Trumpocalypse Now


 The following journal entries are an account of the first 100 days after President Trump’s election. They are now on display at the Trumpsonian Institute.

Day 1:

Madness. I thought it had all been a dream. A nightmare. But no. The election had taken place. My newsfeed confirmed my most desperate fears. I tore off the covers and looked out the window. All was eerily quiet. My suburban street was obviously catatonic with the news just as I was. Should I go to work today? Would there be work? Businesses may have given up and are just waiting for the market to implode. Better just stay home. Well, go to Starbucks, then stay home.

Day 2:

Things are still strangely normal. Too normal. In the real world at least. Facebook is full of memes trying to cope with what happened. But I barely have the will to scroll and “like” anymore. Nothing much happened today. But as the sun went down I saw two actors flee north. They looked harried and afraid.

Day 3:

Sick. I came down with some sort of flu bug. My stomach is torn up. Have to wonder if they’re releasing germs in the air. Just in case I’m removing myself to the basement for the duration. My wife sent down black beans and rice. Can’t help but think that’s a little racist. Maybe the germ warfare is more than just a stomach bug. Would only make sense. Checked my skin to see if it was turning orange. Hard to tell.

Day 4:

Can’t hear the racial slurs from my basement but I know they are out there, reverberating in the redneck KKK air. It’s all been clearly documented in the memes. Just because I can’t hear the deplorable shouts doesn’t mean it’s not happening. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there it still screams in agony. Poor trees. They’re all goners now. Is it getting hot down here? The basement is usually so cool. But … climate change is on the move. It knows this is its time.

Day 5:

Work’s been calling, wondering why I haven’t been showing up. They sound … overly concerned. I don’t quite understand their expectations under the circumstances. Most likely the place has been over-run by capitalists trying to make money and grow wealth. But I’ll show them. I’ll write a biting review on their web page … anonymously, of course.

Day 6:

This is the end. I’ve had enough. Maybe I should join the riots and let them kill me. There’s no where to go. It doesn’t matter where we go. HE will be everywhere. But … there is one hope that I’ve heard about on Vox. An underground society seeking to set off the San Andreas fault. There’s a chance it could crack off California and turn it into an island. The glorious Isla Cali! Of course, there’s also a chance it could sink. It’s worth the risk.

Day 7:

This will be my last entry. I’m heading to California and I’m leaving this behind for posterity. I don’t even know if anyone’s left out there. Starbucks is most likely shut down. If I’m caught, think of me rotting away in a dungeon somewhere with no coffee and consider it a warning to you. Never go outside again.

Day 14:

Plans changed. I decided to keep the journal. Something told me I would stay alive a while longer and that something was my passion for justice. I figured I might be the only one left who knew what justice was. Turns out, though, there are others like me out there. I happened to meet up with some in the last Starbucks left standing after the election. It became our bastion against injustice. Surprisingly, the workers still made us pay for coffee. That means I’m a little low on funds. But we think together we still have enough to make it to the west coast and meet up with the secessionists. We’ve decided in the spirit of riotism that we will take what’s left of the coffee here for the cause. It’s a small price for them to pay for such a good cause.

Day 28:

We finally made it west. It’s been a long and difficult journey. Mostly because of the barista in the trunk. We have to let him out to pee, feed him, listen to his yells … Very stressful. But worth it, I guess, since none of the rest of us know how to make coffee on the go. We are a little worried though. He doesn’t appear satisfied with his living conditions during the trip. Some of us started to wonder if we should have given him one of our gas masks. He may be … turning. Into a capitalist. Some of us want to put him out of his misery. Others think we should try to detox whatever’s in his system. Whatever’s in the air.

Day 30:

I can’t believe it’s been a whole month. There are no overt signs of change around, which makes me very wary. And it turns out there are still Starbucks here. Thank Mother Earth for California! We don’t need the barista anymore so we decided to lock him up in the Starbucks closet. The coffee beans should be able to cleanse him of his strange tendencies, like thinking his own needs are more important than the cause.

