It’s the second “morning after” of trying to say the words “President Trump” and the speculation on “WTF happened!” and how “great’” or “gawdawful” our faux democracy is going to be abounds in the media—the media that was so complicit in its greed and abdication of responsibility—that is the matrix in which the orange monster was created. “It’s alive! It’s ALIVE!” “It’s f**king PRESIDENT!”
Since I cannot not ponder these awful, puke-inducing thoughts I must find a way to think about it, some way that affords a semblance of comfort. For that you must indulge my fanciful visit to the (no doubt gilded) bed of the Donald and Melania on the second morning after in the gilded bedroom of the Trump Towers. And I need one other narrative indulgence—to must assume that Donald does have some degree of functioning capacity for rational thought.
What happens when a guy goes to bed in a reality show and wakes up in reality? (It’s a rhetorical question.)
Melania: You must not be too hard on yourself—oops, sorry, dahling—I mean too upset with yourself. It happens to all men, even with the Viagra. And I didn’t mean anything bad when I said that your little hands make my “naturals” feel bigger. We will make it stronger together.
Donald (thinking): Geez, wasn’t copping lines from Michele Obama enough. Now Hillary. One more and she goes back to Slovenia and I grab myself a new trophy First Lady. Doesn’t she understand: now I have to build that f**king wall; now I have to deport those job-stealing Beaners and shut the door on those terrorizing Muzzies; now I gotta figure a way to bully those jobs back from China and Mexico; now I gotta repeal Obamacare and the Iran deal and kick the shit out of ISIS and Black Lives Matter. Now I gotta lock Hillary up. That’s why I can’t get it up! Somebody rigged this election to elect me!
And the media are not gonna make it any easier for me. I know how they work. I’m their product. They made huge bucks off of my campaign rallies. They loved it and gave me ten times the coverage of Hillary. So I paid them by calling them corrupt and evil. Now they are going to come after me with a vengeance. Making me a loser means higher ratings for them. Scandal, screw-ups, crotch-grabs; that’s what they want now. Live by the sword . . . I vanquished them all—Jeb, Marco, Carly and the rest of those losers, and finally Crooked Hillary; and now I’m the only game in the casino. They’re gonna be coming for me. Everybody is supposed to love a winner. But will they love the carny barker when they discover the “bearded lady” is a fake?
January 20 I gotta go into the “swamp” to “drain the swamp” (Don’t we have a reality show about swamp guys?). Ryan, McConnell and those other swamp dwellers need to be made to kiss my ass (move over, Kim, mine is bigger than yours now). But I don’t trust them. I have to figure out a way to fire those guys, like on The Apprentice. I’ll ask Putin how he does it.
Melania (breaking his reverie): Oh, grab me, Mr. President. Grab me, you know where. You are the ultimate celebrity now and you can do whatever you want. Grab me with those huge Presidential hands of yours. You know where.
Donald (thinking): Not so sure, Number 3. I need to figure out a way to wear my “Make America Great Again” hat to keep my hair in place when I’m coming down the windy ramp of Air Force One. No, Trump One.
1 comment
This can’t be real. It’s a surreal pseudo-reality of DT’s (delirium tremens). How did this gang of creeps get access to OUR White House? For starters, I can only point to an obvious culprit, the new-age J. Edgar Hoover at FBI headquarters.
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