Death. It stole me like the devil’s lettuce steals the innocence of sophomores; quickly and far too soon. I was eating a corndog at the local fair, showing passersby how far down my throat I could push it. I was in the middle of my stunt when, all of a sudden, I couldn’t pull out. The stick of goodness blocked my airway. I didn’t make it. Even though I died, I wasn’t done. See, death was just my beginning.

Everything was dark. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, just blackness. Then I realized my eyes were closed. Silly me. I opened my slits. The sun shone brightly, dazing me. I looked around and… Michelle? She stood in front of me, emanating a white light.

“Hello Gage,” Obama said tranquilly.

“You- you’re, you’re,” I stuttered.

“God,” she finished my thought. “I know. Most assume that God is a man, we need to fix that prejudice. But that’s a matter for later. Right now, I need your help.”

“Anything. Of- of c-course,” I mumbled like I had goat turds in my mouth, but couldn’t spit them out.

“I need you to pass a message to Trump. See, he has been my rival since the beginning of time. He used to be my best angel. But he turned… Republican,” she said with a sour note.

“Sure thing,” I said. “But… I’m, uh, dead. So, uh, how am I supposed to, you know, tell him?”

“Oh, Gage, you have much to learn,” replied Obama. “Death, just like obesity, is a state of mind. For you to return, all you have to do is want it bad enough… and sacrifice three tubs of ranch to me.”

“Okay, what do I need to tell him,” I asked. She leaned in and told me something I’ll never forget. I gave her the ranch, which she guzzled and subsequently grew three inches in bicep diameter. She smiled at me, touched my forehead and all I saw was white light. I woke up, breathing.

I died that day. But here I am, alive.

I am the boy who came back and I have something to say.

Dear Trump,

I see London, I see France, I see your filthy underpants.

That’s from Michelle. Good night and Michelle bless.