Our Lord Donald and His Wise Men

Stephen J. Lyons

On private jets the Wise Men came from the east (and the south, and the west) bearing gifts of droll, nonsense and fear. A new star shone in the sky the night before, either an omen or Starlink.

The Wise Men persisted, arriving en masse for the baptism by fire of their Lord Donald. After kissing His long crimson tie and an untold part of His double-wide and mighty anatomy, the men dutifully trailed the new king like a passel of obedient poodles as He entered the courthouse.

Their king scowled and shuffled a stack of papers with His small but oh-so-powerful hands. The Wise Men also frowned in their devotion to the King, and genuflected before settling on their wooden pews.

Judge Judas entered the courtroom wearing black, the devilish color of all matters legal evil. The white men from the east (and the south, and the west) had a problem with the color black, brown, or any color hinting at the indigenous, anything but the comforting hue of fresh, virgin snow.

Orange, however, was okay.

The Wise Guys took copious notes during the sham proceedings, words they would use as weapons later outside the courthouse as they defended their Lord Donald, the Messiah, who blessed the men with his golden tongue.

“I do have a lot of surrogates, and they are speaking very beautifully,” He proclaimed.

This statement made all the Wisenheimers feel gooey and fuzzy inside, like well-petted canines or the first rush of a cannabis gummy (indica strain).

Vivek, the diminutive billionaire, held forth after enduring time in the lawless house of Judge Judas. “I learned a lot from being in there in person. It is one of the most depressing places I have been in my life, but it is fitting because the only thing more depressing than the environment of that courtroom is what’s actually happening in there.”

In that lair of corruption were liars and vipers, porn stars (why are they always “stars”?) and turncoats, the ungrateful heathens who would trade on their disloyalty to the Messiah for shiny shekels of gold. A pox on them!

Little Mikey J., the most Christian of the assembled men from wherever, once said that Lord Donald “lacks the character and moral center we desperately need.” But then something miraculous happened. Lord Donald summoned him to his holy golf course in Florida and Mikey was born again (again). His vision was one of a Biblical future in which Christian nationalistic values would be lawfully imposed upon the unwashed masses. The invaders from the southern border would be corralled, uppity women who want to control their own bodies would finally be controlled, elections would be overturned and the purging of leftists would commence.

After his revelation, and perhaps a nice lobster bisque at Mar a Lago, Mikey had now evolved “to appreciate the person that He is and the qualities about Him.”

Sycophant Surrogate Coach Tommy T. from the Banjo Belt of Bama football and banned books, reflected on the great one’s “mental anguish,” and questioned the citizenship of those who would judge the Lord. Roll Tide y’all!

The bearded one, J.D. “Hillbilly” Vance, also genuflected at the altar of Lord Donald. “Recognizing that sometimes it’s a little bit lonely to sit up there by yourself, I offered to come in and maybe just be a friendly face in the courtroom.”

Vance’s conversion from critic to crony was just as miraculous as Mikey’s. Before he saw the light of the Lord, and six well paid years of inactivity in Congress, the hirsute Ohioan had said, “Fellow Christians, everyone is watching us. When we apologize for this man, lord help us.” Then he apologized.

The Wise Guys had read their Bibles carefully, for it is known in John 3:18, that, “Let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.”

But Lord Donald said it better. “If you say it enough and keep saying it, they’ll start to believe you.” Hell yeah!

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Stephen J. Lyons is the author of six books of reportage and essays, most recently “Searching for Home: Misadventures with Misanthropes” (Finishing Line Press).