I’ve been workshopping new aliases for The Former President Who Shall Not Be Named. One option is Sleepy McFartsalot. I know the rumors that he has been filling the courtroom with clouds of noxious gas are probably just that, but it would be entirely in character.

There is no doubt that he has been, um, resting his eyes from time to time. And why wouldn’t he? He’s an old man, the proceedings are boring sometimes, and he can’t just press a button and get a Diet Coke. In truth it’s the most human and relatable thing he’s done in recent memory — you look at him and think, “That could be my racist grandfather nodding off up there.”1

Meanwhile the judge threatened to lock him up if he keeps violating the gag order, to which I say, “Juan, don’t tease me.” For years now I’ve been dreaming of seeing ol’ Sleepy in an orange jumpsuit. Ideally he would be without his bronzer and hair products for awhile, and America would finally get to see the withered husk beneath the shell. For all we know it would evaporate upon contact with the air.

“Where has the prisoner gone? There’s nothing in this cell but a terrible stench.”