An AntiChrist Masses Carol

The border wall was dead, to begin with.
The register of its demise was signed by the incoming head of the House whose funding would have been needed to build it, and by the counting house proprietor who had dunned for it over the prior two years.
Its death was beyond reasonable doubt.
Beyond that, the masses chorusing for it all along, assured by their Trumpster that "Mexico will pay for it," knew it was a fraud.
Their guru, like them, was a ridiculous liar who favored a wallow in a comfy fantasy over reality, or the duty of citizens to deal with it.
Reality stayed put, of course, even if the choristers kept their eyes shut:
-- The deadliest U.S. terror attack of the century had been perpetrated by Saudis who were in the country lawfully.
-- The majority of foreigners illegally in the U.S. reportedly had entered the country lawfully, at airports, and overstayed their visas.
-- About 14 million crossed the southern border into the U.S. legally each year, while 300,000 crossed the northern border daily.
Walling 1,000 miles of the 2,000-mile southern border would do nothing to change this.
Pretending the U.S. was a castle whose drawbridge could be pulled up was, in short, bullshit, and everybody knew it.
But the wondrous synergy of hatred and prevarication can work miracles in the solstice time when their cause is taken up by a pair of witches.
One sorcerer was a deaf old man, a drug addict of fruity tastes who combined erectile dysfunction drugs with Santo Domingo. The other was an ostensible woman who claimed to be a man, and who called for the Army to invade Mexico again to shoot refugees.
They conjured their spell, hurling myriad disembodied voices to torment the Trumpster and shriek that he was a joke.
Being incredibly sensitive, he reneged on his agreement; but, to be fair, this was his usual course after he gave his word.
The counting house shut down, and the witches rejoiced at the sight of Tiny Tim dying of dehydration in Border Control custody.