Fiction,  Humor,  Politics

Mr. Trump Goes to Gaza

Seeing this absurd tweet prompted me to literally LOL the other day and then share it on Facebook with derisive glee. My friends found it equally hilarious which led me to muse about writing a shitty, satirical short story based on Gabriel’s ridiculous proposition. This idea was met with some enthusiasm, so I’ve decided to go ahead and write it.

Note: this is a satirical writing exercise, not a serious commentary on what is happening in Gaza at the moment. That said, I stand with the Palestinian cause for liberation and freedom from occupation. Please consider making a donation toward humanitarian aid for those living in Gaza.

Donald Trump sat lumpily in the third row of Betsy DeVos’ private plane.

“Come on Bets. Help me out,” he’d wheedled into the phone the day before. “I had to sell my plane and most of my assets are frozen. My lawyer doesn’t want me traveling on official party business right now because of the lawsuits and stuff. I need to go as a private citizen, and there’s no way I’m flying commercial. People are gross.” She’d staunchly refused until he pulled the ol’ ‘you owe me one for appointing you during my administration’ card with her.

“Donald, last time you borrowed something of mine you returned it broken,” Betsy griped. “Take care of this plane. It’s my son’s favorite in our fleet.”

She was referring, of course, to the time he borrowed her stapler from her office in D.C. It was a nice one. Swingline. He was visiting her office to discuss her tremendous plans for dismantling the public school system when he saw it sitting on her desk and asked if he could take it for a few days. He liked stapling things and for some reason the Oval Office didn’t come equipped with one. But it had been confiscated immediately by the secret service when he brought it into the White House. They disassembled it looking for anthrax or explosives or something. Anyway, by the time he returned it, it was in pieces. She’d never forgiven or forgotten and he doubted she ever would.

No one else wanted to come with him, so he was traveling alone with his security detail.

“Daddy I can’t,” Ivanka had said. “I’m going to meet with Kim K. this week to talk about my new shoe line.”

“Donald, I’ve told you a thousand times, I hate you. The only reason we’re still married is because I don’t have to go places with you anymore,” Melania had hissed into the phone.

Even Baron declined, via text. “LOL nah.” That kid was just weird.

So Donald went alone in Betsy DeVos’ hideous jet. It was mauve inside–mauve, for Chrissake. And not a shred of gold leaf to be found anywhere. “How could someone with so much money have so little class?” he thought.

To his security team and the rest of the jet staff it appeared as though he were staring out the window into the dark night. Actually, Donald was staring at his own reflection in the window. He’d discovered long ago that using his own image as a focal point brought him to his most enlightened state, and right now, he needed some good ideas. Because Donald was on his way to Israel to free the Israeli hostages being held by Hamas.

President Joe Biden just returned from Israel the previous week, and as usual, he’d made a weaksauce appearance. All he did was shake hands and read a statement letting the Israelis know that America was behind them. That was the problem with Joe. No action. Before Air Force One had even landed back on U.S. soil, Trump got pulled into a private Twitter message group started by Brigitte Gabriel. A bunch of folks from the party were in there – Marjorie, JD, Lindsey. They all thought he should go to Israel and show how presidential he is. It took very little convincing.

Now, he was hurtling toward Tel Aviv with no plan. Just guts. Lots and lots of guts.


By the time the plane landed and Donald was able to get off it was almost noon. He stood for a moment on the runway looking around for any sign of Bibi or his other Israeli friends, but strangely no one had come to meet him.

“That’s funny,” he thought. “I emailed Bibi yesterday to tell him I was on the way.”

Pulling his trusty iPhone out of his pocket, he poked at the screen with his small but mighty fingers and held the device up to his ear.

“Hello? Donald?” Bibi’s voice boomed. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, old friend?”

“Bibi, I’m here. In Tel Aviv.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. You didn’t get my message?”

“I’ve had a crazy week,” said the prime minister, “I’m trying to salvage my political legacy while fighting Iran’s proxy war, all while clearing out some area on the coast where my wife wants to build a vacation house. It’s been a lot.”

“Respect,” Donald said. “But I’m here to help. I’m going to get those hostages released.”

“You’re what?”

“Yeah, I mean, what’s the point of being great at making deals if I can help out my friends once in a while? By the way, I’m sorry the stuff with Jared didn’t work out. He’s kind of an idiot.”

