Last week, President (ugh) Donald Trump showed an uncharacteristic willingness to listen to the Democratic Party. First, he struck a deal with Congressional Democrats to increase the debt limit through mid-December, forcing an unpleasant showdown for Republicans. Then, reports emerged that he had struck a deal with Democratic leaders Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi to enshrine DACA protections into law in exchange for increasing border security in a manner that would not include construction of a wall. And finally, the Trump Administation apparently told European officials that they were reversing their earlier move to leave the Paris climate agreement.
What’s behind this sudden cooperation with the left? Here are my top theories.
Donald J. Trump, four-dimensional chess master, walked into the Oval Office at a brisk speed of 3.774 feet per second, a velocity calculated to the nth degree to maximally trigger the libs. He plunged into his chair, making a sound that would distract the #fakenews for days with talk of whether it was the chair creaking or him farting. He reached into his suit pocket for his phone, but unbeknownst to him, he had left his phone in yesterday’s suit, which was currently going through the wash, causing his rapidly short-circuiting electronic device to retweet some neo-Nazi somewhere, which would distract all the idiot liberal reporters who hadn’t been snared in by the chair fart thing. As he didn’t know this, however (even though he did), he started reaching into every cranny of his suit looking for his phone, causing his right sleeve to rip and instantly forcing thousands of SJW snowflakes back to their safe spaces.
“What’s on my plate for today?” said Trump to his aide, mentally rating her appearance at 0.7 Ivankas, thus assuming the alpha male mindset necessary to execute the day’s big issues and thwart the enemies of the United States, like North Korea and public television.
“Well, you’ve got Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer here to see you about DACA, Mr. President,” she said, in a way that made Trump reconsider his initial assessment of her appearance. 0.65 Ivankas was more accurate. Still, that was like 54 Tiffanys. Could be worse.
“Ugh,” said Trump, leaning slightly to the side in order to scratch his butt, then bringing his scratching hand up to his face and taking a careful sniff. Try and compete with THAT, feminists. “Well, send them in. Let’s see what they want.”
This, like every step of his immaculately crafted ascent to the presidency, was carefully calculated. Trump had already seen every potential move of this game, each of the tens of millions of potential outcomes, and had carefully adjusted his behavior, mannerisms, and appearance to give him maximum leverage.
“Whooooo’s my favorite president?” said Chuck Schumer, barging into the room.
Trump paused for a moment, a weighty pause that, had it occurred on a college campus, would have surely caused the entire student body to skip class because they were so triggered. Did they mean… him? Trump thought, delighted. Was he their favorite president?
“Oh, no!” added Nancy Pelosi, covering her eyes. “Where’s the number one president in the country? I thought he’d be here, but I don’t see him!”
Trump giggled uncontrollably, causing beta cucks the country over to collapse into subservient puddles from their crushing sense of inferiority.
“Is he over here?” asked Pelosi, looking behind the Oval Office curtains. “Is he over here? Oh, there he is!”
Trump was bouncing in his seat in excitement. He leaned forward in anticipation and—well, no debate about whether that one was a fart. But that’s how a true president did things. His way, with no room for debate. The libs would never understand.
“There’s our big president boy!” added Schumer. “Is he ready to negotiate with us to ensure DACA protections? I’ll bet he is!”
Pelosi and Schumer didn’t know what they were in for. Trump had manipulated them perfectly, rendering them vulnerable to every one of his suggestions. He could do anything. He could convince them to undo everything Obama did. He could make them build his wall.
If only the libtards on Twitter were watching to see how badly they were about to be owned.
“Does our boy want to enshrine DACA into law? Does he?”
Trump looked confused. The plan was going perfectly. Pelosi and Schumer were like wet clay in his hands. They would cave to whatever he demanded. And he was going to demand the wall. Finally, America would be made great again. And it would be all down to Donald Trump, the master of deals.
“Not sure, Donald? Well, we’ll throw in a bit of a present! Who wants some enhanced border security? No wall, though.”
