For charity! You got it! This is going to be YUGE. The funniest. Everyone will say so. People will call me, tears in their eyes, saying “That was the best Christmas Carol parody. Nobody’s ever done one like that. It’s tremendous!” But of course, Trump demanded he be called by his name and not Scrooge.

Ticket Price? $250,000 per seat for Food Relief in GAZA. What an amazing President!!! Coming this Christmas. 2nd Hand Tickets could cost as much as $50 Million each.

Stage is Set.

Time: 8:00 pm

12-25-2025

Actors:

SCROOGE: President Donald Trump

JACOB MARLEY: Ghost of Jeffrey Epstein

BOB CRATCHIT: Stephen Miller

Ghosts: Representative Marjorie Greene Taylor, Senator Corey Booker, Vice-President JD Vance, Senator Nancy Pelosi, Senator Mitch McConnell, Senator Ted Cruz

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A Mar-a-Lago Christmas Carol: The Art of the Deal-Ghosting (The Tremendous, Yuge, Very Best Charity Edition!)

The massive, opulent ballroom at Mar-a-Lago, a place where the gold leaf was so abundant it practically had its own zip code, was packed tighter than a classified document brief in a very small shredder. The auditorium wasn’t just a sea; it was an entire ocean of crimson “Make America Great Again” hats, each one seemingly designed to perfectly catch the glare of the chandeliers and reflect it directly into the eyes of any passing journalist. There were sequined gowns that shimmered like a freshly minted hundred-dollar bill, and a strategically placed battalion of very expensive-looking lawyers, each clutching a briefcase that probably contained more legal loopholes than actual common sense. The air didn’t merely hum; it vibrated with the collective anticipation of a thousand MAGA loyalists, all holding their breath, waiting for a retweet that would validate their very existence, or at least confirm their dinner plans.

On a gilded stage, under a spotlight so intense it could probably melt steel beams (or at least a stubborn hairpiece), a magnificent desk stood. It wasn’t just any desk; it was a desk that had clearly seen things. It was piled so high with documents (mostly unread), a dozen unread newspapers (mostly the New York Times, for the express purpose of dramatically crumpling them while muttering “Fake News!”), and, naturally, a half-eaten Big Mac box, still emanating the faint scent of freedom fries. This was the command center of… well, let’s just say it was where tremendous decisions were made, and where the best deals were always, always brokered.

Donald J. Trump, playing the role of Ebenezer Scrooge (though arguably, Scrooge had a better reputation for fiscal responsibility and less concern for “ratings” on a Tuesday afternoon), was hunched over the desk. His brow was furrowed in a concentration usually reserved for perfectly executing a golf swing… or perhaps for trying to remember which country he was currently talking about. He wasn’t counting money, though. Oh no. He was meticulously, painstakingly, and with great personal sacrifice, making a list. A list of people who were “tremendously disloyal.” And this wasn’t just any list; it was a mental ledger, occasionally punctuated by a definitive Sharpie mark on a napkin, which he then immediately declared “the best napkin in the history of napkins, truly a work of art, some people are saying.”

Across from him, shivering so violently his teeth chattered like a broken teletype machine on a particularly cold Tuesday, was Stephen Miller. He was diligently working on a spreadsheet of electoral college projections, occasionally glancing nervously at the mountainous stack of The Art of the Deal copies teetering precariously near his elbow, as if expecting them to spontaneously combust from sheer political irony. His suit, already thin, seemed to be actively trying to detach itself from his body in a desperate bid for warmth, much like a press secretary trying to escape a tricky question.

“Miller!” Trump boomed, his voice echoing off the gold-leafed ceilings like a foghorn in a very expensive harbor. “Stop that shaking! It’s distracting! Are you cold? Because if you’re cold, we’ll need to install one of those new, very expensive heaters, and it will be a terrible deal. The worst deal! People are saying, ‘That’s the worst heater deal we’ve ever seen.’ We don’t make terrible deals here, Miller. We make the best deals. Tremendous deals! People say, ‘Mr. President, how do you make such great deals? It’s like magic!’ And I tell them, ‘It’s a gift! A very rare gift!'”