Day 31:

The secessionists are so cool! Finally we found others who realize apocalyptic things really are happening. Most people are completely ignorant, just going about life like mind-numbed robots drinking the cool-aid and shorting their circuits. Okay, maybe that’s too many mixed analogies. In any case, we had to get our skin tested for orange hue before the secessionists would open up to us. Even now we’re in some sort of probation period. Our first initiation task is to loot drug stores to stockpile contraceptives. We are told this is imperative, as even condoms will soon be outlawed. But contraceptives isn’t the only thing being stored. It turns out they’ve been stockpiling explosives since before the election.

Day 33:

Some of the explosives are actually being buried as I log this. Some of the lucky souls who came with me from the east coast got to give their lives for the cause. Billy tripped as he was making a delivery. Tom was being lowered down into the holes along the San Andreas Fault when his rope broke and he plummeted one of the deeper sections. But we were able to fulfill his dying request, tweeting out his last words in real time. I can’t repeat them here. Curse words will surely be outlawed by the time this is recovered.

Day 40:

Today was … wild. There must be a double agent in our midst because at the last explosive site we were confronted by some cops. We all know what that means. Now that Obama’s gone and probably assassinated orange is the new black. They were talking about us trespassing on government property which is totally bogus because if this is government property then it’s run by taxes and this one guy Dan totally pays his taxes so its sort of like his property really. We tried to reason with the cops but they just weren’t reasonable. Then things got sticky. They found some of the explosives. There was a lot of shouting. Gunfire went off and I dove behind a rock. I heard some more shouts and then BOOM! Followed by BA-BA-BA-DOOM! The ground shook. My insides shook. I couldn’t hear after that. I just lay there stunned for a long long time.

Day 41:

I must have dozed off. When I woke up it was pitch dark. I felt like I was moving. Slowly moving. Felt like a dream. Still couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t really feel anything either, except my head was massively pounding. Tried to reach for my phone but couldn’t even do that, so you know this was serious. No phone. No coffee in hours. I passed out again off and on.

Day 44:

Today I witnessed a miracle. Or science. I guess I should say science. Rain. The patter of rain woke me up from my daze the last few days. I licked it off my parched lips. Might have well been coffee beans from heaven. Finally was able to pick up my head. Then what I saw made my head swim again. But better my head than my whole body. I found myself on a huge cliff. My head hanging just at the edge. Way down below was the ocean lapping. Where was I? This wasn’t right. But it was so beautiful. Then it hit me. The fault line. The explosions. We had done it! California had slid out into the Pacific.

Day 45:

Some other Californians found me today. They took me back to civilization, or what was left of it. The move had caused massive damage to the cities. No power. So much destroyed. But so worth it to be away from tyranny and racism. Everyone was dying their skin any color but white. It turns out no white people are allowed in New California. Makes sense to me. There weren’t any white people left anyway. Only orange. Blood orange.

Day 60:

Today it came to my attention that New California is getting smaller. That’s okay. There aren’t much of us left alive. Turns out living on a newly made island is kind of tough. And most everyone refuses to work at re-establishing generators and such. Turns out generators run on fossil fuels, which is disgusting. So we figure we’ll live on solar and wind power. But again, no one’s willing to get that set up. I certainly can’t do it. I’m way too busy writing these journal entries.

Day 62:

Well, it looks like it’s okay that everyone’s too busy to work on restoring civilization. The island is sinking. Must be the ice caps already melting away. I know how the polar bears feel now. I guess we always knew there wasn’t much hope in this little adventure. But it was fun while it lasted. There are helicopters circling to take us back to the mainland. Yeah right. Take us to prison is what that means. Some of the less determined of us have accepted their offers for “help.” But not me. The only government assistance I’ll ever accept is welfare check. One day no one will work. Everyone will just go around feeling love for each other. I think that’s a quote I saw once on a Chipotle bag. So good.

