I understand that the political pundits are worried about Donald Trump’s increasingly erratic behaviour and gloomy temperament. His recent attack on Canada’s prime minister, – sorry, that’s Justin Trudeau – is just the latest manifestation of his ill temper.
I’ve seen him a lot on TV lately, and this is not the face of a happy man. On the rare occasions when he manages to muster a smile, it’s more like a forced smirk. How can we bring a genuine smile to those pout-prone lips before Grumpy Trumpy goes off the rails and blows up the planet?
I suggest that a little more tender loving care from Melania might do the trick. Her attitude toward him in recent public appearances appears to be several hundred degrees below freezing.
But I believe there is an even deeper cause of the presidential malaise. The Great Gasbag does not drink. Not a drop of alcohol has ever passed through those constantly flapping lips. This profoundly ontological flaw has warped his psyche and is the cause of all his problems.
Alcohol mellows the mood, humanises the heart, and soothes the soul. If somebody – maybe Melania, maybe Ivanka – can wean him off the soul-destroying poison of teetotalism and introduce him to the divine delights of, say, lao khao and Leo Beer, the world may yet be spared a nuclear holocaust.
If Melania or Ivanka can’t manage this miracle, perhaps we need to appoint a Secretary of Stroking to do the job. Maybe somebody along the lines of Stormy Daniels, minus the lawsuits.