David Weiss is a Los Angeles-based freelancer who grew up in Oak Park. He has written for the Wall Street Journal, Newsweek, the LA Herald Examiner and Men's Journal and co-founded the band Was (Not Was). His father, the late Rube Weiss, was Santa Claus in the Hudson's Thanksgiving Parade.
By David Weiss
President Donald Trump (Deposit Photos)
I had been dreading this task, sitting down to craft one last bilious salvo against the man I have loved to hate since his fabled descent on the Golden Escalator. I had wasted precious earth-hours grumbling about the neck-tied parasite, writing bitterly sarcastic screeds for this esteemed publication and others. And now, on the eve of this horror-show election, I found myself on empty, out of rhetorical steam, even speechless, which -- are you ready? -- is most unlike me.
I had the best intentions facing this gaping blank page, and then zilch, nada, goose eggs. Had years of Trump Derangement Syndrome finally whittled my wits down to their very nub? Had I gone from outrage and anger to stunned silence, wracked by fear that he would weather my “best words” and wind up back in the Oafish Office yet again? Why even bother? Was I just another blabbermouth virtue signaler, an armchair revolutionary, a waste of precious cyberspace?
It was in the throes of such crippling doubt that I turned to the last refuge of a 21st-century scoundrel, not patriotism but artificial intelligence. Maybe I could pass on the tawdry task of insulting that Big Mac-swilling philistine to ChatGPT, not known for its satirical gifts or blackhearted humor, but never lacking an answer for even the stupidest of questions. Example: I just asked the superbot if butterflies can speak Sanskrit. “No,” it replied, “they communicate through chemical signals and visual cues rather than spoken language.”
Like, duh. Maybe that was too easy for Hal. But what if I really put this digital bag-of-bolts to the task and got it to imagine Donald Trump’s post-political future after losing in November? That way I get to sip my iced Sanka in the tanning bed while Univac drums up the mordant mockery – no calories burned, no brain-cells wasted, rollercoaster blood pressure in check. Shall we give it a go?
Me to GPT: Write a satirical obituary about Donald Trump after losing a WWF wrestling match and falling into Melania’s lap ringside.
“Donald J. Trump, 78, died under rather unusual circumstances on November 7, 2024, following what could be described as the most spectacular miscalculation since the Hindenburg. The former president and real estate mogul was participating in a World Wrestling Federation match, where his attempt to show he still had the moves was about as successful as his 2020 campaign.
The match itself was a dazzling display of bravado, with Trump sporting more rhinestones than a Las Vegas showgirl. However, the spectacle took an unexpected turn when, in a moment of misplaced confidence and ill-advised choreography, he was thrown from the ring. Instead of crashing into the expected pile of security guards, he landed squarely in the lap of his wife, Melania, who had been enjoying the event from ringside.
Witnesses reported that Melania, ever the picture of grace under pressure, barely flinched as her husband’s monumental entrance disrupted her view of the match. The former First Lady reportedly remarked, “I suppose I always knew he’d make a splash, but this was not exactly what I had in mind.”
Okay, not spit-take funny, but I did sit back and enjoy my avocado toast while the servers and circuit boards did all the heavy lifting! Maybe it’d be better to sharpen my sword on the next go-round, making plain my unbridled antipathy for the old goat. To wit: “Write a satirical news story on a blind Donald Trump selling pencils outside of Barron Trump Tower.” Go, GPT, go!
“In a curious turn of events that has left New Yorkers both bemused and intrigued, former President Donald Trump, now visually impaired, has taken to selling pencils outside the newly renamed Barron Trump Tower. Trump, who lost his vision in a series of bafflingly dramatic incidents that remain the subject of much speculation, reportedly decided to shift his focus from grandiose real estate deals to the more humble art of pencil peddling.
Sporting a pair of aviator sunglasses and a tweed blazer, Trump has set up a modest stand, adorned with a sign that reads, “The Greatest Pencils, Believe Me!” Witnesses describe Trump’s pitch as a blend of nostalgia and hyperbole. “He’s got a real talent for selling these pencils,” said one passerby. “He tells you it’s the best pencil you’ll ever use, and somehow, you believe him—even though the last time I checked, a pencil was just a pencil.” Prices for the pencils start at $10, with a special $50 option that includes a handwritten note from Trump himself. “We’re making pencils great again,” he declared. “One pencil at a time.”
Not bad, not great, but maybe in the name of global cooling, I ought to give this side-splitting robot a rest – after all, I went out for a pedicure and an ego massage while old Chatty Cathy was hard at work making with the pencil gags. But just so I feel like I’ve put in a dishonest day’s work, let’s give old Algorithm Albert a last chance to acquit himself as a virtual sarcasm generator (known as VSG in the trade): “Write a story about Donald Trump in Hell playing shuffleboard with other evil historical characters.”
“In a surreal twist of fate, Donald Trump found himself in the afterlife, not exactly as he might have envisioned but certainly as memorable as one would expect from his tenure on Earth. Hell, as it turned out, was a never-ending country club, complete with an expansive shuffleboard court and a cast of historical villains who had earned their place in this peculiar purgatory.
Trump, still clad in his signature suit and a freshly spritzed layer of self-tanner, gazed around with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “So this is the afterlife, huh? Not quite Mar-a-Lago, but I can work with this,” he muttered, eyeing the shuffleboard court with a competitive gleam in his eye. To his left stood Adolf Hitler, meticulously adjusting his vintage uniform and frowning as he practiced his technique. “You’d think after all these years,” Hitler grumbled in heavily accented English, “I’d have more important things to do than play shuffleboard with someone who... well, let’s just say, lacks historical nuance.”
Across from him was Joseph Stalin, who was muttering about how shuffleboard could have been a lot more efficient if only it had been run through a Five-Year Plan. Trump approached the court, greeting his unlikely companions with a handshake and an enthusiastic “Nice to meet you. I have to say, I’m quite good at shuffleboard. I used to play a lot of golf, and I think that’s a similar kind of skill set, believe me.” Hitler raised an eyebrow. “Golf and shuffleboard? That’s an interesting comparison, but don’t expect any special treatment just because you’ve dabbled in other leisure activities.”
The shuffleboard match soon devolved into a series of bizarre antics, with Trump repeatedly insisting that he had been “robbed” of several points. “It’s rigged,” he proclaimed loudly. “No one’s ever seen a shuffleboard game like this. Tremendous injustice, folks.” In this strange corner of eternity, amidst the shuffleboard pucks and historical grudges, one thing was clear: Donald Trump, for better or worse, had found a way to make even the afterlife a stage for his larger-than-life persona.
ChatGPT can make mistakes. Check important info.”
I officially retire from satire, now and forever – I know full well when I’ve met my match. P.S., my worthy opponent, ChatGPT, will be starting a Las Vegas residency at Circus Circus starting on November 6, 2024. Carrot Top to open, two-drink minimum.