Day 63:

California is pretty small now. I can walk across it in about an hour. Kind of cool actually. To be able to walk across the whole state in an hour. Probably will be even shorter tomorrow. That will be fun. Just wish my phone still worked to share it. See how many likes I could get. See who would click the last “like” before I went underwater. Then I’d know who my real friends are. My “like” friends. Made me think of the days when we really DID something in America. When we posted all the best memes. When we shouted out all the injustice and forced people to listen and take action by “sharing” our posts if they truly believe in … in … what was it we believed in again? It’s all getting fuzzy now at the end of all things. I can see a helicopter above me. So loud. People shouting at me. Why do they have to be like that. Always telling people what to do. Well too late for anything now. Going to be Waterworld. Water up to my chin now. Having trouble keeping the phone out of

[end transmission]

Day 80:

Some are calling our plan to break California off at the seams with explosives in order to create a socialist island foolhardy and ridiculous. Others have even gone so far as to consider it insane. But I ask you, is blowing up a state in order to get away from Trump really idiotic?

We tried. And just because we failed doesn’t mean you shouldn’t celebrate our attempt and our emotional fervor. It’s not about the do or do not, but the try. Didn’t Yoda say that once?

Anyway, there’s a new plan underway. #resistance. It’s mainly a Twitter hashtag campaign designed to … resist. We mainly use the power of the meme and short sentences describing the horror of Trump. It gets people angry. A lot of likes. Likes=progress against hate. That’s our motto. We’re going to put the social media world in turmoil until we get our way and the world realizes Trump must go. Otherwise the world will end. What people don’t understand is the world is blowing up!

That’s all for now. I think there’s an espresso machine downstairs. Going to check it out.

Day 81:

You’re probably wondering where I am and how I’m not drowned. It seems the Trumpians were not finished with me. They rescued me, if you can call it that, only to throw me into a monstrous tomb. Some sort of torture chamber, I think. It must be. The wifi signal is terrible! And the fridge is only half stocked. And on top of that there are all these Ts embossed on everything. Those Trumpian Ts are seared into my dreams like a brand on a poor, innocent cow. Maybe I’m just cattle now. They make my room just plush enough to placate me until they are ready to harvest my rights forever!

Oh, and according to the menu, the meat for the filet mignon is NOT grass fed.


Day 89:

One of Trump’s surrogates tried to talk to me today. “See how I was doing,” he said. “If I needed anything,” he said. Ha! I refused to listen to the rest. I plugged my ears and sang Beyoncé songs. He tried to offer be a “bottled” water. Yeah right. I know what he put in that. I’m m surprised it wasn’t orange.

Day 93:

I’m wasting away to nothing. All the food is poisoned. I hate it here. They can’t keep me. And the racquetball courts always have a waiting list. So I told them to release me. They had the gall to say I could leave whenever I wanted. That I was simply being put up at a “Hotel.” These people must think I’m a idiot if they think I believe that. I know what really happens. Every night they brainwash me. I know it happens because each morning I wake up and think “This is a nice comfy place.” I feel so relaxed and happy. But then I fully wake up and force myself to remember that it’s all a way to play with my psyche.

Day 100:

I did a brave thing today. I left the building. The poor saps that have to live in a Trump- run government. All these people slaving away at work, putting on fake smile’s in case the cameras are watching. I now know my favorite quote will never come true. “I hope for a day when no one has to work. When everyone can just lay around feeling good about everything.” I think I am going to find a lonely hill with a little shade where I can live out the rest of my depressing days looking over the poor peons as they live out the American dream turned nightmare, where everyone works hard and has to pay for their own healthcare and goes to a government appointed bathrooms and fight wars against the peaceful terrorists and where homosexuals can never have a cake at their wedding again. They are brave souls having to deal with being triggered by insensitivities every day and every moment of every day. I alas am not so brave. Give me your triggered, your illegal, your unemployment receiving masses. We will find a Starbucks together and suckle at the drip of burnt coffee until the end of our days.