An Account of Trumpsgiving 2016 From an America of the Future

Trump Shooting

The inevitable has happened. You’ve elected a handsy traffic pylon with bad cholesterol as the president of this country. I’m not one to point fingers but, seeing as I’m now typing this from a bunker one mile underground while I raise an army of women deemed sixes and below, this is your fault. But it happens. One of Italy’s longest serving prime ministers was a misogynistic bedazzled can of beef ravioli.

Before I get down to brass tacks, I want you to know that you still have some time. Get out while you can. Overlord Trump doesn’t outlaw trial by a jury of one’s peers until 2018, when he replaces it with trial by duel, claiming a strict interpretation of the Constitution as he’s gleaned through multiple viewings of Hamilton.

**And you have until 2021 until the great Mexican food  ban. He replaces Mexican restaurants of “every kind” (i.e. Colombian, Salvadoran, Panamanian, etc.) with the wildly popular (among certain Americans) Señor Trump’s (pronounced Senior Trump’s), which exclusively sells taco salads.

But back to a more imminent danger. Upon the announcement of Trump’s victory, Prime Minister of Canada Justin Trudeau grants asylum to all high-level Democratic politicians. Hillary is the first to leave, followed by Biden. Within the week, Obama has prematurely evacuated the White House with a primordial shriek of despair so loud, California breaks along its natural fault line and floats into the ocean, becoming the Autonomous Country of California, Dude. They refuse to sell us avocados and all of Brooklyn dies out.

Undeterred by the mass exodus of educated and qualified policymakers, Overlord Trump sets up shop in the White House, paints it gold, and sets about dictating decrees to his Secretary of State, who, despite having told him he’s not that sort of secretary, hunkers down and takes the following notes:

1. The term “Thanksgiving” makes the country sound like weak, groveling little girls. From here on in, the last Thursday in November will be known as Trumpsgiving.

2. No one is allowed to use their “good china.” All china has been outlawed. Suck it, commies.

3. All boxed hair dye is banned. This Trumpsgiving, there will be no bad ombres.

4. No turkeys will be pardoned. I like turkeys that haven’t been captured. The captured ones are weak.

5. A turkey taken out ONE MINUTE before the timer goes off, even if a thick, black cloud of smoke is quickly killing all of your guests, warrants jail time.

6. Shawarma: banned.

7. No mole sauces. They’re disgusting. Although, I assume some are good. But Mexico is not sending the good stuff. And this is America. So no mole sauces.

8. All women must wear state-mandated outfits. Miniskirts for sevens and above, brown paper bags for sixes and below.

9. The consumption of solid and calorically significant foods by women is hereby banned, lest we become a nation of pigs. As the healthiest human man to ever exist, this initiative is dear to my heart.

10.  No National Football League games are to be watched on Trumpsgiving. Instead, each American home will receive a VHS of USFL game highlights featuring the terrific New Jersey Generals.

You should also know that in the fall of 2017, Trump decrees that he will follow in the footsteps of great Republican president and vacuum enthusiast Herbert Hoover. He promises a turkey in every pot. He says he’ll pay for it because he’s a “real-life billionaire.” When, on the day before Trumpsgiving, his ad-hoc Cabinet informs him that auctioning off a marble bust of his visage won’t cover the costs of feeding every American, Trump declares he never said he’d put a turkey in every pot.

On November 22, 2017, Americans rush local grocery stores to fight over a very limited supply of grossly overpriced turkeys. The carnage is astounding, the likes of which haven’t been seen on American soil since the Civil War. Thirty-two percent of the population dies that day, leaving Overlord Trump with a glut of tofurkey-eating vegans. In an effort to limit this enemy population, he has them compete in the Hunger Games, a competition based on the popular YA novels written by his wife, Melania.

**The last anyone heard of Lin Manuel Miranda, he was chained to a chair in the Oval Office, singing the opening number of Hamilton with the lyrics changed to “Donald Trump,” ad infinitum.



Tova Diker

Author: Tova Diker

I'm a Jewish girl from Queens trying to prove to my parents that I'm funny ha-ha, not funny weird. Check me out at

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