As a native Floridian, I’ve always hated summer, our worst season, what with the suffocating heat and threat of hurricanes. But this year, I’m looking forward to it because I’m hoping it will force Trump to choose another branded vacation property to which to repair after the rigors of a four-day workweek spent signing shit, ogling Ivanka’s boobs, humiliating toadies and watching Fox & Friends.
It’s true that Disgraceland in Palm Beach is on the opposite coast and 200-plus miles from me. But I swear we can sense Trump’s oppressive presence when he lands in Florida, settling over the palm-fringed landscape like a noxious orange fart cloud and permeating the thin walls of our hovels with a nostril-singeing stench and hiss of escaping air that can be heard even over the roar and clatter of the A/C.
So which lucky state will be the site of the “Summer White House”? Seems like the viscid marmalade glob spent a lot of time at his golf club in Bedminster, New Jersey last fall. A steady presence there this summer could have as salubrious effect on its membership fee profits as the rebranding of Tsar-a-Iago as the so-called “Winter White House” (an unmonitored hive of influence-peddling) had in Florida.
Or maybe Putin will just drop all pretense and cede a fancy dacha, stocked with hidden cameras and statuesque models capable of peeing on command. We’ll have to wait and see. But summer is coming, and with it, perhaps — counter-intuitively in this strange year — relief for the Sunshine State.