Katy Burns: For heaven’s sake, just go away!

  • President Donald Trump waves to supporters from his motorcade on Saturday, Nov. 14, in Washington. AP

Monitor columnist
Published: 11/22/2020 6:50:50 AM
Modified: 11/22/2020 6:50:34 AM

Okay, it’s over. Thanksgiving is just about here. Joe Biden will be the next president of the United States. Donald Trump lost. Big time, in fact. Finito. Finis. All over, including the shouting.

Except perhaps for Donald Trump. He is still shouting – as, it’s worth noting, he has been doing since before he even moved into the posh digs on Pennsylvania Avenue.

But the rest of America – some regretfully, more with glee – can turn their eyes away from the spectacle and return to real life, giving thanks for a return to what we call normalcy these days.

Which, in the case of the Biden family, includes getting ready to move themselves into the aforementioned White House in January. With just one teensy complication.

In all the years Joe Biden spent dreaming of being president, I’ll bet there was one etiquette question he never thought to ask himself.

When he and Jill move into the White House, will they have to put Donald Trump in the Lincoln Bedroom? Or – since, no matter what he thinks, Trump is absolutely and positively no Lincoln – maybe some lesser guest room?

Because the soon-to-be-former president insists – against all evidence and reason – that he has won the presidential election and will continue with a second term, a delusion a number of his fawning aides – looking at you here, Mike Pompeo and Kayleigh McEnany – are only too happy to foster.

And it’s not impossible that – rather than venture into the real world and risk, say, indictment by the great state of New York – the failed 45th president will stay holed up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Thus arises the question: Can the Bidens just offer him a cot in the cellar next to the furnace? A super-sized and well-reinforced cot, to be sure.

The cellar is undoubtedly comfortably warm. And it’s quite possibly closer to the kitchen, which I should think – based on his significant ampleness – would please our soon-to-be-former president.

An advantage of the cellar option is that there is likely a good, sturdy lock on the door at the top of the stairs, so Old 45, as they call him, can’t burst into the State Dining Room when 46 and his first lady are hosting a gala dinner for Angela Merkel and Emmanuel Macron, in town to celebrate the return of civility to the international scene.

I’m not sure our soon-to-be-ex-first lady, Melania Trump, would be pleased with the cellar option, but I suspect she’s looking forward to getting back to New York City. Or (perhaps where she’d be more welcome) to Palm Beach, since a stunning 84% of Manhattanites voted to boot her hubby from office and thus, by implication, her.

In fact, leaving Washington early would spare her all that annoying holiday White House decorating stuff.

As she so memorably confided to a buddy – well, an ex-buddy – “I’m working my butt off at Christmas stuff … who gives a fig about Christmas stuff and decoration?” Although – as we all know – she didn’t actually say “butt.” Or “fig.”

Where was Emily Post when we really needed her? Especially since unladylike language is likely not the only delicate problem to arise in this truly unique changing of the guard.

For example, some privileges should remain for the deposed president. Perhaps a dedicated telephone line from the White House cellar to his august legal counsel, the once illustrious Rudy Giuliani.

Once the self-proclaimed toast of New York, the city’s former mayor lately has been keeping office hours at Philadelphia’s (now) renowned Four Seasons Total Landscaping company, located in what is described as a nondescript industrial building off I-95, next to the Fantasy Island adult book store and across the street from the Delaware Valley Cremation Center.

Some have mused that the whole Four Seasons affair became almost a metaphor for the end of Trump’s presidency, a hilarious finale to the reign of a mean-spirited, indulged, and self-indulgent bully who regularly disgraced the country he was given the honor of leading and who now can’t believe he’s about to lose the comfiest gig he ever had, largely paid for by U.S. taxpayers. Us, in case we ever forget.

But I just want to say goodbye. Farewell. Au revoir. Arrivederci. Auf Wiedersehen. Adios. Good riddance.

Finally, for Mr. Trump, perhaps a rousing chorus of the great Dan Hicks song: “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?”

(“Monitor” columnist Katy Burns lives in Bow.)




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