The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Easter, a time for resurrection. And so our very devout Pastor-in-Chief has declared that the economy will be risen by Easter. Pews will fill, church bells will peal, congregations will congregate, the plague will have passed by our doorways. A miracle, a miracle! Hallelujah, a Miracle! The man could walk on water! The man could feed multitudes with a single loaf of bread! The man can stop a pandemic in its tracks with a single utterance! Truly, is this not a Man among Men. Verily, is this not the Second Coming?

Some of my friends think maybe he hasn’t been sent by God to save Mankind. These naysayers think he might be delusional, narcissistic, possibly insane. Obviously they were not followers of The Apprentice on prime time TV all those years, week after week passing judgement from on high, a cross between Judge Judy and Dr. Oz with a smidgeon of the gang at American Idol. The man’s a billionaire, so what if he doesn’t need to prove it by showing my pals his tax statements? He’s rich, he’s a playboy, his name is on really big buildings, he can do what he wants with beautiful women. If God was going to send another Moses, trust me on this one, he’d send Donald J. Trump. After all, the man’s favorite book is the Bible. Both of them, new and old, with too many of his favorite passages in there to name just one.

When he says he has a hunch those anti-malaria drugs will cure coronavirus and stop this pandemic completely, so what if the so-called experts shake their pessimistic heads. His hunch, in case you weren’t paying attention, comes from the Source. John the Baptist might have gotten dreams from the Lord, Donald gets hunches. You want an affidavit? You need a notary public? The man is an emissary, I’m telling you, the man is a prophet. If you think science is going to save your ass, wake up! Donald Trump is going to save your ass. Pretty soon. He’s got that antidote coming and when that gets distributed to even you non-believers, you doubting Thomases, this Kung Flu is going to meet its master capital M and by Easter the economy will be roaring back.

My buddies can chuckle all they want, but mark my words, those steeples will be ringing with Donald’s praises by Easter, bodies pressed close once again, hands will be shaken, hugs will be given and I suspect the offerings from thankful parishioners will rise up too in passed plates. Easter, a time for resurrection. A time to give thanks. To God, of course, but let’s be honest here, mostly to Trump. Can we have an amen?

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