“J-just a bit, sir,” Miller stammered, pulling his already flimsy suit jacket tighter, as if it were a magical force field against the inexplicable, deep-seated chill that followed him everywhere. “The temperature is a little… low. Perhaps the air conditioning unit is operating at… peak, perhaps over-peak, efficiency? It feels like we’re preparing for a very important deposition in Alaska.”

“Low? This is a tremendous temperature! It’s a great temperature! A perfect temperature for business! Everyone says so! The best business deals are made in this very room, at this very temperature! People are sweating, they’re anxious, they’re ready to sign! We get the best deals when they’re a little uncomfortable. Why, if we turned it up, it would cost a fortune! A lot of money! So much money, it would make our budget look like a third-world country’s! It would be a terrible, terrible deal! The worst deal! No one makes better deals than me, Miller! Do you want to ruin my deal-making? You’re being very disloyal to the thermostat. Very, very disloyal. Sad! We need loyalty from our HVAC systems, Miller, total loyalty! Even the windmills know that, and they’re crazy!” He paused, eyeing an imaginary windmill outside. “They kill the birds, Miller. They drive the whales loco. It’s a disaster!”

Just then, a chill wind, smelling vaguely of stale golf course grass, forgotten promises, and the faint whiff of a Twitter server overheating, howled through the room, rattling the gold-plated windows with the ferocity of a hurricane hitting a Mar-a-Lago summer sale. The chandeliers, each one a monument to ostentatious wealth, swayed precariously, casting dancing shadows that looked suspiciously like dancing legal documents being served. The lights flickered, then with a dramatic sputter, went out, plunging the stage into a darkness so profound you could practically hear the collective gasp of 2,000 lung capacity-trained rally-goers, wondering if this was part of the show or if the electricity bill hadn’t been paid – though, of course, they would never say that out loud.

A moment later, a sickly, bilious green light, like the glow from a forgotten slime-filled swamp or a particularly ill-advised spray tan, illuminated the stage. From behind Trump’s magnificent desk, a figure emerged. It was the spectral, translucent, yet oddly well-tanned, form of Jeffrey Epstein. His chains didn’t clatter with heavy iron; instead, they rattled with the papery rustle of unread legal documents (mostly subpoenas), a giant, outdated flip phone (still inexplicably getting reception in the afterlife), and a suspiciously large stack of unreturned phone calls, each one blinking furiously, almost certainly from people asking for money.

“Donnnnnald,” the ghost moaned, his voice a gravelly echo, like a recording played on a broken 8-track player, or perhaps a particularly unflattering voice memo left on speakerphone. “Look upon me! I am the ghost of your former… acquaintance, Jacob Marley! And I have come to warn you, for you are on a path of endless self-dealing, terrible golf etiquette, and… well, that hair! It defies the laws of physics, Donald! Even in the afterlife, it baffles me! And what about those faucets? So little water! It takes 20 minutes to get the soap out of your hair!”

Trump squinted, adjusting his perfectly coiffed, gravity-defying hair with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Epstein? Is that you? You look terrible. A real low-energy ghost. Very weak. Not a strong ghost. People tell me, ‘Mr. President, your ghosts are the strongest ghosts! The most powerful!’ And my hair is tremendous! Everyone says so! The best hair! It’s incredible! People come up to me, with tears in their eyes, saying ‘Sir, your hair is truly magnificent! It’s a national treasure!’ Look, I’m the most humane person. Everyone agrees. I have a lot of humility, a tremendous amount. A lot of people say I have more humility than anyone! It’s true. The most humble. And those faucets? I fixed those faucets! They’re great now. Very powerful!”

“You’re not listening!” the ghost shrieked, his spectral flip phone vibrating furiously, probably with an urgent message from a deferred subpoena. “You must learn to be more humble! To be a good, honest person! To stop referring to every single thing as ‘the best’ or ‘the worst’ without any actual supporting data! It’s exhausting, even for a ghost! And why are you charging millions for dinner at Mar-a-Lago? It’s not a charity!”

“I’m already very, very good,” Trump insisted, waving a dismissive hand, as if swatting away a pesky fly of reality. “Everyone knows it. The best people know it. The very, very best people. They say, ‘He’s a very good person, perhaps the best!’ Can we get this over with? I have a rally to plan. A very big rally. Everyone says it will be the biggest rally ever. Even bigger than the last biggest rally. We’re going to fill the place, Madison Square Garden style. And they’re going to love it! It will be the most beautiful event. The best. Believe me.”