“How, exactly are you planning to get them released?” Bibi sounded skeptical.

“I’m just gonna march right into Gaza and have a talk with the leader of Hamas,” Trump said as if Bibi were missing the most obvious solution on earth.

There was a very long, dry pause. Then, “Ok. Go for it. But the IDF is busy right now doing other stuff. Best I can do is let some of the settler militiamen know you’re going in. They can cover you from the Israeli side.”

“That’s fine,” Trump responded, pompously. “I don’t think I’ll need it. I have my security detail with me. Bobby and Jeff. They’re solid.”

Another long pause. “Well. Ok then. Good luck. Call me if you get anyone freed.”

And with that, Bibi hung up. Trump looked around the airfield for a sign about what to do next, but nothing came to him. He put his phone in his pocket and yelled to Bobby and Jeff, “Come on, boys. Let’s go. We’re burnin’ daylight!” Then he headed off in the direction of the airport terminal entrance adding, “Someone call a cab.”

Four hours later, after Trump and his men had finished going through airport security, a cab driver named Muhammad pulled up in the airport arrivals line and motioned for Trump and his two guards to hop in. Bobby got in front and Jeff sat in Back with Donald.

“I need to go to Gaza,” Trump said.

The cab driver looked around at the three men to see if they were joking. “That’s a long trip,” he said in a thick Arabic accent. “This will be expensive.”

“It’s ok,” Trump said, “I have lots of money. Lots.”

“I can only take you to the border. In Sderot. You’ll have to go the rest of the way yourself. I’m not allowed.”

“Fine by me.”

The driver shrugged and pulled away from the curb, but as soon as he did Donald’s voice came again from the back seat, “Hey, can we stop at the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way? I’m famished.”


The cab pulled out of McDonald’s parking lot and the driver began driving south, but within two blocks they found themselves in a jam. A large demonstration was taking place outside and the car was suddenly surrounded by chanting protestors. Setting his freedom fries back in the bag, Donald opened the door of the car and hopped out.

“I’ll be right back!” he yelled above the din. “Gotta let these folks know I’m here to help.”

He stepped through the crowd a few meters before finding himself face-to-face with a tall, handsome, bespectacled young man wearing a T-shirt that had an enormous peace sign on it. The young man stared at him for a long moment, then he leaned in and shouted, “Are you Donald Trump??”

Donald, pleased to have finally been recognized shouted back, “That’s right. President Donald Trump. Of the United States of America. I’m here to rescue the hostages.”

The young man, whose name was Noam, looked confused and slightly amused.


“Yeah! I’ve decided enough is enough. If Joe Biden isn’t going to do something about it, I will. I know how to get things done!”

Noam, and three of his friends, formed a semi-circle around Donald.

“Will you also be able to help the Palestinians?” Noam asked.

“What? No! Why do I want to help them? They’re the ones who are holding the hostages.”

“Our Palestinian neighbors are not responsible for the actions of Hamas,” Noam said firmly and with a hint of exasperation, as if he’d had to say the exact same thing eight-thousand times already that morning.

“Well, then, they should have demanded Hamas release them already.”

Noam looked intently at Trump, unsure how to proceed, and Trump took this as a sign that he had made his case.

“Anyway,” he went on, “spread the word. Donald J. Trump is here to help Israel.”
Noam looked sideways at his friends and then said, “Well, ok. But you should know that peace is our goal.”

“It’s my goal, too!” said Trump. “Peace for America and Israel has always been my priority!”

“And for Palestine?” the young woman named Miriam spoke up, assertively.

“Sure, sure sweetheart,” Trump soothed. “We’re the good guys. Remember? We’ll take care of everyone.”

At this, Noam and all of his companions burst into hysterical laughter. Donald, unsure of what was so funny shrugged. “Ok, gotta go,” he said giving a wave. And with that he hopped back into the cab, which was by now infused with the smell of rapidly aging McDonald’s.

“Nice kids,” Trump said, as he fished his fries out of the bag again. “Completely misguided, but nice.”


It was late afternoon by the time the cab pulled into Sderot. Trump had never been there before but it looked like a normal place except for the Hebrew writing on everything. It was quiet though. Off in the distance he saw some pillars of black smoke rising, the result of an Israeli air raid earlier that day.

