Like H.G. Wells, I’m making a prediction. Trump will metamorphose into Cuban Pete. He knows his time is getting short. Like Ferdinand Marcos and Imelda, they need to get out. Somewhere near but another country. Somewhere where he can maintain his tan and she can take her shoes. Somewhere as safe as one of their off shore accounts. Somewhere where he can golf and she can dress stylishly, she always complained that the clothes she had to wear in Zermatt or Bariloche when skiing always made her look fat.
Somewhere that reminded them of Mira Largo. Why, they could put in a giant sand pile with a palm tree for their buddies, and for their other buddies, sterling silver hip flasks filled with STOLICHNAYA ELIT and have them monogramed KGB. Then he’ll find a ghost writer to pen a “how I did it” book, while lying on a man-made beach with his toes in the sand.
He’ll laugh because the latest warrants from the Hague for crimes against humanity were sent back, because they’d listed his name as Donald Trump. Luckily he’d just changed it to Cuban Pete the day before, and his lawyers said he could change it daily if it came to that. “That’s not illegal,” said The Donster “That’s like not paying your taxes. That’s smart.”