It was a hellish morning. Hurricane Maria had nearly destroyed all of us who live here in Puerto Rico. There was no electricity, no potable water, no sewage system and millions of our houses, cars, cats, dogs and personal possessions had been hoisted into the air in whirlwinds and cast into the sea.

In the rubble, Santos Juan Manuel Garcia, a thirteen year old transgender who had dreamt of recreating the Judy Garland role as a new and glorious Dorothy Gale was, ironically enough, nearly blow away by a different gale and for that Juan's favorite songs were no longer "Maria" from West Side Story, but "Somewhere over the Rainbow" and Madonna's Material Girl, because Juan had been given different material during his sexual reassignment and he asked for and received a 'Salchicha de Frankfurt' to make him proud to be a real American boy!

Then, suddenly, as the Dorothy's rainbow faded away, it felt as if his music, soul and heart were all evaporating until he looked high up into the sky and noticed a plane circling the Luis Munos Marin Internation Airport-it was U.S. Air Force Numero Uno, which was the personal private property of the President of the United States of America, Juan's native country and Donald Trump was bringing hope and prosperity.

Santos Juan was naked-as were most of the boys and girls on that hurricane-wrecked island so he donned the first items he could find-a T-shirt with the logo: Bimini is for Lovers and a pair of very tight pink shorts, thin, but pleasantly comforting in times when the world seems to have needed it most. Then he found his pair of ruby red slippers which he'd purchased for his upcoming but now postponed or possibly cancelled Island Fashion Show and Musical Review: "Garlands for Garland" the concert he had planned to perform at the Sala Rene Marques Theatre.

With that thought buzzing in his head, he ran through his entire routine-coming out first as the male he was today and then as the woman he used to be and then dancing (literally and figuratively) from gender to gender as his tender tenor voice sang Broadway songs and then sometimes in mid-sentence switching to his new improve coloratura soprano voice and then reverting three octaves lower (all in his mind of course because there is no mortal on earth who could at age thirteen be as vocally mature as this).

Now, in his mind at least, Santos Juan Manuel Garcia was the king, or queen, or a queenly king of the entire island's musical theatre-and all the time, picturing the arrival of his hero: the President of the United States of America: Donald Trump.

Hurray.

All this-all the songs, dance routines and quick changes from skirt to shorts and sneakers to ruby sleepers, Juan recreated in his mind while speeding to the airport on his motorcycle so he could welcome his hero: the Man himself: Donald J. Trump who would bring hope, salvation, food, compassion, joy, peace and love to Santos Juan's city of San Juan, which of course, was not named after Santos Juan Manuel Garcia -but instead was, as his momma said, because he had been born ass-backwards sliding out of her womb feet first with his left toes-his dominant toes-inching out, arching to touch the floor. Anyway, Juan believes that that's the reason he was christened Santos Juan Manuel Garcia-after his city of San Juan and not vice-versa as his Daddy told him a thousand times: "Nino, the capital is not named after you because it was here long before you." That concept took all of Santos Juan Manuel Garcia's thirteen years to wrap his new body parts, let alone his old brain parts, around. But if you believe that that was the worst part of Santos Juan Manuel Garcia 's life then you never fully understand the tragic tale of Father Sacerdote Cisneros who baptized him as a girl! Cisneros is now a permanent resident of the San Jorge Mental Institute with a view of the Caribbean and daily schedules of water polo, snorkeling, sail boating and Scuba diving.

Anyway, the skies were still filled with rain clouds-not those horrible fierce things that had inundated everything San Juan owned but these fresh new clouds seemed to be nearly as happy as queer San Juan (the boy, not the city) when a rainbow briefly popped up in the sky just above the Air Force Number One that had started its descent and San Juan wanted to be among the first to welcome his hero, his savior, Donald Trump to his hometown. He giggled and straightened the wrinkles wr`inking up his T and shorts as he thought how glorious it would be for the boy namesake of San Juan to cheer and hoot and holler in glee that this president-this glorious miracle providing-president was arriving.

The plane came in-but there was no glorious shining relief. Instead, there were news reporters, cameras, and the brightest lights Juan had ever seen as that part of the airport was transformed into a stage for Juan's hero!

Meanwhile tons of relief goods were being unloaded: crates and crates of what Juan hoped were packed with food and clothes and shoes-but then Juan's jaw dropped because there at the top of the staircase was el Presidente! But, he was not the glorious demi-god Juan had pictured-instead he was a teetering old man with drool oozing out of his lips yet that old man was Juan's hero-the President of the United States and Juan forgave the old man for his drool because sometimes Juan himself had drooled. But then President Trump grabbed a handrail and slowly step by step, grasping the handrail as if it had been a stairway to heaven and now he must descend from his golden throne (which he had reinstalled in Air Force One) to be with his brown skinned people and love them and succor them and supply them with the food, which obviously must be in those bales and boxes and crates the ground crew was hoisting and heaving up in their sweaty arms before sliding them down the ramp onto the tarmac.

