In a development that has sent tremors through the Western world, the bulbous former president, one Donald J. Trump, is reportedly mulling a personal appearance at the so-called 'US Freedom 250' concert after every single artist with a functioning larynx and a shred of dignity pulled out faster than you can say 'grab 'em by the pussy'. Sources close to the rotting orange say he is 'seriously considering' taking to the stage himself, presumably to treat the audience to a stirring medley of his greatest hits, including 'I Alone Can Fix It', 'Covfefe Blues', and the haunting ballad 'My Lawyer Says I Can't Talk About That'.
The concert, a celebration of America's 250th birthday, was meant to be a unifying event. Instead, it has become a grotesque vacuum, a black hole of talent from which no melody can escape. When asked for comment, the Trump campaign released a statement saying, 'Nobody knows concerts like President Trump. He has the best concerts. His concerts have the biggest ratings. The total ratings.' This, of course, is a flagrant lie, as his 2017 inauguration crowd was famously smaller than a badger's tea party.
The irony of 'Freedom' being celebrated by a man who has spent the last four years attempting to dismantle democracy is not lost on those of us who haven't had our brains replaced with cheeseburgers. But let us not dwell on such trifles. The real question is: what will he sing? Will he bellow a tone-deaf rendition of 'God Bless the USA'? Will he attempt a rap about the beauty of his tax cuts? Or will he simply stand there, swaying gently, as the backing track of 'Y.M.C.A.' plays on a loop?
I can already picture the scene: the stage, flanked by golden toilets, a lone spotlight on the man himself, his tiny hands gripping the microphone stand like a child clinging to a helium balloon. The crowd, comprised of bewildered pigeons and the last remaining loyalists who haven't yet realised they've been conned, will cheer wildly as he launches into a medley of speeches about the 'witch hunt' and 'fake news'. It will be a performance so profoundly devoid of talent, so spectacularly empty, that it will achieve a kind of inverse perfection. A modern art piece called 'The Emperor's New Concert'.
This, my friends, is the state of our nation. The greatest show on earth has become a circus run by a clown with a suspiciously orange hue. And the worst part? He might actually pull it off. Because in the age of post-truth, there is no lower bar. There is no bottom. We are scraping the floor of the Mar-a-Lago basement, and all we find is a man, a microphone, and a desperate need for attention.
As for the rest of us, we can only watch, pour ourselves a stiff gin (preferably something that tastes like regret), and wonder: if he does sing, will it be treason? Or just a nationwide cringe so vast it swallows the sun? Either way, I'll be there, notebook in hand, documenting the apocalypse with a side of schadenfreude. Because that, dear reader, is the only music left.
