How would you like the Trump presidency to end.

[The Velveteen Ocelot]

68. Any or all of the above, or some combination, would work for me.

My favorite fate-of-Trump fantasy has him dead broke and living alone in a run-down double-wide in a seedy trailer park somewhere in, say, Nebraska, where it gets very hot in the summer, cold in the winter, and is susceptible to tornadoes. He spends his days sitting on the steps of his humble home drinking diet Pepsi, eating KFC and railing about the injustices done to him. He has become dangerously obese; his old clothes no longer fit so most of the time he wears XXX-L sweat pants and a stained wife-beater undershirt adorned with a six-foot-long red polyester necktie. Because he is no longer able to manage his hairdo, his fringe of stringy, now-gray hair hangs almost to his shoulders, revealing his shiny, blotchy scalp. His neck wattles obscure his actual neck almost entirely.

He is living off proceeds from the sale of some items of personal property that Melania missed when she cleaned out the New York apartment and took off for Slovenia; these included several sets of monogrammed gold cufflinks and a roomful of dictator-Baroque gilded chairs. He kept the throniest-looking chair to sit in at night while he watches Fox News on a small, very old tv with a coat hanger for an antenna, hoping Sean Hannity will mention him. He never does. Don Jr. sometimes writes to him from prison but the rest of his family is in Brazil, which does not have an extradition treaty with the U.S., and he hasn't heard from them in months.

He wonders what he will do when he has sold the last set of cufflinks. The pawn shop owner is not very generous, and the only collectors who might be interested are those unemployed neckbeards who live in their parents' basements and collect knockoff Nazi memorabilia.

Sometimes he waddles over to the neighbors' trash bins and pokes around in them with a stick, never with his little hands, hoping to find a copy of the New York Times or the Washington Post that might have an article about him. He wonders if Maggie Haberman still writes about him. Since his neighbors do not subscribe to these newspapers, he is able to imagine that his name still appears in them from time to time. Sometimes he finds uneaten French fries in the bins, which is a nice bonus when it happens, but most of the time the neighbors chase him away.

The worst thing of all is that Vladimir Putin no longer takes his calls.