“That must be where Hamas is,” Trump said. “They bring death and destruction everywhere they go.”

Mohammed’s face looked like he were being strangled from the inside out, but he said nothing.

“How far to the border?” Trump said.

“From here to Gaza City it’s about twelve kilometers,” Muhammad replied. He was past ready to unload his passengers and get back to the airport for his next fare.

“What is that in miles?” Trump pondered aloud. Then he said, “Nevermind. It’s still too far to walk. Where can I get a golf cart around here?”


A lone golf cart rolled up to the checkpoint and an IDF soldier approached it with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Where are you going?” the soldier asked. He was very young and looked worried.

“Into Gaza,” Trump said, matter-of-fact. “I’m President Donald Trump and I’m here to save the hostages.”

The soldier appeared perplexed. Then he said, “I’m sorry sir but I can’t allow you to go in there. There’s no way for us to keep you safe.”

Trump waved him away. “It’s ok. I can handle it. I have lots of experience in negotiation. Lots.”

The soldier was just about to call for backup when a small delegation of well-armed men arrived at the checkpoint, led by a man in a suit.

“Hello,” the man in the suit said. “I’m Aaron. I’m the Assistant Mayor of Sderot. The Mayor was unable to come as he is sitting shiva. We got a call this morning saying you needed safe passage into Gaza.”

“I told Bibi I had it handled,” Trump said. “But it’s nice to meet you all.” He nodded at the settler militiamen.

Suddenly one of the settlers spoke up. “Mr. Trump-“

“That’s President Trump,” Donald interrupted.

The settler looked annoyed but proceeded without acknowledging the interruption. “We’ve heard about your plan, but we’ve come to discourage you from trying to free the hostages.”

“Don’t worry,” said Trump, “I’m telling you the same thing I told Bibi. I got this.”

“We’re not worried about your safety,” the settle said. “We’re worried you will succeed.”

“You don’t want the hostages to be rescued?” Trump said, and he looked like he was thinking really hard.

“Of course we do,” piped in another settler. “Just not yet. This crisis is a perfect opportunity for us to finally clear out the entire Strip. Once we’re done razing the infrastructure and forcing the Gazans out, then we can save the hostages.”

Trump was confused, but he didn’t want to show it. Still, he hadn’t come all this way not to perform a spectacular feat of diplomacy that would ensure his victory in the 2024 election.

“I think I should just talk to them,” Trump said. “Besides, if Bibi didn’t want me to save the hostages he would have said so, right?”

Aaron and the settlers looked at one another, bemused. “Maybe he just doesn’t think you can succeed,” said the Assistant Mayor.”

Trump interpreted this as a joke and let out a hearty laugh. “Ok, guys. Thanks for showing up. You can go home now. Do you have a card? I’ll call you when I finish negotiating.”

Aaron shook his head and handed his business card to Trump who promptly stuck it in his pocket without a glance.

“If you go in there you should know that you will likely not make it out alive,” warned Aaron.

“I’ve negotiated my way out of worse situations,” Trump boasted. And with that he climbed back into the golf cart. Bobby gently pressed the accelerator and the golf cart bearing the name “Sderot Country Club” rolled past the guard, past the checkpoint, and into the mean and dirty streets of Gaza City.


The golf cart was able to get a mile into the city before Trump and the security guys had to abandon it. “These roads are a mess!” Trump said judgmentally, as if he were accusing a neighbor of not taking care of their lawn. “These Palestinians seriously don’t know how to take care of their property.”

They began to walk gingerly through piles of rubble, though they had no idea where they were going. No one was around, and the buildings lining the bombed streets were all partially collapsed.

“It’s a shame,” Trump said. “It’s a great location. If it wasn’t such a shithole I might even consider putting up a hotel here.”

Moments later the three men were stopped in their tracks by a gaggle of young children who had been picking through heaps of rubble, looking for snacks. They ranged in age from six to twelve. Their faces and clothes were dirty, and they were all terribly thin, but they laughed with each other, chattering in Arabic.

“Hello,” a girl no more than seven said to Donald. “I’m Maryam.” She wore a pink shirt with a daisy on the front and her long dark hair was tied into two braids.

“Hi,” said Trump. “I’m President Donald Trump. From the United States of America. Can you tell me where Hamas is?”

