Joey and Little Suzy would never have gone trick or treating in the wrecking ball wreckage at Old Man Trump’s big, white house, but that’s where the candy dropped by ICE agents led, so in they went.

Fooled again.

Welcome to the Donald Trump Rubble Rotunda, guaranteed soulless 365 days a year.

“I don’t want this tour,” said Little Suzy.

Pat Beall is an editorial writer and columnist for the Sun Sentinel, focusing mainly on Palm Beach County issues.

“Neither did America,” said Old Man Trump, as he appeared behind them, pocketed Little Suzy’s Halloween candy, and led them into the debris field.

Trump wouldn’t be the first to try and fill up the dark scary abyss where a heart should be with big shiny buildings. He’s just the first to try and do it by bulldozing the White House. And building a cheesy dance hall on top of it, plus many more scary surprises, surely. After all, at 90,000 square feet — far larger than the White House itself — there’s no way this is just a big empty room. Oh, and we’re also erecting a knockoff of France’s Arc de Triomphe, that will almost certainly be called the Arc de Trump.

Try not to trip over the ghosts of ethics past as you move on your way. Avoid opening the bulging door marked Thank You Letters to Vlad (crushing risk) or the door marked Thank You Letters From Vlad (black hole risk).

Do not open that closet door!

Too late; Little Suzy’s curiosity got the better of her, and 7 million chuckling No Kings jump-scares popped out, many still in their unicorn inflatables.

A presidential poop joke trailed behind. Six-year-old boys laughed their socks off. Six-and-a-half-year-olds thought it was a little immature.

“I don’t think you’re going to be able to put all of these back in the closet,” said Joey.

“Forget them!” snapped Old Man Trump.

Indeed! Do not be haunted by uncomfortably factual phantasms when you can pave over inconvenient facts like cheap beach umbrellas over a dead rose garden. Like that time Trump said not a single East Wing leaf would be trembled and no pebble disturbed by his thirst to build a palace exactly like the one in Versailles — which he is doing, right down to ignoring the peasants’ silly demands for affordable bread.

But roses aren’t the only things that refuse to stay buried.

“I think I’ve found something,” said Joey, dusting off a box full of Epstein files.

“Watch how fast I can make them disappear,” cackled Old Man Trump.

No, better to walk in the rubble and insist that it be called a red carpet than be haunted by the real.

Who needs to listen to one more day of inconsequential braying from the Congress of the Creepy Marionettes?

Who wants to be fixated on the herds of docile corporate cash cows now grazing in East Wing wreckage, waiting to be milked for every last dime?

Who wants to know where all that cash lands?

“Why are you washing your money?” asked Joey, as the tour wound through the remains of the East Wing basement and its stacks of freshly laundered greenbacks bound for the Qatar Savings and Loan. Off in the corner, Marco Rubio’s reputation waited its turn in the spin cycle.

Old Man Trump paused. “Children,” he finally said, “At this point in our tour we must follow the lead of Supreme Court Justice John Roberts upon seeing an unfinished bit of much-needed justice: Squint and move on.”

“I’d like to go now,” whispered Little Suzy.

“Me, too,” said Joey. “But first I wanna see what’s underneath that orange mask, mister.”

Or not. It’s Halloween, where the phone call is always coming from inside the House, the bulldozers are lining up behind Chuck Schumer’s office, better health care is always two weeks and one funhouse mirror away and that’s no mask, Joey: That’s Maybelline.

Pat Beall is a Sun Sentinel columnist and editorial writer. 

https://www.orlandosentinel.com/2025/10/26/halloween-at-the-old-trump-place-pat-beall/