Sure, I’ll have a grand, opulent funeral that will be talked about and broadcast extensively, and all the news segment retrospectives on my life will probably be obnoxious to watch and listen to, and will very likely make you angry. But just think: all of those segments will end with a picture of my blustery, self-important face and the dates 1946–2031 printed beneath it. Or maybe 1946–2032. Or, who knows, maybe earlier! Even if you’re not feeling glum, I guarantee the recognition that my death is a concrete and rapidly approaching inevitability will make you feel even better.
And if my death in 15 or 20 years feels like it’s too far in the future to wash away your blues, you can take heart knowing that I’ll start to physically and mentally deteriorate well before then. Why, by 2020, I, a man who recently tried to extort the sitting president of the United States to release his college and passport records, might even begin to show signs of serious and unavoidable decline in mental and physical faculties, and doesn’t that just perk your spirits right up? Just imagine me shuffling along, hunched forward, with a noticeably shortened gait and perpetually haggard face. Heck, that might happen by the end of this decade! Of course there’s an outside chance I could make it another 25 years, but in a way, wouldn’t it be even more uplifting and enjoyable for everyone if I wasted away slowly and pitifully until I became a wizened and impossibly frail old relic—the pathetically impotent, papery husk of a once-powerful man?
Hey, I’ve got an idea! Let’s try a surefire pick-me-up that is certain to buoy your spirits right this very moment: let’s think of ways I could die! Perhaps I’ll suffer through a slow, excruciating kidney failure that leaves me in profound pain that the doctors just can’t treat. It could be a massive heart attack while I’m delivering a speech to investors, forcing me to clutch my chest in agony and stagger into the audience. It could be Alzheimer’s. Or I could even be diagnosed with a vicious form of cancer that at first appears to be responding well to chemotherapy but then takes a rapid and inescapable turn for the worse.
And of course there’s always the possibility that I’ll be declared brain-dead after a stroke and lie immobile on a hospital bed for a year or more before Melania finally works up the courage to pull the plug.
And if you need a real shot in the arm to get you laughing and smiling again, just remember that I could trip down a flight of stairs in my own ultra-plush luxury high-rise this very night and shatter my skull right there. Isn’t that great?
So there’s no reason to be wearing a frown, my friend. I will die, and I will die soon. And as long as you remember that, your days will be brighter. I promise.
= new reply since forum marked as read