The girl looked confused so Trump said it again, slowly and with much more volume. “DO… YOU KNOW…WHERE HAAA-MAAAS IS?”

The girl shook her head, as did the rest of the children. “No luck here, guys,” Donald said to Bobby and Jeff. “Guess we better keep going.”

“Wait!” said Maryam in perfect English. “Do you have any food? Or water?”

“Well, I have a few leftover chicky nuggies. How’s that? Bobby, give this little girl that McDonald’s bag. She can have the rest.”

The girl grabbed the bag and the children swarmed it, indiscriminately diving their hands inside and pulling out anything that felt edible. In less than fifteen seconds the bag was on the ground, empty.

“Don’t forget to put that in the trash,” Donald said sanctimoniously as he turned to leave. But by then the children had already run off.


Dusk had fallen by the time Donald got to meet Hamas. He’d been wandering around Gaza City for hours, asking anyone he saw if they knew where he could find them. Most of the residents eyed him with curiosity and confusion, and then went about their business. They all looked tired and hungry and worried.

Finally, around six o’clock, he was approached by a single man wearing a kuffiyeh tied around his head and face, holding a gun. Bobby and Jeff, who until that point felt as useless as an orange on a seder plate, finally had some security to perform. They leapt in front of Trump, weapons drawn. The man in the kuffiyeh stared at them nonplussed.

“What do you want?” he asked calmly.

Donald used both hands to part Bobby and Jeff like a saloon door so he could face the man. “Hello,” he said. “I’m President Donald Trump from The United States of America. I’m here to speak to the leader of Hamas.”

“Don’t you mean former president?” asked the man.

At this, Trump’s face reddened, but he said nothing.

“Ok,” the man finally said. “Come with me.”

He led the down the street to an alleyway where a jeep filled with other men sat. He shouted something to them in Arabic. It sounded scary, but then everything in Arabic sounded scary to Donald.

“Go with them,” the man said as the men in the jeep offered their hands and pulled Donald, Bobby and Jeff into the vehicle. Then the Hamas fighters put hoods over the heads of their visitors and the jeep drove off, bumping and bouncing over the piles of wreckage.

Forty-five minutes later Trump found himself alone in a windowless room. One of the fighters had escorted him in as soon as the jeep had stopped, removed his hood and sat him on one of two empty chairs. There was a single lightbulb hanging from a wire overhead.

“Hey!” Trump said to the fighter, “Where’s your boss?”

But the fighter ignored him and deftly exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Donald sat there for what felt like six hours (when, in reality, it was only thirty minutes). They’d taken his iPhone and there was nothing to do or even look at. Not even a window where he could find solace in his reflection.

Without warning the door opened and a man who looked to be in his thirties came in with his face uncovered. He had a beard and wore a kuffiyeh around his neck and had a large scar on his cheek.

“It’s about time,” Donald groused. “Can I speak to the leader of Hamas?”

“That’s me,” the man said. “You can call me Malik.” He was, of course, not the leader of Hamas but Trump had no way of knowing this.

“I’ve come to negotiate the release of the hostages,” Trump said formally. “In the name of The United States of America and The State of Israel and Jesus and Roger Stone, let my people go!”

Malik sat down on the chair facing Trump and looked at him seriously. “Or what?”

“What do you mean?” Trump said, “I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here to negotiate with you.”

“What do you have that I want?”

“I’ve got a nice timeshare property in Fiji,” Trump said. “Imagine you and your boys having a two week island vacation every year! And the best part is, you’re not limited to just that property. You can swap days with other property owners all over the world!”

“I would prefer to just keep Gaza,” Malik said, dryly.

“Well I’m sure that’s no problem,” Donald said cheerfully. “Bibi is a personal friend of mine. I’ll just let him know that in order to free the hostages all he has to do is give you Gaza. That’s easy enough.”

Malik looked at Trump in stunned silence. “I’m pretty sure he knows that already,” he said finally.

“Well, I haven’t talked to him about it. I can be very persuasive.”

“I’m sure you can,” Malik said, “but the truth is that Bibi has never had any intention of letting Gaza go. He never will.”

And with that he stood up to leave.

“Wait!” Trump said. “Where are you going? We haven’t finished!”

