After several years of opaqueness, the Wharton School of the University of Philadelphia has finally released President Donald Trump’s academic records.
Mr. Trump graduated from the university’s business school, and has long boasted of his grades in campaign events and casual conversations.
However, the publishing of his transcript reveals he was last in class in virtually every class he took, except, surprisingly, one poetry class.
“Donald Trump was a real dumbfuck,” explained one of Trump’s Business professors, Dr. Walt Winters, 91, “His written essays about economics always clearly exhibited his not knowing anything—just a real dunce. The chapter in the book about tariffs and trade wars he obviously didn’t understand. When I had the class do a paper on what business they dreamed of starting, he wrote about how he’d run a beauty pageant. But I guess he did do that, to his credit, that creep. But his test scores were always single digits. He could not retain any facts. One time he turned in an exam with a bunch of different doodles of breasts in the margins and half the answers empty. But other times he’d turn in failing exams with strangely articulate poems on the back of pages that just made no sense juxtaposed with his otherwise clear lack of intellectual curiosity on anything about economic theory or financial research.”
Trump’s poetry professor, Stephen Jacobs, 94, remembers Trump being surprisingly philosophical in his poetic submissions to Wharton’s annual english department poetry contest.
“I actually kept one of his poems all these years,” Jacobs said. “And boy does it sound weird today knowing how Donald Trump decided to dive into business—the subject he was worst at—and then blunder his way into massive bankruptcies only to save himself with foreign money laundering to become president as a fully compromised fake billionaire mob boss. Here, I’ll show you the poem. But prepare yourself, because I think it reveals facets of Donald Trump you would not expect. It’s got all kinds of nuances and subtleties, nothing like how he communicates today. It’s like he’s some kind of idiot savant when it comes to poetic journaling. He should have stuck with poetry. I swear to God this is Donald Trump’s poem.”
The following Donald Trump wrote when he was 22-years-old:
The Thing About Jesus
by Donald J. Trump, 1968
the thing about jesus
is that he’s billed as the savior of all mankind
because he died on a cross
as if it were some ultimate death
in sacrifice for our sins
but let’s be honest—
as far as punishments go
isn’t really that bad—
like for sure it sucks
there are much worse ways to die than being nailed to a cross.
like prometheus of another mythology
who is chained to a mountain and every single day an eagle comes
and tears out his organs with its beak
and it’s been happening for thousands of years
and it happened today and yesterday
and all throughout the 60s
and is going to happen tomorrow
and the day after.
and so on forever.
to hype up jesus’ torture and then stick with a measly cross
is merely unimaginative
and his suffering only lasted several hours
though as far as historical crucifixions go
and plenty of condemned roman victims could suffer for days.
beyond some wood beams
humans have invented far worse
like cooking each other in bronze bulls
where the metal burns you alive
and adds insult to injury
when the sound of your screams makes music from a horn
so your death entertains your torturers
as they sip their digestifs in the banquet room.
being strangled to death seems a little worse than being crucified too
maybe it’s over shorter
but talk about an aggressive way for jesus to die
rolling on the ground being strangled by judas for twenty-six minutes
until he passes out and then maybe gets his face and skull stomped on for several minutes.
the romans have nothing on the modern mob
or being drawn and quartered and torn to pieces by the crown
or wasting away through months of nazi auschwitz medical torture
or growing weak from cancer and denied health insurance claims for chemo and dying for being poor
or drafting into a pointless and unwinnable war
in a country whose independence the occupation efforts are betraying
or getting captured and beheaded on live television for committing crimes of journalism
or being chopped into pieces by a fossil fuel monarchy and shrugged off
or being chased through swampy woods for a week
somewhere deep in louisiana
and beat and lynched for talking to a white woman.
what if jesus had died of starvation slowly on the cold street
in a town whose charitable impulses
were banned by civic laws criminalizing feeding the homeless?
I guess I don’t know what I’m trying to get at
but perhaps we fetishize the suffering of our prophets
to ignore the suffering of the living.
“Aren’t you surprised?” asked Jacobs. “It truly blew my mind. I showed it to Trump’s business professors when he turned it in, and it floored them, too.”
Professor Winters saw it, and remembers vividly.
“I wouldn’t have believed it, except I could see it was in Donald Trump’s distinctive handwriting,” he said. “Even then he wrote everything with a sharpie, and, instead of taking notes during lectures, he would practice signing his signatures, which really distracted the class because he scribbled it so quick and loud and every time he finished a notebook page full of signatures he’d tear it out, hold it up, and then circle his favorite ones. I was always having to tell him to pay attention, but he’d whine in front of the whole class that I was treating him very unfairly by not giving him A’s, and that the faculty had it rigged against him because his dad was richer than us. Like I said, a total dumbfuck.”