My name is Dan Henry, and last month I thought what the hell, I’m getting a goldfish! Thing is, I travel a lot. I’ve also had mixed success in caring for pets before. And I can be forgetful. So I was worried about how this fish would fare, because I had a goldfish as a kid for three years, and was so sad when MangleMoose Crapticus von Boobsmacken went belly up.
I’ve had some heartache lately with a divorce. Kind of the reason I got a goldfish for companionship in the first place. But I don’t want to be crying my eyes out when its time is up. So what I did was, I named it Donald Trump so when it dies, I won’t care!
People think I picked the name because it’s a goldfish and Trump loves gold. I greet my new pet every day with “Good morning, Donald Trump!” and “Are you STILL hungry, Donald Trump?” and “I’m sorry I can’t put another fish in the tank to keep you company because I’m sure you’d cannibalize it, Donald Trump” and so on.
It works like a charm. I love the little Donald, but I still feel a certain detachment that can only be explained by my abject, earth-shattering, stratospheric hatred for the President. The association is exactly what I’d hoped for. Every time I walk up to that fishbowl and utter his name, every organ in my body recoils. I start thinking about what Trump has done to the country, and the next thing you know, I’m picturing my goldfish with a shish kabob skewer through his head, floundering around in his last moments as he dies a slow, violent, agonizing, horribly gruesome death.
That ought to take the sting out of mourning the little fellow!
To be clear, I wish absolutely no bodily harm to the President himself – and especially not to my dear goldfish. I’m just protecting my emotions.
And one more thing. It’s so weird to see the similarities between my goldfish and the real Donald Trump. They’re both frenetic, all over the place and kind of hard to follow. They both have the IQ of a fish, experience life in an isolated bubble, and they’re both bottom-feeders. But my guy has a heart, so I’m starting to re-think getting him a companion. Maybe tonight I’ll bring home another fish named Ivanka, so he can have a girlfriend.
By Holly Love
And they are orange