“I have,” Malik said. “You’re an idiot. But a useful one. You’re now a hostage.”

“A hostage?” Donald said, disbelievingly.

“A former U.S. president,” Malik said pointedly, “ought to get us more leverage. One of my men will come shortly and move you to a holding cell.” He opened the door.

“Well can I at least have my iPhone back?” Donald asked. “I’m very important. I have a lot of business to do.”

Without saying a word, Malik crossed the floor until he was in front of Trump and his face was just inches away from Trump’s own. Malik stared deeply into Donald’s eyes and then raised his left hand and flicked the edge of Donald’s nostril. Hard.

“OW!!!” screamed Donald. “That really hurt!” He grabbed his nose as tears came to his eyes and blurred his vision. But by the time he was able to wipe the tears away, Malik was gone.



Donald sat alone in the cell. Another day in a long line of days, and no one had come for him. The sound of bombs and rapid fire came at all hours and he hadn’t slept well the entire time he’d been in holding. The Hamas guys would bring him food and newspapers every day but the food was terrible – it was their Arab stuff – and the newspapers were in Arabic. Useless. He’d requested McDonald’s multiple times, and even tried asking for Wendy’s but they ignored him. There wasn’t even any hand sanitizer.

Then, late one evening the cell door opened. Malik stepped inside.

“Well,” Trump said, “It’s about time. Do we have a deal?”

Malik snorted. “Donald, I’m letting you go,” he said simply. “My men will escort you back to the border.”

“How many hostages are you freeing?”

“None. It seems you’re not the leverage we thought you were. So far only one person has reached out to us to negotiate your freedom. A woman named Brigette. She said that she’d give us $5,000 and ten-thousand copies of Atlas Shrugged if we’d let you go.”

“Did you not tell Bibi? What about Joe?”

“We called them. They never called back.”

“Ivanka? Melania?”

“No response.”

“Well,” said Trump, “that’s odd.”

“Regardless,” said Malik, “you’re taking up valuable space and eating food we can’t afford to waste. Get up. You’re leaving now.”

“Wait! What about Bobby? And Jeff?”

“Bobby escaped and we had to shoot him. Jeff has converted to Islam and is marrying my niece in three weeks.”

At that, two Hamas fighters opened the door and strode in, covered his head with a hood, each grabbing one of his arms. Before he knew it, he was back in the jeep. An hour later the hood was pulled off. He was at the outskirts of the city and in the distance could see the security checkpoint leading back to Israel.

“Well, thanks anyway,” he said to the Hamas fighters. “I hope you let those hostages go soon.”

The two men looked at each other, shook their heads and then sped off leaving Trump alone. It took him an hour and a half to walk to the checkpoint, and when he got there he was immediately seized by IDF soldiers.

“I’m President Donald Trump!” Trump thundered. “From the United States of America!”

But the soldiers didn’t listen. One of them bonked him on the head with the tip of his rifle and another pinched the fleshy back side of his upper left arm.

“OWWWW!” Trump yelled. “Why are you doing this to me? I’m YOUR ALLY!”

They were about to throw him into a cell when a line of black SUVs roared up the road and halted in front of the checkpoint.

“Bibi!!!” Trump yelled. “Finally! Help me out here, brother!”

The prime minister stepped from the car and held up his hand. “Let him go, boys,” he said.

“Thanks for coming,” Donald said. “Even if it took forever.”

“Come on,” Bibi said. “Hop in. Your lawyer has been texting everyone on earth trying to find you.”

“But you knew where I was!”

“Oh we thought you were dead,” Bibi said, as airily as possible for someone who usually sounds like he smokes three packs of cigarettes a day.

“I wasn’t dead,” Trump pouted.

“I can see that now,” Bibi said. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift to the airport. That plane you came in on has been taking up space at the airport and the folks in Tel Aviv won’t shut up about it.”

Donald looked into Bibi’s face and smiled. “You’re a good friend Bibi. You know that?”

Bibi smirked. “I know,” he said. “And don’t you forget it.”

The two men got in the back of one of the SUVs and the convoy roared off, heading to Tel Aviv. The last thing the IDF checkpoint soldiers heard was Donald Trump’s voice from the back seat.

“Can we stop at the drive-thru on the way? I haven’t had anything decent to eat in weeks.”

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