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We wanted nothing more in these last few hours before the Christmas break than to report that a legitimate miracle had taken place: That Donald Trump, having been visited by various ghosts of real estate development past, present, and future throughout the night, had awakened in the wee hours soaked in a pool of his own, gilded sweat, and realized that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake. With a yank of the braided velvet rope hanging by his bedside, he'd slide silently off his black satin sheets, careful all the while not to wake a slumbering Melania; he'd then tiptoe onto the solid-gold-and-glass elevator that would bring him to the roof of his spectacular residence, where a "T"-emblazoned helicopter would instantly rush him over to Rosie O'Donnell's home.

There, Rosie would be awaiting his arrival on her well-tended lawn, doing her best to keep her monogrammed bathrobe (an engagement gift from former band leader John McDaniel) from flying open in the hovering aircraft's gusty wake. After some tearful words of apology and regret shouted over the deafening whir of the rotating blades, Trump would order his pilot to head directly to his palatial Mar-A-Lago estate, where the giddy two would disembark, tearing off whatever clothing they still had on, and proceed to make mad, passionate love on the beach—the best man-made beach money can buy. There they would stay, Donald spooning in Rosie's firm yet tender embrace, until the first light of morning. He'd turn to her. She'd giggle and pat down his hair standing adorably at a right-angle to his scalp. He'd then narrow his eyes, and whisper with an intensity and profoundness of emotion that surprised even him, "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

Unfortunately, none of that happened, and Trump called into Larry King Live to blame Rosie for the Iraq War.