“‘Ope!’ With Abandon, All Ye Who Enter Here”
Opinion by Alexandra Petri
He’ll unleash HELL ON EARTH” — campaign email from Donald Trump, Aug. 6, 2024, in reference to Tim Walz.
It was hell. It was a nightmare. And it was all Tim Walz’s doing. A vast landscape, vaguely evocative of Minnesota, with circles within circles of unthinkable torments almost too terrible to set down in words.
Above the entrance was carved “‘Ope!’ With Abandon, All Ye Who Enter Here” which seemed to be some sort of Midwestern thing. Donald Trump and JD Vance quailed as Virgil led them inside.
The outside circle, or limbo, was awful enough. There were lots of people practicing religious tolerance. Not just of Christianity, but also of other religions, which seemed like too much tolerance.
In the first circle, some children who could have been happily performing some kind of dangerous, ill-compensated labor were attending school and eating free breakfasts and lunches. All those tiny hands that could have been usefully plunging into machines, instead performing arithmetic and clutching nourishing sandwiches! What country was this? Donald Trump shielded his eyes as he passed.
In the next circle were people who had paid their debt to society who were having their voting rights restored. Some of them were ice fishing; it was hard to tell if this were a hell thing or simply a Midwestern thing.
And in the next, so-called conversion therapists who were not being allowed to try to force LGBTQ+ people to be straight just sat there twiddling their thumbs. One of them tried to convert a frog, but it hopped disdainfully away.
The next circle was butter sculptures. Tim Walz had made a bus. He was displaying it proudly. “Look,” Tim Walz said, pointing at another sculpture. “The Mall of America!” “You mean the National Mall?” Tim Walz shook his head. “Nope.”
The fifth circle was full of families taking paid leave. They were not just forced to give birth; they were actually getting time to spend with their families after they left the womb. As Trump and Vance looked upon the ghoulish scene, several neighbors from the butter sculpture circle brought over hot dish.
The sixth circle was worse yet! More schoolchildren. They were learning to read … with PHONICS! Why, who knew what they would read once they could read! Books, perhaps! “Cat has three sounds!” they were saying. “C! C! C!” At the mention of cats, Vance shuddered. Such horrible sounds! Tim Walz was at a booth there handing out free milk.
In the seventh circle were people with roofs over their heads. Low-income people! It was an appalling use of government funds, almost as bad as providing food to children, and the ghost of a big police tank sadly rolled past, never built thanks to this senseless waste. Donald Trump saluted it. Why weren’t they sleeping outside and being arrested, as the Supreme Court had said they ought to be? Before they could leave the affordable housing circle, another neighbor from the butter circle came by with hot dish. “Socialism,” Vance muttered.
The eighth circle was full of sick people, taking sick leave. Why weren’t they at work, infecting others? Several people from the butter circle brought them hot dish, leaving it outside with a friendly note.
To reach the final circle, you had to walk past a sad cluster of male state legislators who sat, as usual, utterly bewildered by the medical science of pregnancy but trying to pass laws about it. And no one was letting them. It was an awful sight. Also, the temperature was very, very cold; not even the hot dish brought by neighbors from the butter circle was enough to warm Trump and Vance.
The ninth circle was the most frightening of all. There sat a whole coven of women getting to decide, with their doctors’ input, whether to continue or end their pregnancies. Vance shuddered at the sight of all those vessels mistakenly thinking they were people. They were even voting! There were a number cats in that circle, just as the chanting children had warned. A panicked Donald Trump and JD Vance clambered to the litter box in the center of the circle and descended the staircase hidden behind it, down, down, down until they burst out of the nightmare hellscape.
When they were free, they looked around and beheld once more their policies: forced births, child labor, the Ten Commandments in every classroom. A great sea of red hats. All was as it ought to be.
Tim Walz’s hell was not upon them yet.
Opinion by Alexandra Petri
He’ll unleash HELL ON EARTH” — campaign email from Donald Trump, Aug. 6, 2024, in reference to Tim Walz.
It was hell. It was a nightmare. And it was all Tim Walz’s doing. A vast landscape, vaguely evocative of Minnesota, with circles within circles of unthinkable torments almost too terrible to set down in words.
Above the entrance was carved “‘Ope!’ With Abandon, All Ye Who Enter Here” which seemed to be some sort of Midwestern thing. Donald Trump and JD Vance quailed as Virgil led them inside.
The outside circle, or limbo, was awful enough. There were lots of people practicing religious tolerance. Not just of Christianity, but also of other religions, which seemed like too much tolerance.
In the first circle, some children who could have been happily performing some kind of dangerous, ill-compensated labor were attending school and eating free breakfasts and lunches. All those tiny hands that could have been usefully plunging into machines, instead performing arithmetic and clutching nourishing sandwiches! What country was this? Donald Trump shielded his eyes as he passed.
In the next circle were people who had paid their debt to society who were having their voting rights restored. Some of them were ice fishing; it was hard to tell if this were a hell thing or simply a Midwestern thing.
And in the next, so-called conversion therapists who were not being allowed to try to force LGBTQ+ people to be straight just sat there twiddling their thumbs. One of them tried to convert a frog, but it hopped disdainfully away.
The next circle was butter sculptures. Tim Walz had made a bus. He was displaying it proudly. “Look,” Tim Walz said, pointing at another sculpture. “The Mall of America!” “You mean the National Mall?” Tim Walz shook his head. “Nope.”
The fifth circle was full of families taking paid leave. They were not just forced to give birth; they were actually getting time to spend with their families after they left the womb. As Trump and Vance looked upon the ghoulish scene, several neighbors from the butter sculpture circle brought over hot dish.
The sixth circle was worse yet! More schoolchildren. They were learning to read … with PHONICS! Why, who knew what they would read once they could read! Books, perhaps! “Cat has three sounds!” they were saying. “C! C! C!” At the mention of cats, Vance shuddered. Such horrible sounds! Tim Walz was at a booth there handing out free milk.
In the seventh circle were people with roofs over their heads. Low-income people! It was an appalling use of government funds, almost as bad as providing food to children, and the ghost of a big police tank sadly rolled past, never built thanks to this senseless waste. Donald Trump saluted it. Why weren’t they sleeping outside and being arrested, as the Supreme Court had said they ought to be? Before they could leave the affordable housing circle, another neighbor from the butter circle came by with hot dish. “Socialism,” Vance muttered.
The eighth circle was full of sick people, taking sick leave. Why weren’t they at work, infecting others? Several people from the butter circle brought them hot dish, leaving it outside with a friendly note.
To reach the final circle, you had to walk past a sad cluster of male state legislators who sat, as usual, utterly bewildered by the medical science of pregnancy but trying to pass laws about it. And no one was letting them. It was an awful sight. Also, the temperature was very, very cold; not even the hot dish brought by neighbors from the butter circle was enough to warm Trump and Vance.
The ninth circle was the most frightening of all. There sat a whole coven of women getting to decide, with their doctors’ input, whether to continue or end their pregnancies. Vance shuddered at the sight of all those vessels mistakenly thinking they were people. They were even voting! There were a number cats in that circle, just as the chanting children had warned. A panicked Donald Trump and JD Vance clambered to the litter box in the center of the circle and descended the staircase hidden behind it, down, down, down until they burst out of the nightmare hellscape.
When they were free, they looked around and beheld once more their policies: forced births, child labor, the Ten Commandments in every classroom. A great sea of red hats. All was as it ought to be.
Tim Walz’s hell was not upon them yet.
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