I turned in this column on Tuesday, before the election results, so I didn't know how it all turned out.

If Donald Trump won, it's safe to say he outlawed journalism on Wednesday. Trump Troops (trademark) crammed me and my Fourth Estate colleagues into shipping containers and off to interment camps. Those who mouthed off were dragged into the street and shot (which, knowing most of my coworkers past and present, was 90 percent of the industry). The lucky few who escaped formed the resistance. They all died horribly because journalists have no idea how to wage a protracted guerrilla war, but they will be hailed as heroes for generations to come.

But that's the worst-case scenario. My plan is to make it to the underground bunker I constructed this summer at an undisclosed location atop one of Colorado's magnificent fourteeners. It's a shame that it took a catastrophe like a Trump presidency to compel me to scale one of those snow-capped beauties. Once there, I'll spend quality time with my girlfriend and cat, write my memoirs ("On the Record and Off My Meds: A Love Poem to Myself") and ride this whole thing out.

I imagine the next four years will offer the long-term relaxation I so desire. We live off the land, away from all this madness. The amorous moans of humping moose punctuate the soft rustle of pine needles in the breeze. The profound silence is interrupted only by the occasional flyover of a bomber plane dispatched by the broad coalition of nations formed to crush President Trump's failed bid at world domination. (It was doomed from the get go, like his line of steaks.)


What will the world look like when I emerge from my mountain lair in 2020? I imagine that the endless sequence of chain restaurants lining the streets and boulevards lie in ruin. The country has been partitioned into separate territories by the conquering nations, a sort of 50-year probation like the one imposed on Germany following World War II. Canada governs the north and is very polite about it. The southwest is returned to Mexico. Brazil takes The South but promptly gives it back. Texas secedes from itself.

President Trump, stripped of his hairpiece and spray tan, is marched through the streets in disgrace (in tiny handcuffs). All social media has been outlawed. After a week, no one seems to notice or care. A resurgence of courtesy occurs as citizens can no longer demean one another from behind a smartphone screen. The most exciting news, for me at least, will be learning that Mexico unveiled a 2,000-mile-long border wall it erected to keep us out and somehow managed to construct in its entirety the weekend before the election. It cost $250 total, and the tile work was immaculate.

That's it. I'm scared as I write this. And if I don't make it to my mountain bunker, tell my mom I tried.

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