Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones:
Orpheus and Eurydice
(Between 1898)

Hasn't he already lingered longer than absolutely necessary?

During Saturday Night Live’s first two seasons, its original News Update anchor Chevy Chase ran a continuing joke, each week proclaiming, “Francisco Franco is still dead.” The joke played off the news media’s apparent obsession with Franco’s recent demise. These days, we have what seems to me to be an analogous situation in that our incumbent has reportedly been continually on his last legs since before the start of his second term. Doubtless, he has been feckless and hugely ineffective at accomplishing anything lasting, though he has attempted and perhaps succeeded in undermining a previously stable world order. That accomplishment’s not nothing, but it seems unlikely to persist. Salvation seems ever-impending, simply awaiting his demise, which has been reported as imminent for four-hundred and sixty-one days as of this morning. That qualifies whatever ails him as a long-running illness by anyone’s measure. I’m starting to doubt that he’s actually teetering on death’s door. Perhaps it would be better if we just considered declaring him Undead instead.

Donald J. Trump is still undead. Each morning, along with the requisite, familiar existential dread, I roll out of bed wondering if that sonuvabitch will still be Undead. He was Undead the previous evening, sitting up texting his usual blather, material not really worth reporting on, though it will usually appear above the fold. The world hangs on every misbegotten phrase, seemingly led—or should I say “misled”—by one seriously Undead. He invariably engages in some racist or classist or misogynistic screed, fearlessly letting everybody see that he deep down seems to be absent one soul, especially when he wanders onto topics of religiousity, which he plainly lacks even a cursory background to discuss. He misquotes Bible verses as if he just that minute discovered them, which he probably has. I’m sure he went to a church service once, but probably only to steal from the collection plate as it passed. Who could expect him to pass up any opportunity to receive some more free money?

The Undead move about the world impervious to most of the physical constraints that keep the rest of us in check. The Undead seem to have lost their ability to engage in any longer-term planning, so they largely operate on whims; they just get some wild hair crawling up their ass, so they act, heading off to Florida to engage in another meaningless round of what he tries to pass off as golf. The Undead play differently from the living. They cheat with impunity, yet still manage to live with themselves, after a fashion. The Undead operate without conscience, without the normal guiding voices from above. No angels ever accompany their passage. They exclusively operate with near absolute impunity. Though few if any of them genuinely believe in the existence of any Gods, save the ones of vengeance. They usually perform as if they were somehow God’s chosen vessel, his spokesperson, a savior rather than a devil. The Undead are and always have been and always will be demons first. Everything else amounts to secondary responsibilities, even fulfilling the responsibilities of the office of our Presidency.

Donald J. Trump’s still Undead, though his mortal existence sure does seem to be slipping away a little more every day. Venous Insufficiency barely describes whatever’s going on inside him. He was very likely soulless before he became Undead. His Epstein connection was never more than a symptom of some deeper, infinitely more troubling dysfunction. He has never been what we might call ‘right in the head.’ He was always exceptional in this one narrow way. He was never not different. He was correct to think of himself as special, but not special as in gifted, but special as in unfortunate instead. He was not the original poor little rich boy, but he was always poor and always rich, and always, always, always a terrified little boy. His soul died long ago, perhaps done in by too close an association with disco and the seventies New York club scene, back when Francisco Franco was still dead, and he was just beginning his seemingly never-ending career as a leader of the budding disaffected army of the Undead.

One day, probably not this morning and maybe not tomorrow, either, I will roll out of bed to learn that Donald J. Trump is no longer considered Undead. His demise will, hopefully, eventually put us out of his misery. He seems not to suffer from his condition, for the Undead lack conventional feelings. He lost his tears when he lost his sense of humor, for no human can believably cry who cannot also credibly laugh. He lost his fears when he refused to feel them, so they became his terrors instead. He texts through the night because sleep remains the final human refuge. The Undead wander through a twilit world, unable to see the light that might render simple decency visible again. He wanders lonelier than any cloud, blinder than a boulder, stupider than otherwise imaginable: Undead. Hasn’t he already lingered longer than absolutely necessary?

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #EndDays, #PureSchmaltz