Is it wrong for me to want Donald Trump to be dead?

Hmm.

It’s 1938.

You live in Germany.

You have a leader named Adolph Hitler. He is rounding up Jews. He makes clear there is a master race. He believes he should rule everyone and everything.

Would it be wrong to wish for his death?

It’s 2005.

You live in Syria.

You have a leader named Bashar al-Assad. He is gassing your fellow citizens. Poisoning them. Murdering them. Wiping out families.

Would it be wrong to wish for his death?

It’s 2026.

You live in America.

You have a president named Donald J. Trump who cares for no one (literally no one) but himself. Under his reign, masked agents crawl across the land, grabbing people, kidnapping people, terrorizing communities, killing people. Under his reign, the only thing he values is his own wealth, his own power, his own gluttony. He has set fire to the Constitution. He has spoken in such ways that his opponents are violently targeted and, often, physically beaten. He lies incessantly. He shows loyalty to no one. He is a vile racist, a vile sexist, a vile homophobe, a concealed pedophile whose base-level instincts are carnal and focus upon survival. If people die, they die. Soldiers—who cares? POWs were losers for being captured. Scientists—who cares? Climate change is fake. Innocent children—who cares. So what if we bombed a school in Iran? Let them eat cake.

Would it be wrong to wish for his death?

Would it really be so wrong?

•••

I think about this quite often, because I want Donald Trump to disappear.

And this is not a threat—I do not want him murdered, for the last thing we need is the Orange Pig turning into a martyr. No, I want him to perish on the toilet, while taking a big-ass stinky shit with a couple o’ half-eaten Egg McMuffins wedged within his doughy, lifeless, rigor mortis-infected paws. I want the official White House photographer to chronicle the scene, then have those pictures leaked across the world. I want to see Donald Trump’s bloated bloatedness—orange above the neck/pale below it—alongside a toilet, shit splotches coating his thighs and buttocks, any remaining morsels of dignity forever expunged by this new made-for-Wikipedia image.

I have, truly, never wished the end upon another person. Not John Rocker, not J.D. Vance, not Kristi Noem … not anyone. Why? Because 99.9999999999 percent of us have loved ones who deeply care, and who would be wounded by our departures. Rocker has a mother. Vance has a wife and children. Noem has Corey. The finality of death is crushing, and even awful people have redemptive qualities.

But not Trump. He is, in every sense of the word, a succubus (Definition: a demon in European folklore that appears in dreams to seduce men, draining their life force or soul through sexual intercourse to survive). He cheated on wife 1 with wife 2 and wife 2 with wife 3 and wife 3 with one of many women, including a porn star he paid off in hush money. He was barely around to raise his children, and—I’m guessing—couldn’t tell you Barron’s birthdate or favorite color. He is badness. Pure, dark, grotesque badness.

So, again, I do not generally wish for one to perish.

Honestly, I don’t.

But I can make an exception.¹

1. To be 100 percent clear, I do NOT want any violence. Any. At all. Ever. But if Bruh chokes on a burger while taking a poop, I’m all in.