At 2:00 in the morning, Walt Nauta sat in Mar-a-Lago’s den, building a raft of pills.
As his boss crafted his nightly rant on Truth Social, Nauta removed pills from bottles. He couldn’t believe how many pills the boss was taking. He placed them on a polished sterling silver tray. Engraved on the tray were the words, Trump Tower November 30, 1983 and an architectural sketch of the building. He paused to admire the design he had created with the red, white and blue pills.
Nauta thought:
Two Aleve PM gel caplets to relief the arthritis in his back;
One Lisinopril to treat his high blood pressure;
Two Nature Made Multi Gummies;
One Dulcolax to relief his constipation;
One large Glucosamine chondroitin pill to lessen his joint pain;
One Ambien for his insomnia.
The boss was smart enough not to swallow all those pills on an empty stomach. So he took a few bites out of a McDonald’s burger and washed it down with a few sips of Diet Coke.
Nauta remembered that he was required—pursuant to the bosses’ instructions—to place four ice cubes (not one or two or three) in a gold embossed Harrah’s at Trump Plaza glass and fill it to the point where the Diet Coke inundated the ice.
Carrying the burger, the coke and the raft of pills, Nauta walked into the former president’s bedroom. He watched as the 77-year-old former president downed all of the pills, all of the burger and all of the coke.
He felt sorry for the old man.
He feared the Ambien was causing his employer memory loss. The boss was losing his edge, his sharpness and his ability to think on his feet.
He feared the trials were killing him.
He tried to get the boss to watch less TV but his efforts failed.
When the boss watched the news (which was all the time) it drove him crazy.
The old man feared losing his New York properties.
He feared going to jail.
Nauta heard it in his voice and saw it in his reddened eyes.
His mood and demeanor had changed.
His look on life had turned dour; he yelled at all of the folks that surrounded him.
He had lost all patience his workers at Mar-a-Lago.
And during his fits of anger and rage, he threw stuff.
Nauta wondered:
Would Xanax reduce his level of anxiety?
Would the boss be willing to take another pill?
Did he even have the balls to recommend Xanax?
In his head, he heard the boss yelling, “When did you become a fucking doctor? Get the hell out of my sight.”
As Nauta walked out of his bosses’ bedroom, he said, “Good night, Mr. President. May you have a good night’s sleep.”
The former president replied, “Good night Walt. Thanks for everything.”
Walt shut the door, bit his tongue and kept repeating his mantra:
This too shall pass.
This too shall pass.
This too shall pass.
Perry, Thanks for sharing.—MortMort – Once again, you have touched upon the moment we have all been waiting for : to be a fly on the wall of the high and mighty and omnipotent ‘tour de farce!’ Keep up the barbs!—Richie
Thumbs up.—Jason
Thumbs up.—Marilyn
Thumbs up.—Joanne
Thumbs up.—Laurie
Thumbs up.—Sandra
Thumbs up.—Jonathan
Thumbs up.—Sue
Thumbs up.—Elizabeth
Thumbs up.—Jeffrey
Thumbs up.—Bonnie
He should overdose.—Barbara
Thumbs up.—Jim
Thumbs up.—Joel
Thumbs up.—Nancy
Thumbs up.—Devorah
Thumbs up.—Surelle
Thumbs up.—Jasmine
Thumbs up.—Aimee
Thumbs up.—Bobby
Thumbs up.—LT
Thumbs up.—Helene
Thumbs up.—Rebecca
Thumbs up.—Randi
Enjoyed your pills story. —Marianne
Thumbs up.—Sandy
Thumbs up.—Ken
Thumbs up.—Naomi
