After an unsatisfying hour of angry tweeting in which he couldn’t think of a rhyming nickname for Zohran Mamdani and after wolfing down one too many cheeseburgers, Donald Trump grunted, belched loudly and muttered into his pillow, “I don’t want to be Herbert Hoover.” It was a statement he had made many times at press briefings.
Trump knew his approval rating had plummeted to 30 percent—as much as he pretended to the contrary. His economic policies were failing, the war in Iran was a disaster, his beloved ballroom was nothing but a hole in the ground and the reflecting pool had turned toxic green and was killing baby ducks. “I don’t want to be Herbert Hoover,” he practically whimpered as he drifted off into a fitful sleep. Trump didn’t actually know anything about Hoover except that the 31st president had presided over the Great Depression and that history blamed him for it.
Herbert Hoover was born in West Branch, the son of a blacksmith who died when Herbert was 6-years-old. His mother died when he was 9 and he was raised by relatives as a devout Quaker. Hoover became a prominent mining engineer and was working in China when the Boxer Rebellion broke out. He and his wife risked their lives to rescue Chinese children. During World War I, Hoover organized the rescue of 120,000 Americans stranded in France trying to return to the US. President Woodrow Wilson appointed Hoover as head of the Food Administration. There, he organized food shipments to millions starving in Europe and Soviet Russia. When criticized for giving aid to Russia, Hoover replied, “20 million people are starving. Whatever their politics, they shall be fed!” Hoover was widely beloved and became known as “The Great Humanitarian.”
Sadly, Hoover’s misguided economic strategies only pushed the country deeper into a depression. His critics claimed Hoover was indifferent to America’s hardship. But his friends confided that the tender-hearted Quaker president refused to visit bread lines because he did not want the people to see him cry.
“I wish I was Herbert Hoover,” Trump heard himself say. Still asleep, he dreamed that he jumped out of bed. He picked up the phone and called his Chief of Staff, Susie Wiles. “Susie, this is Herbert. I want you to fire my whole cabinet and replace them all with smart people. We need affordable housing and Medicare for everyone. And get Jim Comey to take over the FBI.”
“But sir, didn’t you try to have him arrested for making fun of you or something?”
“Tell him his country needs him. He’s a pro. He’ll do it. And call Elizabeth Warren. We’re enacting her billionaire tax plan. There will be no more homelessness in this country. Liquidate my crypto stock and give the money to, um—to the Quakers.”
“Are you feeling okay, Mr. Hoover?”
“Never better. Release the Epstein files, start rebuilding the East Wing and get me the name of a pool man—a REAL pool man.”
Donald Trump jerked awake, bonking his head on the bed post. He grabbed his phone and dialed, “Susie, be honest. Do people like me?”
“No, sir. Not really.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Trump sighed. “For a minute I thought I was Herbert Hoover!”