Let the Record Echo
Let every cruelty be counted.
Let every enabler be named.
Let every lie be tallied.
Let it echo in the halls of judgment.

“I want to try to get to heaven if possible.”
Donald Trump said it. Not in jest. Not in satire. In August 2025, the man who once bragged he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose voters suddenly sounded like someone who’d read the polling in the afterlife.

This wasn’t legacy talk. It was judgment talk. And for once, Trump wasn’t the one doing the judging.

The man who branded steaks, bottled failure, and sold gold sneakers is now worried about celestial clearance. Why now? Because even Trump knows: you can’t sue Saint Peter. You can’t bribe the pearly gates. And you can’t lie to eternity.

“I’ve been hearing I’m not doing well,” he added. From whom? His doctors? His conscience? Or the ghost of Roy Cohn whispering, “They’re coming for you, Don.”

This isn’t repentance. It’s preemptive PR. A man who’s spent decades dodging accountability now wants to negotiate with heaven. But heaven doesn’t do NDAs. No hush money. No spin. Just the record.

And what a record it is.

Every indictment. Every cruelty. Every lie. Every time, he turned the presidency into a personal ATM or a stage for grievance cosplay. Every time he mocked the dead, the disabled, the truth itself.

Trump’s not dying. He’s rehearsing. Testing lines for the final act. And we should be writing the script.

Let the record echo in the halls of judgment. Let every cruelty be counted. Let every grift be tallied. Let every enabler be named.

Because if Trump wants heaven, he’ll have to answer for the hell he made here.

The day he falls, the world will rise. The devil will return to hell, and history will exhale.