Rosie Sorenson

It was bound to happen—reporters noticing a new, slimmer Donald. No more fat blobs beneath his too-tighty whitey golf shorts. Chins disappearing into a singular mound. Fat belly more like flat belly. It seemed as though he was disappearing before their very eyes. Some could be heard sighing quietly at the thought. Rumors flew. xaCould this be due to his recent diagnosis of venous insufficiency? No one was talking.

Melania, they also noticed, was also undergoing a metamorphosis of her own—from her Stalinesque military chick look with signature scowl to that of a pink and white-checked gingham Trad wife. Her hair now coifed into a pixie cut, she was actually smiling. Melania! Smiling!

What the heck?

At last, a Fox News reporter worked up the courage to raise his hand at a press conference and asked, “Uh, Sir,” he said, glancing around at the reporter pool before speaking, “You’re looking mighty slim these days. Care to comment?”

“No. Next question.” Scowl.

A CNN reporter piped up, “Well, Sir, it’s obvious that something’s going on. Don’t you feel the American people have a right to know?”

“No. Next.”

Rumors were floating that Melania was angling for her own cooking show, but no one knew if she even knew her way around the kitchen.

Weeks went by. More and more of Trump disappeared. Most people did have to admit, though, that he looked pretty good.

“Who knew that Trump could actually be handsome without all that Big Mac Blubber?” said an anonymous woman in the secretarial pool.

But then, the unthinkable. His walking became much slower, his talking more jerky, still making no sense. His attempts at bon mots failed spectacularly.

And then . . . .

On a Tuesday morning, Trump was found slumped over the Resolute Desk, dead.

Police were called, Stephen Miller was called. Melania was nowhere in the building. Her assistant said she’d fled to New York.

“Can you call her?” hollered Detective York. “We’ve got to talk to her!”

“Oh no, oh no,” she cried when Detective York was on the line. “I can’t believe it. He was so young, so fun, so virile. Why somebody have to go kill him?”

When informed there was no murder, she cried again.”Well, good. At least we won’t have war with anyone.”

When told she’d have to return to Washington, she cried, “No. I stay with Barron. He’s terribly upset.”

Since there was no protocol for forcing a First Lady to do anything, the Detective let it go.

Still not satisfied, he ordered her quarters to be searched.

The only odd things that turned up were a gallon bag of Himalayan pink salt, a quart of raw honey, cayenne pepper and several cans of Diet Coke.

When questioned about these things, Melania replied, “Well, yes. Doctor say he need to lose weight. I know he can’t do it by himself; so I sneaked some into his Diet Coke. Just like those girls on the YouTube, he got very skinny. I couldn’t stop him. His Venus Insufficiency and all.”

“You mean venous?” said Detective York.

“Yes, yes, that, too.”

“The doctor said he got so thin his heart just gave out.” said the Detective.

“Ah, so sad. And he had such a big one, too,” said Melania.

“Will you return for the funeral?”

“Susie can take care of it. She know him better than I do.”

Rosie Sorenson is a humor writer in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her column is satire and, like Fox “News,” cannot be believed as fact. She has a new (serious) book, “If You’d Only Listen: A Medical Memoir of Gaslighting, Grit & Grace,” available on Amazon if you can’t find it at your neighborhood bookstore. Contact her at RosieSorenson29@yahoo.com.

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