He's fallen in the water!

Isolated and confused at the G20, impotent in the face of the health care debacle, and confronted with irrefutable evidence that his high-quality son is as dumb as a bucket of sand, Trump has turned to his imaginary friend Jim for comfort and support.  As Erik Loomis explains at Lawyers, Guns & Money, Jim was with him (in spirit) during the glory days of the campaign, a fellow client of imaginary publicist John Barron or whatever his name was.  Jim is a man of means (Trump wouldn't know anyone else) who used to take his family to Paris every year, but not any more.  Nobody goes to Paris anymore, it's too crowded -- with the wrong people.  Bad hombres.  Muslims.  It's a hellhole like Brussels and Nice and Berlin and London and Manchester and all those other places that don't have walls around them.  (With the pound plummeting -- thanks, Brexit! -- even Joe the Plumber could afford Manchester right now, but I'll bet he's in Pittsburgh instead.)  Poor Jim.  Trump is in Paris but only because he's always making sacrifices for America, and also they promised he could watch a military parade tomorrow.  Since Bastille Day usually doesn't involve tanks and missiles, I think he'll be disappointed. 

Come on, where else are you going to find references to Yogi Berra and the Goon Show?  I do put some work into this.