One evening, when I was in graduate school, my wife and I smoked an adequate amount of Thai-stick in a small, metal pipe, and I immediately began to write a story based on a character I invented named Donald Trump. This character was terribly bloated in appearance and lacked courage or any of the virtues, which began to trouble him and made him suspect the worst. Trump demanded to know what plans I had made for him.
In those days I was young and brutally honest, and I told Trump I planned to have him beaten in an alley behind a food pantry by a squadron of police, who would then stand on his back and choke him out until he expired in agony.
"That seems unfair," he said. "Here I am newly born and utterly friendless, entirely by your design, and you've already condemned me to nothing but pain, terror and misery the rest of my short life." He began to sob and sigh pathetically and beg me on two knees to give him at least a few positive moments before his time ran out.
I finally agreed and added a chapter in which he became President of the United States. You know the rest.
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