Alarmed that Donald Trump might become president and/or destroy the planet, Abraham Lincoln has come back to life to debate the presumptive Republican nominee. Excerpts follow.
L: So you’re the Republican nominee? What happened? Was there a plague and you survived?
T: Hey, easy on the insults. That’s my territory. The country went whacko and elected a black president. I am the backlash in human form. Also, the only Republican candidate taller than me was George “Forgotten But Not Gone” Pataki. Presidents are tall. When you’re tall your brain is closer to the sun and gets extra nourishment through photosinusitus.
L: Experts say your typical speech consists entirely of lies, insults and wishful thinking.
T: Your point?
L: Don’t people deserve better?
T: Look, weird-bearded one, the American people deserve the best, absolutely. And, based on ratings, I am the best. You should know about this. You drew great crowds when you debated Douglaston.
L: Douglas.
T: Douglas, whatever, but your debates won their time slot. And your Gettysburg thing was a very famous thing. A fine address, just like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. But if you don’t understand reality TV, you can’t understand American politics today.
L: I’ve tried to understand but I began sobbing.
T: Hey, dum-dum Jeb didn’t get it either. The viewers—the voters—can’t stop paying attention to a contestant who disembowels opponents whenever he can.
L: But if you don’t tell the truth, how can voters make good decisions?
T: Oh Abe, Mr. No Imagination. There are more things in heaven and earth, Heronimo, than . . . whatever. Why stay mired in truth when you can reach for the stars with something greater, when you can take reality, smash it to bits with a 5-iron and mold it into something better? Truth may have its place—personally, I doubt it—but a deal-maker must remain flexible. Wallow in truth all the time and your opponent will crush you like a giant water bug. And that’s disgusting, I want to tell you. They’re the size of cats.
L: What?
T: If I tell the truth, Hillary will be lying—oh, she’ll be lying—in wait for me. All 16 of my Republican opponents expected me to go all truthy on them like a little girl, but I didn’t and look where that got them. When you tell the truth you give up the element of surprise. And if Hillary and I just keep slinging truth at each other, the audience will fall asleep. Terrible ratings, Abe.
L: You said Americans pay the highest taxes. But they don’t.
T: So?
L: Doesn’t that bother you, saying things that are so obviously contradicted by facts?
T: It’s worked for me so far.
L: But how can you govern if you don’t understand reality? It’s hard enough when the facts are clear.
T: I’ll find it easy to govern when I bring my own facts to the White House. That will personalize the place. In your honor, we’ll keep the new facts in the Lincoln Bedroom.
L: But what about the truth?
T: For a dead guy, you are really obsessed and kind of annoying, you know? The truth is complicated and boring. It makes people feel hopeless. What leader would want to do that to his people? You can’t inspire voters with truth. You need more.
L: But if you inspire people with falsehoods, eventually they will find you were only building castles in the air and they will feel misled and abused.
T: But I will feel better. And remember, misleading is far, far better than not leading at all.
L: No it’s not! What does that even mean? And what about the people? What about the nation’s future?
T: Who the hell knows? I thought Trump Steaks was a good idea. Go figure. Did you imagine the future might include me?
L: Good Lord, no.
T: Look, while you keep nipping at my heels like a yippy little truth-seeking dog, I’ve got to hit you on branding. I think you messed up bigly. What was the most you made in a year?
L: I made $25,000 as president.
T: Hah! Did you make any money from Lincoln Financial?
L: No.
T: Lincoln Electric?
L: No.
T: The Lincoln Continental? The Lincoln Tunnel? Lincoln Center?
L: No. No. No.
T: You’re a loser. You could have been a very wealthy man, with your name recognition. Did you ever think of licensing? How long are you back for?
L: No, I never thought of licensing. Not then, not now. I didn’t come back to make money. I came back to save the nation.
T: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, I will make America great again. Hillary just wants to make America whole again.
L: I spent almost my entire presidency trying to make America whole again. It seems like a worthy goal.
T: Been there, done that.
L: But watching you seek the highest office in the land while telling so many lies, I have to ask: Do you have a conscience?
T: Used to, but it was like wearing underwear two sizes too small. Much discomfort. Need for frequent adjustments. Excuse me, I feel a song coming on.