Suddenly, the green, swampy light vanished, replaced by a soft, shimmering glow that smelled faintly of freshly printed money, slightly singed tax returns, and the distant aroma of a truly tremendous golf course hot dog. The Ghost of Christmas Past appeared. She was a stern-looking woman in a perfectly tailored pantsuit, carrying not a lantern, but a tiny, gleaming gavel, which she tapped impatiently against her palm. She looked like she could single-handedly audit the entire federal government, reconstruct every single deleted email, and still have time for a power lunch with a Nobel laureate.

“Donald,” she said, her voice filled with a disapproval that could curdle milk and freeze a smile. “I am here to show you a moment from your past. A moment when you spoke about women in a… less than respectful manner. A moment that will live on in infamy, forever accessible on the internet, on YouTube, on late-night comedy shows, and in the collective memory of humanity, even if some people try to say it was just ‘locker room talk.'”

“A moment?” Trump scoffed, throwing his hands wide, a gesture that almost knocked over a stack of commemorative coins featuring his own profile. “Just one? You must be using the fake news highlights reel! It’s biased! Very biased! They’re always trying to get me! I love women! The most beautiful women! They all love me! It’s a mutual admiration society, a truly great one, the best kind! And I’m very respectful! Very, very respectful. People tell me, ‘Mr. President, you’re the most respectful person we know!’ This is a very unfair ghost! The most unfair! Sad!” He then pointed to a ghostly apparition of John Stamos, attempting to emcee a charity event at a spectral Mar-a-Lago. “Even he says it’s not political! He’s a very good person!”

The scene shifted, and a ghostly, slightly pixelated projection of a younger, somewhat less orange Trump appeared, surrounded by women on a stage, making comments that were… well, let’s just say they weren’t exactly “Miss Manners” approved, or even “Basic Human Decency” approved. The ghost shook her head, her gavel making a tiny, disapproving “thunk.” “You see? You could have been a true gentleman. A real class act. A person who inspires respect, not… memes that even South Park parodies.”

“Look, I’m not a regular guy. I’m a counterpuncher. It’s how I fight back,” Trump declared, as if explaining the undeniable logic of the universe, or perhaps the strategy for a particularly aggressive game of golf. “And everyone knows, I always win. Always. Even when they say I don’t, I do. It’s tremendous winning. The biggest winning. And that’s why people love me. They love winning!”

The scene dissolved into a cold, desolate landscape, eerily reminiscent of a bankrupt golf course in winter, or perhaps the inside of a particularly dusty legal brief after a long day of deliberations. The Ghost of Christmas Present appeared, a towering figure draped in a tattered robe woven from endless cable news chyrons. Its chest was a mesmerizing array of constantly flickering screens showing chaotic news feeds: stock market tickers plummeting, pundits shouting at each other with increasingly red faces, and a surprisingly high number of viral dog videos, because even the apocalypse needs a palate cleanser.

“Donald,” the Ghost’s voice rumbled, a sound like a thousand angry tweets being composed simultaneously, or perhaps the grinding gears of a particularly inefficient bureaucracy, “look here. Look at these children in Gaza, starving, cold, with no hope. Look at the suffering in the world that could be alleviated with a tiny fraction of your… assets. Or perhaps a single gilded toilet.”

Trump squinted at the images, then quickly looked away, as if the suffering might be contagious. “Sad. Very sad. Terrible situation. A disaster. The worst disaster. We should build them a beautiful, tremendous wall. A lot of people say it would be a great wall, maybe the best wall. And it would be a very strong wall. It would solve all their problems. They’d love it. Everyone would love it. I’ll get it done. It will be a tremendous deal. The biggest deal. We’ll make Gaza great again! Believe me! And we gave them money, tremendous money, just two weeks ago! Sixty million dollars! Did anyone say thank you? No! Very rude. Very, very rude.”

