Hell Is Not A Democracy

I was sitting on the couch, sipping a Snapple, and watching the football game.

I looked to my right, where I could see The Devil reading the Sunday paper on his end of the couch.  As always, he was well dressed in an impeccably tailored suit.

He was being quiet and behaving himself for once, and I should have left well enough alone.

But I just couldn’t help myself for some reason.  “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer truthfully,” I instructed.

“Why would I lie?” Lucifer asked with a roll of his eyes.  “Oh, right…you went to Catholic School where the Nuns filled your head with the most horrible lies about me.”

I waved off his cynical comment.  “So the truth, right?”

The Prince of Darkness shot me a glare that warned me I was treading on thin ice.

“When you’re not here, do you put on a Donald Trump costume, go to the White House, and slowly drag this country straight down to Hell as you pretend to be the President of the United States?” I asked in all sincerity.

Satan laughed out loud, put down his newspaper, and turned to face me.  “I can see how you might think I was behind the actions of the man currently occupying the Oval Office, but I assure you that Donald Trump is wrestling with demons not at all related to me.”

I sighed and took a long sip of Snapple as I absorbed that revelation.  I guess I was hoping The Devil would confess he was manipulating Trump, and I could save us all by convincing my Sunday guest to go find another puppet.

“If I were going to possess a President, it wouldn’t be a close-minded, racist, misogynist like Trump,” Lucifer explained.  “I’d want Barack Obama.”

“I’d use my position to seduce people into giving up their eternal souls, but Trump followers are the kind of folks who already have reservations in Hell.  I’d take advantage of Obama’s trustworthiness to win over people who would never trust The Prince of Darkness.  If I could become President Obama for just a day, I could do amazing things for Hell’s census figures.”

He stared off in something of a dreamy trance, as a smile steadily grew across his handsome face.

“I just don’t understand how someone who thinks and behaves like Trump and says things like ‘shit hole countries’ gets to occupy the highest office in our country,” I groaned.  “It made sense if it was you in a fat suit and horrible wig, but if that’s really who the man is, and that’s who the Electoral College wants to be President, then I am sad for the state of the country.  And for the world, for that matter, since they are affected by Trump, too.”

“If it’s any consolation, at least he’s not invading countries and trying to take over the world,” Satan pointed out to me.  “World domination is just too much work and would seriously cut into Trump’s TV and cheeseburger time.”

“That’s really no consolation whatsoever,” I sighed.

The Devil pulled an ice cold bottle of Snapple out of the cooler, and handed it to me with a charming smile.  “Then have this.  Your potty mouth President might be able to take away your faith in his office and your belief that America can be great again, but he can’t take away your Snapple.”

I smiled.  Sometimes, it was the small victories that got me through trying times.

So I enjoyed my Snapple as I mentally calculated the number of days until the next Presidential Election.  While secretly wishing for an impeachment, of course…