I can’t seem to face up to the facts
I’m tense and nervous and I can’t relax
I can’t sleep ‘cause my bed’s on fire
Don’t touch me I’m a real live wire
Psycho Killer
Qu’est-ce que c’est
Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better
Run run run run run run run away oh-oh
L: What was that?
T: Talking Heads. David Byrne. Feel the burn. Got to stay loose in a battle of wits with Abe Lincoln.
L: Sir, is there anything you wouldn’t say in your quest for the presidency?
T: I would say nothing bad about Slovenians. Melania is Slovenian. She’s a 10. If she were an eight, I might say something bad about Slovenians. But Abe, really, you know what we have in common?
L: What, pray tell?
T: We’re both great writers.
L: In one book you claimed you were Swedish.
T: Incompetent writer and editors. I fired them all.
L: But didn’t you read the book before it was published?
T: Look, I write books, I don’t read them. Reading books is not what doers do. Doers do. That’s what they do. No time to read. No Time for Sergeants.
L: But you could learn so much. The greatest thinkers always put their words in writing.
T: Today, the greatest thinkers host reality TV shows. They make people care passionately about fake reality. It’s like my campaign. Bada bing.
L: But isn’t fake reality a contradiction in terms?
T: No. Yes. Who cares? No offense meant, but if you were alive today, even with your mega-brand I don’t think you could get your own show.
You’re too reality-obsessed for reality TV. By the way, I think it’s time you took off that bizarre hat.
L: But then you would see my unruly hair. I took much grief on that subject.
T: Oh, tell me about it! Did they ever compare your hair to roadkill? If I’m president and they keep attacking my hair, I’m gonna string some people up.
L: You know the president cannot execute anyone he wants?
T: What if he has special wartime powers? The best thing about war, I think, is wartime powers.
L: Still no. I could execute deserters, but I hated the idea.
T: Well, that sucks. What if I changed some laws?
L: You need the approval of Congress.
T: Those idiots? Everything you’re telling me about the job is horrible. I can’t pick up the phone and arrange a simple hanging? Who would want this job, really.
L: On most days, it was painful for me. But I thought I could do as good a job as any other man.
T: Oh, I can do a better job than anybody, even you. The question now is whether I want to.
L: What would you do instead?
T: Licensing. Trump Siberia. Trump Sahara. Trump Cleveland—if there’s anything left of Cleveland after my people get done with it. I could talk about how much better a president I’d be than Hillary. When you’re president, you still get to insult people, right?
L: Not really. You have to be polite even when you don’t want to be. You could cause an international incident if you insulted the president of Mexico or China.
T: Oh, that’s ridiculous, telling me I can’t insult those little weasels. What kind of stupid-ass job is this anyway? You know, in my old job, there was less risk. No one tried to shoot me.
L: That is interesting—and surprising. You know that if you become president, you must curtail your business activities and put what you own in a blind trust.
T: Not good, not good. I’m wired for business. That’s like telling a dog he isn’t allowed to sniff another dog’s asshole. Hard to do, pal, hard to do. I figured as president that when I traveled I’d always stay in the presidential suite of one of my properties and that we’d fly in the Trump plane.
L: They won’t let you. You’ll have to fly on Air Force One. It says “United States of America” on its side.
T: But “Trump” is so much punchier and shorter. It’s a better brand. Why is the government so anti-business?
L: I think they want to make sure someone becomes president for the right reasons and not because of licensing opportunities.
T: Oh, this is totally stupid. Are you saying I could become president and lose money on the deal?
L: If you did some controversial things or weren’t a good president, absolutely. If you declared war on North Korea, you could lose everything.
T: You know, Abe, maybe you were sent here for a reason. People say you were the most presidential president—and then they shot you. And you got nothing for your brand, which, the way I see it, is even worse than getting assassinated. This presidency thing is looking like a long dark tunnel.
L: The Lincoln Tunnel?
T: Precisely. And the only light I see at the end is New Jersey. That’s it, I quit.
L: Really?
T: I feel better already.
L: So do I. I guess it’s time to bind up the nation’s wounds again.
T: Screw that, I’m going to go host The New Celebrity Apprentice.
Andrew Feinberg is the author of Four Score and Seven, a novel that imagines that Abe Lincoln comes back to life for two weeks during the 2016 campaign and encounters a candidate who, some say, resembles Donald Trump.