Trump nodded eagerly. He had mastered them, like the conservative genius he was, and had gotten everything he wanted. He burped. It tasted like Cheez-Its. SJW snowflakes would probably start boycotting Cheez-Its now. More for the alt-right.
“Great! Now, about the Paris climate agreement…”
A ribbon of snot dribbled out of Trump’s nostril, further shifting the balance of power in his favor. The Democratic leadership would emerge from this meeting crushed and helpless, incapable of anything but bending to his power. Let’s see the libs try and bounce back from this. #MAGA.
The semisolid aggregation of radioactive waste within Donald Trump’s skull glowed faintly. Veins of uranium and curium isotopes streaked the lesioned remains of his corpus callosum, spitting out particles in all directions. A lump of proactinium-231 irradiated his scar-choked hippocampus. Heaps of bismuth-209 sagged against his distended, tearing meninges. His remaining neurons popped and strained under the enormous heat and constant ionic bombardment.
A typical day in Donald Trump’s head, in other words. But something unusual was about to happen.
Bismuth-209 is the most stable radioisotope currently known; its half-life has been estimated to be a billion times the current age of the universe. In the quantities present in Donald Trump’s brain, in other words, you could usually count on one hand the number of 209Bi atoms decaying on any given day. And on any given day, that handful of decaying atoms would have no impact whatsoever. Either the alpha particle would be ejected in a direction where it could do no harm, or it would be buried so deep in the lump of 209Bi that it would crash into a heap of other 209Bi atoms before it could do any damage to the brain at large.
But radioactive decay is a random process. It is impossible to predict when any single atom will decay, no matter how long it has existed in its current state, and furthermore, it is impossible to predict the direction in which the resulting particles will be launched. And today, by impossibly slim chance, of the four atoms, out of all the sextillions in that heap of bismuth-209 slowly ripping its way through Donald Trump’s cerebral membranes, that would decay that day, one existed on the very edge of that heap, pressed against his grey matter. And by even greater chance, when it decayed, the alpha particle it emitted shot straight inwards, perfectly orthogonal to the skull, and straight into a nearby neuron, agitating it very slightly.
Normally even this incredibly unlikely chain of events wouldn’t have had any measurable impact, but when Lady Luck smiles on you, she really goes all-out and shows every one of her teeth. The neuron that had been hit had been on the verge of an action potential, but through years of damage and underuse, could not accumulate enough energy to actually release an electrical signal. Not until the alpha particle added its tiny, almost imperceptible kick, and finally pushed it over the cusp.
The neuron fired, for the first time in years, sending an electric jolt cascading through the atrophied structures of Donald Trump’s underused frontal cortex, activating critical-thinking centers that had long lain dormant…
Donald Trump blinked. He’d just come to a realization.
“97% of climate scientists can’t all be wrong, can they?” he said to a bewildered aide. “And the things they’re saying about the damage climate change could cause are pretty scary. Maybe it wasn’t smart to leave the Paris climate agreement just because Scott Pruitt told me to.”
“Umm…” said the aide.
“You know what, I’m having second thoughts,” continued Trump. “Maybe we should stay in the Paris agreement after all.”
But at that moment, the spark in his brain died out. The neurons of his frontal cortex ceased, in the absence of sustained stimulation, to achieve further action potentials. The unceasing shower of radiotoxic energy from the far more unstable metals buried in his hindbrain once again assumed unchallenged control of his brain’s electrical activity, his thoughts and actions. Donald Trump was, anew, the Donald Trump we all know. And this Donald Trump quickly made it very clear that he was still planning to leave the Paris agreement.
Donald Trump struck a deal favorable to Schumer and Pelosi about DACA because they flattered him a bit, or he was tired and didn’t have the energy to negotiate, or he was still mad at Mitch McConnell for failing to repeal Obamacare, or whatever. As for the Paris agreement, he never had any intention but to leave it, because Obama had agreed to it and he despised Obama, but some impulse within him compelled him to pay lip service to the idea that America might not abandon it, because it might ingratiate him with interested parties at home and abroad.
Still, his course had hardly changed, and to prove it, he went to the UN, where he threatened to “totally destroy North Korea“. And that’s where we are now.