
He raised his orange streaked head, howling in pain, but then lowered it to gobble up derricks in Doha and Abu Dhabi.
Meanwhile, back at home, most of the MAGA cubs no longer paid him worship. They were climbing trees, looking for shelter and for something to eat.
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Chuck Barrett
Midtown
Disclaimer: As submitted to the Arizona Daily Star.
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