Rigged System

What was a homeless guy doing in Donald’s dressing room? Actually it was a suite, including a wet bar and jacuzzi: A place of comfort, off-stage. 

“How the hell did you get past Security!” demanded the Donald. 

“No one stopped me,” replied the homeless guy.  

Donald’s face turned red as a beet. “Someone’s going to pay for this,” he muttered. Spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” 

The homeless guy, at first, did not answer. Donald thought he could see a hint of a smile… a sad smile… around the guy’s mouth. When, finally, the man did speak, Donald saw that he was crazy. Matter-of-factly, the man said: “I am the Angel of Death.” 

Donald’s hand moved to ring the Security Alarm, but never made it.

   *                 *                 *

What happened? Why was Donald flying through the air, getting higher and higher? Donald’s impulse was to make demands, give orders, let ’em know who is in control. But he could not think of what to say, and there was no one there, just clouds as he rose higher and higher. 

The Donald blacked out. 

   *                 *                 *

He did not come too all at once. At first, things were out of focus. Everything seemed so bright. Even as objects began to take shape, it was hard to figure out where he was. There was a shimmering quality to everything. 

He seemed to be surrounded by billowing clouds… and standing on a cloud! Donald had studied lucid dream technique and knew how to check on whether he was dreaming or awake. “If this is a dream…” thought the Donald.  

The Donald loved to discover himself in a dream. He had learned how to take control and turn the dream into anything he wanted. He had even learned how to extend the lucid dreaming techniques into waking life. Hadn’t he enlisted millions of people into his waking dream and made impossible things happen?

Donald held his hands out and stared at them, waiting for them to elongate. If you stare at your hands without glancing away, you will know that you are dreaming if they elongate. The Donald had a lot of experience with dreams. 

But his small hands just remained the same. He was shocked. “Then it is not a dream,” he said aloud. 

“No, it is not!”

What was that? Donald looked in the direction of the voice. He saw a small man, sitting at a folding table. There was a massive white gate behind the man. The man gestured toward an empty chair across the table from him, and beckoned Donald to sit down. 

Despite himself, the Donald obeyed. “Who are you!” he asked.

“I am Peter.” 

“Peter?”

“Yes, known by the moniker, ‘Saint Peter.’”

“Saint Peter? Well, are you Saint Peter?”  

“I am the one known as ‘Saint Peter.’”

“Are you or not Saint Peter?”

“Well, there are theological problems with that. But putting aside technicalities: Yes, I am Saint Peter.”

Donald glanced behind Peter, and said: “Then that is…”

“Yes,” replied Peter, “The Pearly Gates.” 

“And you…”

“Yes, I am standing before the Pearly Gates… or sitting at this card table before them, as it were. I am in charge of admissions.”  

At this point Donald noticed two people standing behind a red line, a few feet from the table.  “Who are they?” he asked.

“They are recently arrived souls, cuing up. Let’s get on with the process.”  

“OK. There should be no problem,” replied the Donald. “I am in very good standing… excellent standing with my church. Last year, in fact, I kicked off the building fund with a rather large contribution…” 

Peter interrupted. “I am afraid that doesn’t count.” 

“What do you mean it doesn’t count?” Donald had a weird expression on his face, showing his tongue, his eyes grotesquely bulging. 

Peter opened a thick volume that the Donald had not noticed. He thumbed through it until he found the place. In the meantime several more souls had arrived, and there were now nearly a dozen people in the cue. 

“It says here that your attorney structured the contribution so that you ended up with a three point four million dollar profit.”

“So what, I was playing by the rules. What is wrong with being prudent??

“Well, nothing I guess. But the benefit for such prudence is on Earth. Up here the rule is that in order to get into Heaven, you must have done at least three, totally selfless good deeds.”

There was a sound of someone clearing their throat. Donald looked up and saw that the line had grown. There were maybe 25 or 30 new arrivals, many of them fidgeting. 

Peter also glanced at the line, and said, “Let’s get on with it. You need to tell me about three things you did which were true sacrifices, done entirely to help another person.” 

