I refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of a Donald Trump Presidency. Not only did he lose the popular vote by the largest margin in history, but his rejection of basic civic norms makes him unfit for office. As far as I’m concerned, Trump is NOT my President—Mid-Atlantic Regional President Scott Allshouse is my President. He oversees all of the Whole Foods in Maryland, Pennsylvania, DC, Virginia, parts of New Jersey, and Kentucky and Ohio, for some reason.
Mr. Regional President is pretty nice, but a real stickler about customer service. One time he came to our store (Bethesda, MD, 5269 River Rd) and made us role-play dealing with disgruntled customers. I didn’t like it very much, since he implied that it had something to do with my “incident” the week before. However, I’m proud of how Mr. Regional President handled what was a very difficult situation involving my psychosis.
But I am not proud that Donald Trump is going to represent America. In fact, he will never represent me. My court-appointed attorney represents me. His name is Jeff. I can’t spell his last name because he’s from some sort of Polish country and they have silent consonants. How stupid is that? You can only pronounce the vowels! So I just call him Mr. “Washy.” Mr. Jeff Washy (Courthouse Annex, cubicle 215) is a great public defender. He helped me get into an anger-management class after I threw a bag of almond-nutmeg granola at that dumb-ass great-grandma. Honestly, it was more of an underhanded toss—if she had been a bit more spry, I’m sure it wouldn’t have broken both her legs. Anyway, Jeff Waskchiewzsklmni (sp.?) represents me and is legally obligated to do so.
But the more I think about the recent election, the more steamed I get. I mean, the people he’s tapped for his Cabinet are just awful. One thing’s for sure: Trump isn’t the boss of me. Chad is the boss of me. Chad has worked at Whole Foods for a lot less time than I have, but he’s taller and more self-confident, so I guess it kind of makes sense that he is a manager now. Point is, Donald Trump does not work at a Whole Foods, and so technically cannot boss me around. If Donald Trump came into a Whole Foods and asked if I could help him find some premium body care products or a box of pretend milk, I suppose I would have to help him, but that’s just good customer service. And if he tried to get me fired, I’d just be extra nice to him, owing to my new corporate training and desire to be off probation.
Unfortunately, I don’t know how we’ll get through Trump’s Presidency. As is, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through four years of community service playing tennis with the elderly. I have this one lady who keeps “joking” that every thing she hits over the fence is another of my lost “man balls.” How am I supposed to deal with that? I am literally carrying something I am supposed to hit with. What’s worse is that she’s totally hot—I would ask her out, but I’m a little freaked out by her adult male children. The point is, Samantha treats me like farm labor, and I’m happy with that. Trump, however, is no Samantha the 57-year-old former tennis pro.
Most importantly for our country, Trump is not my friend. I don’t even have friends. No one texted me on my 23rd birthday. No one volunteered to help me move to a smaller, cheaper apartment so I could afford my prescriptions. I’m not even on Facebook anymore, by order of the judge.
So let’s not normalize Donald Trump. Let’s not pretend that he’s an acceptable figure of authority. He may have won the Electoral College, but he didn’t win Montgomery Community College—and that’s where I dropped out of.