President Trump almost stumbled but thank God no one took any photos or film of that because sometimes Gods slip and even occasionally make mistakes but not President Trump. He just needed a little extra support because, surely, the Trump Juan worshipped could not be a tottering old man like Manuel Luis Obispo Hernandez, Juan's great-grandfather who suffers from both lumbago (whatever in the hell that is) and burping that goes on and on for hours after every meal.

Then down the stairs still slithering slowly and grasping each railing one after the other, after the other, as if his very life depended on it, grasping the next one, grasping but not slipping or falling on his bloated face or huge-and Oh My God-Juan noticed for that the first time that this living god-this president of his country the USA had the face and ass of a hog-but nevertheless, Juan decided to concentrate on the goods his god had brought him and his people.

And then the microphones and cameras rocked and rolled and began filming as a table was set up in front of the president which hopefully would soon be covered with food for Juan and all his fellow countrymen.

Instead, however, the President began a 93-minute diatribe about how he had come to save this devastated island to provide supplies but first, President Trump said, he was "anxious to meet the President of Puerto Rico," and that's when Juan's faith began to fade in his hero because President Trump now perplexed Juan so badly that all he could picture was President hugging and kissing and shaking hands with himself and for a brief moment, Juan had to fight back the vomit that was churning in his stomach. Who in the hell was this man?

But then, with his faith restored in the goods the President of both the Northern and Southern portions of the United States had brought with him, he realized we all make mistakes as he realized that sometimes he pictured Puerto Rico as big as the rest of the northern part of the United States, but as Juan tried to think through that conundrum, his Salchicha de Frankfurt gave its first 21-gun salute, shooting out happiness and oozing down his right leg down to the toes of his ruby red slippers!

Then, praying to all the saints for no more accidents and trying to ignore his newly installed penis, which seemed to have a life all its own, his hero Donald Trump began tossing food into the crowd-but no-it was not food-it was packages of paper towels-why paper towels? We do not eat paper? Is that what you had for your morning breakfast, my hero, President Trump? Where is the food?

Meanwhile the president of both countries-the USA in the north and Juan's USA here in the south began flinging roll after roll of paper towels helter-skelter into the crowd, one of which whacked Juan so hard it nearly knocked off his pink shorts. Yet, his hero continued bombarding the crowd-knocking down two dogs, six children, an elderly man on crutches and three nuns-but that man, Donald Trump continued flinging, flinging, non-stop as roll after roll of paper towels flew into the once adoring but now angered and agitated crowd of voters and hero worshipers.

The next roll hit Esmaralda Corez, a trans friend of Juan so Juan shouted into the angrifying crowd: "Toss them back. Toss them back! Toss them back," and the crowd began picking up the rolls of paper towels becoming a cacophony of angry voices unable to comprehend that their President thought we islanders were worth nothing more than hand tossed rolls of paper towels.

And the towels became a torrent as Juan and the now recovering Esmaralda and thousands of U.S. citizens began heaving ton after ton of paper towels back toward the president of both countries: USA in the north on the top of his head and USA here in the south as his swollen knees as the rants became a colophony and the shouts grew louder: "toss them back, toss them back, toss them back," and within a few seconds, every man, woman, and child heaved roll after roll after roll of paper towels back at their president: Donald Trump and the skies were filled with flying rolls of paper towels more torrential than Hurricane Maria had been.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The funeral of late President Trump was held in the Florida White House at Mar a Lago and in honor of him and of all his good and glorious deeds, fifteen million Americans filled every gun in the country and began firing as 21 canon salutes erupted all along the Florida coasts-from the Atlantic to the Caribbean in honor of the dead president. Sadly, and ironically, Mar a Lago was the first to slip under the waves as the southern part of Florida sank into the sea all because of the soggy weight of Trump's relief package: paper towels.

Sadly, somewhere the body of the Northern President of the United States was never recovered because let's be totally honest, no one from either Country the USA in the North or here in the USA in the South, really wanted to deal with soggy paper towels to search for the body parts of a dead President.

But, shortly thereafter, Congress decided to erect a 600-foot tall tower on the Potomac River which would be taller than the Washington Monument but that tower never finished being completed before it began to crumble because the Donald Trump Construction Company's pillars and posts were all made of pressed recycled paper towels which looked marvelous until Hurricane Diablo blew it down and all that paper clogged up the Potomac so badly that Washington-all of it-the Capitol, the Treasury, the Mud-Wrestling Arena in the old Jacky Kennedy Rose Garden in front of the Old White House-and even the statue of Fala, Franklin Roosvelt's dog, were all washed away.

Washington DC, which our once living and glorious President Trump had frequently referred to as a swamp-literally became one-nearly burping as loudly as Manuel Luis Obispo Hernandez and nothing is there now except one solitary green paper towel, floating listlessly in an eddy of its own creation.

The End

Back to the Scot Walker Story Page

I'd love to hear what you think!  Leave me a comment on our contact us page.