WASHINGTON – Earlier this morning, President Trump shocked both Democrats and Republicans alike when he announced from the White House Rose Garden that he’s giving up on the government shutdown, and his “kooky scheme” of building a border wall thanks to a late-night visitation by the spectral reincarnations of three Honduran migrants. For the next few minutes, Trump described a Kafkaesque hallucination in which the three spirits took him on a wild and heartfelt journey of introspection and epiphany that melted his rock-hard heart into a warm, flaccid puddle.

Reporters were shocked and immediately clamored to learn more about the President’s Dickensian experience. There were shouts of “Aren’t you just ripping off of A Christmas Carol?” and “Could you comment on the growing humanitarian crisis in Syria?”—but unfazed by the barrage of Faulknerian interrogation and guided by his new-found inner peace, the Commander-in-Chief began recounting the Scheherazadian tale of his visit from what he called, “those brown ghosts”: “They were brown, not white. Nobody sees like color like I do, so believe me when I tell you that they were brown. Not white.”

The first apparition, the Ghost of Migrants Past, took him to the early 1800s when Trump’s own ancestors could be seen toiling in filth and putrid muck. ‘Twas a Heideggerian sight for a Aristotelian day, and Trump finally concluded that “You and I? We’re not so different. Heroes, villains, citizens, illegals—as long as we all understand America’s complex and troubled history of migration, violence and colonization, with a particular eye towards the role white men have played, and continue to play, in the systemic oppression and domination of people of color—then we’ll all be fine.”

Next, the Ghost of Migrants Present took Trump golfing, and the two of them had a really good time!

And finally, the Ghost of Migrants Future ghost-fucked the head of state of one of the most powerful countries in the world into the year AD 3000, where he saw his thirty-three-times great grandson frolicking freely in a windswept Dickensonian prairie as his robotic overlords basked in the solar rays of the Faustian Nexus-12. Trump concluded his Aesopian fable with a moral thtat the American people are unlikely to forget: “The robots are coming, so migration doesn’t matter.” Truly, Faulknerian oration that rivals the likes of Kennedy and Roosevelt in deftness and wit.

So we celebrate today the enlightenment of our beloved leader of government, who departed the Rose Garden to begin his daily regimen of Dostoyevskian meditation to the resounding chant of “Four more years! Four more years!”

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