“OK,” said the Donald. “There’s no problem with that, believe me! I think I’ve made a lot of sacrifices. I work very, very hard. I’ve created thousands and thousands of jobs, tens of thousands of jobs, built great structures. I’ve had tremendous success. I think I’ve done a lot.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Trump,” said Peter. Any jobs you created were the result of efforts you were making on your own behalf. You must come up with three totally selfless deeds.” 

The cue had grown. Souls were clearing their throats, coughing, and some were muttering with annoyance.  

“Get them out of here!” ordered the Donald. 

Peter just looked at him. The Donald was not used to situations in which someone else was in charge. 

“Well?!!” Peter sounded annoyed. 

“OK,” said the Donald. “Give me a minute. I know I can come up with something.” 

The cue now stretched so far back that the end was lost in a haze. The souls, waiting their chance, were openly grumbling.  

“Please hurry up,” said Peter. 

“OK, OK. Don’t rush me. I need to think.” 

Then he remembered. 

“Yes, I do recall something.” Donald had a triumphant grin. “This bureaucrat is not going to stop The Donald,” he thought.

“One day I was having lunch in a lovely restaurant, sitting at my favorite table by a window. A homeless man peered into the window. He looked pathetic. I could tell that he was very, very hungry. My heart went out to him.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “Get on with it, what did you do?” 

“I called over my chief bodyguard.” Donald looked proud. “I handed him a dollar and told him to go out and give it to the hungry man.” 

The cuing souls were getting louder. There had never been a riot at this Holy location, but Peter was concerned. 

“OK. I guess I have to accept that. You need two more selfless good deeds.” 

Donald sat, thinking.  

“Please hurry, Mr. Trump.” 

“Don’t pressure me. How can I think when you are pushing me like that? You are being unfair to me!” 

Peter was on the verge of exasperation, but an appeal to fairness is hard for a saint to ignore. 

“Wait!” yelled Donald. “I thought of another selfless deed.”

“Yes?” Peter leaned forward, all ears.

“I was in my limousine when I spotted an old woman sitting on the curb, surrounded by shopping bags and old furniture. She had been put out into the street.” 

“How did that happen?” asked Peter.

“Well, she was the last holdout in a building which needed to be cleared out. It was valuable real estate and this ignorant old woman forced us to evict her.” 

“Well that doesn’t sound like a good deed,” said Peter.

“Are you going to be fair, or not?” demanded Donald. 

“How am I not being fair?”

“You’re not letting me tell the story.”

By now the line was becoming disorderly. Peter was worried, but Donald was right: Peter was supposed to listen fairly.

“Alright, go on.” 

“You know I have a warm heart,” said Donald, “I cannot stand to see an old woman cry, even if she brought it on herself. So I told my chauffeur to stop. I handed him a dollar to give to the old lady.”

Unable to hide his disgust, Peter said: “OK, we’ll count that as two. All you need is a third good deed, and you’re in.”

Donald sat there, wracking his brain. He was so close. “Surely,” he thought, “I should be able to come up with one more.” But the more he tried, the harder it got. 

Above the din of the impatient souls, Peter said, “Look, I’ll give you one more minute.”

“One more minute?!!” Donald was incredulous. “How is that fair? My Eternal Fate depends on this, and you won’t give me a fair chance?” 

Gesturing toward the grumbling souls, who were starting to look more like a mob than a cue, Peter replied: “Well, everyone else needs their chance.” 

“I knew it!” exclaimed the Donald. “This system is rigged!”

“Rigged?” questioned Peter.

“Yes, you are biased against me. I am sure that in my entire life I have done at least one more totally selfless deed… maybe two. Actually a great deal of selfless deeds. You’d be amazed how many times I’ve selflessly sacrificed to help another person. But you won’t give me a chance to think of them.” 

“Tell you what,” said Peter. Let me call The Boss.”  

“The boss?” said Donald. “I’m the boss!” 

“Not here you’re not,” replied Peter, as he reached for the phone. 

It did not take Peter long to get the The Boss on the phone. The Boss listened. When Peter had finished his explanation, he asked: “So what should I do?”

“Hmm, give me a minute… let me think about it,” said G-d.” Then, after a pause:

“Tell you what,” G’d said. “Give him back his two dollars, and let the bastard go to Hell!”

– The End –