2020—It pleases both the eye and the ear and prompts thoughts of perfect vision, which those in the vision business will no doubt be capitalizing on in the coming months—any day, now, rolling out their 2020 Vision ad campaigns. They may already have begun petitioning to have 2020 declared The Year of Perfect Vision.

Others will capitalize, too. I’m imagining Trump, a month or so from now, blathering away to a congregation of red-capped believers in an arena, claiming there’s never been an American President in the entire history of mankind with vision like his.

"Abe Lincoln, George Washington, Daniel Boone—none of them had vision like mine," he boasts.

"20/20 vision? No big deal, people. My vision is 80/80—four times 20/20. Four times. How many people can say that? One in a billion? One in a trillion? Who knows. Probably one in a trillion. And you know what? It gets better every day. You wouldn't believe what I can see."

He makes binoculars with his fists and scans back and forth across the crowd. Some are laughing. A guy near the back ducks out of sight.

"You’ve got to look after your eyes, people—you’ve got to look after your eyes. They’re one of the head’s most important parts. Your ears? Not so important. I know lots of guys with hardly any ears at all and they hear just fine. But your eyes? Imagine not having your eyes. No more television. Bumping into things all the time. Falling into sand traps. Be terrible, right? You’ve got to look after your eyes, people.

"You know what I do to look after mine? I never read. Nothing long, anyway—tweets, score cards, menus, Bible verses—that’s about it. Believe me, people, nothing wears out your eyes quicker than reading long things. You look around a library and and what do you see? Nearly everyone's wearing eye glasses. Right? Thick eye glasses. Even the children. It’s crazy. You’ve never seen Donald Trump in a library, have you. Or a book store, either. And you never will. And look at him now, people. Look at him now.”

He has raised his arms in triumph like a prize fighter. The congregation are on their feet chanting, “DONALD TRUMP! DONALD TRUMP! DONALD TRUMP! DONALD TRUMP! DONALD TRUMP!”

He waits for them to stop.

"Know what else Donald Trump does to look after his eyes? He stays well away from those unsightly, cancer-causing windmill things. Any closer than 50 miles, you start going blind. And everybody knows it. Right? We have more blind farmers today than at any time in our history. And where are they concentrated? I don’t need to tell you, do I. And what do the fake news media have to say about it? Nothing. Nothing, either, about the cancer. It’s a disgrace. And you can bet things are going to change, people. Things are going to change, and very strongly.”

Off to the left, there’s a group chanting, “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Trump pretends to conduct the chanting for a bit, then raises a hand to silence them.

"If you’d asked me for a stock tip five years ago, you know what I’d have told you? White cane manufacturers."

There’s a scattering of laughter.

"Seriously. I’d have told you 'white cane manufacturers'. And you’d have cleaned up, just like I did. You’d have been laughing all the way to the bank. Not anymore, though. The windmills are coming down, people. You have my word for it. They’re coming down."

He waits for the cheering to subside.

"These windmills—you know they’re killing our birds, as well. Right? Sad. Very sad. We love our birds, don’t we. No animal has nicer feathers than a bird. Remember that jazz guy, Bird? They made a movie about him. Larry. Larry Bird. What a stupid name. Right? He should have been on Sesame Street. Blarry Larry—that’s what I called him. Couldn’t keep a tune. Wandered all over the place. Just a whole lot of noise. Terrible screechy stuff. Sounded like he was just learning to play. Not to those tin-eared, do-nothing Democrats, though. They fawned all over him like he was Kid Rock or something. Imagine. Fawning all over a loser like that. And making a movie about him. What a joke. You know who I fawn over? The farmers. No one loves farmers more than I do, and no one ever will. And the farmers know it. Just this morning, one came up to me and said, 'Sir, there’s never ever been anyone who’s done more for farmers than you have. Thank you so very, very much, sir. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.' He was down on one knee, had tears in his eyes, didn’t want to let go of my hand. Happens all the time, farmers coming up to me like that—big burly farmers, many of them in tears—most of them, in fact—probably 90%—in tears, down on their knees, thanking me from the bottom of their heart. I love the farmers. I sure do love the farmers. And they love me. Barack HUSSEIN Obama? We all know what he thought of our farmers, don’t we. He conned them. He told them these killer windmills were good for them. Right? And, sadly, being the wonderful, trusting people farmers are, they took him at his word. For eight years, people—for eight years, we had an enemy in the White House—an Islamic Muslim from some shit-hole country in the African outback—blinding and killing our farmers, and shutting down our coal mines, and trying to take our guns away, and turning our hunting grounds over to campers, and doing everything else he possibly could to undermine and destroy our very way of life. If he’d had his way, we’d all be wearing burkas. It was terrible. We couldn’t even say ‘Merry Christmas’ anymore. Right? Eight years, and not a peep from the fake news media. Not a peep. And he’s still walking around free. How crazy is that? He should be locked up in Guantanamo and the keys thrown away. Crooked Hillary, too. And that other loser, Nancy Pelosi. And I’ve good news, people—they soon will be. Nancy, if you’re listening, you’d better start packing your bags."

The congregation are chanting, "LOCK THEM UP! LOCK THEM UP! LOCK THEM UP! LOCK THEM UP!"

Trump is blathering on but, even in my imagination, I can’t stomach him any longer, so I’ve put the kettle on for coffee and, here by the window, am rolling myself a joint and wondering if I’ve imagined him too coherent to be believable.

The scene out my window is a wintry monotone, its only spot of colour a red 2020 balloon caught up in the branches of a big maple. It’s early morning, still. Very peaceful.