The Ghost of Christmas Present sighed, a sound like a news anchor giving up hope on live television, or perhaps the collective groan of every economist on Earth. The scene shifted again. The air grew colder, thick with the silence of forgotten promises, unpaid invoices, and the chilling realization that some things are truly irreversible. A final, silent ghost appeared. It was clad in a hooded cloak, completely devoid of energy, just a long, bony finger pointing. It looked like a very disappointed shadow, or perhaps a particularly disgruntled polling average after a particularly egregious gaffe.

Trump squinted, trying to discern its features, or perhaps its approval rating. “You’re a very quiet ghost. Not a lot of energy. This is a very low-energy ghost. Very, very low. What’s with the hood? Is it a branded hood? Because if it’s not branded, it’s not nearly as good as my branded merchandise. Everyone loves my branded merchandise. The best merchandise. They buy it. They love it! Is this a ‘Ted Kaczynski’ type situation? Because my uncle, Professor John Trump, he knew about those guys. Very smart man.”

The ghost remained silent, its bony finger unwavering as it pointed to an overgrown, neglected grave in a rough patch of land. A single, broken golf club lay on the ground, snapped in half like a campaign promise after an election. A rusty sign nearby, barely legible, read, “New York City Municipal Golf Course. Now under new management. Very, very new management. Sad!”

“Is this a joke?” Trump demanded, his voice rising in incredulity, bordering on a full-blown Twitter meltdown. “A public course? The city owns it now? A terrible deal! The worst deal! Who’s in charge of the landscaping? It’s a disgrace! Look at all these weeds! They’re not going to win! This is a losing course! So sad! And the signage? So weak! Where are the medallions? You need medallions! I put medallions on the lamps! No, no, no!”

The ghost remained silent, its finger moving ever so slightly to point to the name on the grave. Trump stared at it, his eyes widening with the dawning horror of a man realizing he’s just paid for a truly terrible steak, or perhaps received a very unflattering poll number. Then, slowly, his face crumpled like a prematurely conceded election, as he read the inscription: “Donald J. Trump.”

“Donald J. Trump? A public course? No. No, no, no! This is fake news! A completely fake grave! This is the worst fake news I have ever seen! They wouldn’t dare! My golf courses are the best! They’re beautiful! Everyone says so! The best golf courses in the world! This is a setup! A total setup! It’s a witch hunt, even in death!”

The ghost remained utterly silent, its message delivered with the devastating finality of a perfectly timed punchline, or perhaps a final, unappealable court ruling. The stage lights flickered on, buzzing back to life with a triumphant flourish, and Trump found himself back at his magnificent desk, the half-eaten Big Mac still sitting there, now strangely less appealing, as if even it had lost its taste for tremendousness. Stephen Miller was still shivering, possibly even more so than before, as if he’d just spent an hour in a walk-in freezer labeled “Existential Dread and Legal Subpoenas.”

Trump sat up straight, a wild, almost manic look in his eyes, as if he’d just had an epiphany delivered by a very expensive consultant who also happened to be a ghost. He pounded the desk, nearly dislodging the Big Mac and sending it flying towards a very expensive lawyer. “Miller! Get on the phone! We are changing everything! We are going to build a tremendous, beautiful, unbelievable garden! Right here, on the property! And it will be so beautiful, the most beautiful garden, that it will make all the other gardens look weak and sad! Very, very sad! We’re going to put a wall around it to keep the weeds out! A very big wall! A great wall! It’s going to be the best garden anyone has ever seen! And we’ll call it… The Trump Garden of Humility! Or maybe just ‘The Trump Garden.’ We’ll figure out the branding later. But it’s going to be huge! Tremendous! People will pay millions to see it! It will be a tremendous deal!”

Miller, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and eager obedience, nodded rapidly, grabbing a pen and furiously scribbling notes on a new “Garden Wall Initiative,” “Optimal Plant Selection for Maximum Tremendousness,” and “Potential for Monetization of Garden Tours (Candlelight Dinners Extra).” The audience, completely missing the point but convinced they had just witnessed a truly tremendous Christmas miracle (and possibly a new real estate venture with fantastic returns, complete with gold-leafed corners), applauded wildly, chanting, “Build the garden! Build the garden!”

And somewhere, in the great beyond, a spectral flip phone sighed, finally running out of battery, its last message unread: “You’re fired.” For charity, of course.