Monday, January 23, 2017

Four Days in the Life of a Nude Emperor

Photo credit Haaretz
Day 1: Steve Bannon wakes me up.  It looks like he just came from bed, but there's also a faint whiff of smoke.  "Steve," I say, grumpily, "can you at least do me the favor of getting dressed before you come in here.  I don't know what those Obamas did, but I don't want people walking around in the presidential suite still in their bedsheets."  

Steve informs me that the fresh fox pelt that is imported daily from Scotland was giving off a real odor, like something you'd smell in an inner city.  Those Scots!  Trying to spoil the greatest presidency known to man just because I turf them off their property!  Fortunately, I keep a refrigerated vault of spare pelts, and I give the combination to Bannon.  He brings it back, and he and Kellyanne put it in place on my head.
Ivana and I ride to the White House.  She looks unhappy with me, maybe because I slipped up and called her Marla last night.  I dash out of the vehicle and up the steps, eager to get the keys to the building before that uppity Obama and his wife decide they're not turning them over.  I'm later told that this left Melania (is that her name, then?) looking a bit lost as she came up the steps behind me.  But I'm president, not her, so I don't see why that matters.
There's a photo op, and then we're off to my coronation at the capital.  I'm a little pissed because when I asked Vlad what makes for a good ceremony he said you absolutely can't have a top notch power grab without missile launchers and tanks.  The guys in uniform said no.  I'll play their little game for now, but boy do they have it coming.  'No' isn't a word they'll get away with using around me.
I give a speech to remind people that basically their job is to obey me and stay out of the way, and buy American.  Mike the Fence, or whatever his face is told me that the media will give me grief because my clothes--and they are seriously the best clothes you've ever worn, or would have worn if you could afford them, which you probably can't, because they are only for quality people, and when I look at you, I have my doubts--are made in China.  I tell Mike that I've heard about enough from him for the week, and that the media's days are numbered.  Except for Breitbart.  And maybe some of the gals over at FOX if they just keep quiet and look nice.  Maybe I can arrange a tour of their changing room.  Job’s gotta come with some perks, right?
I've gotta go with the Obamas to see them off in a helicopter.  Vlad told me that I should get the CIA to shoot it down while it's flying away, but I told him that I'm content with letting those low class people go back to whatever flaming urban squalor they came from.
After the celebrations I come back to the White House, and look at the oval office.  Someone left a scrap of paper on the desk...gotta remember to fire those cleaners, probably damn illegals!  I chuck it in the wastebin and look around for the best place to keep the urn.  Sometimes it gets a little challenging carrying around my ego, so I like to set it in a gold-plated urn once in a while, just sit back and stare at it.  
I told the bag carrier that he can leave the stupid codes--probably some stuck up liberal professor came up with codes, or a 400-pound computer geek who would be better off hacking Hillary--and put my ego in the bag instead.  He had the nerve--imagine that, speaking to the biggest, the best, the most genius person out there--to tell me that it wouldn't fit.  So I told him to get a fricking litter with elephants and dancing women and all that jazz, and put it on that, and find a few friends--not like he could find a friend, unlike me, I’ve got the greatest...Ben Carson, Newt Gingrich, really classy people--to help him carry it behind me.
Day 2: Kellyanne woke me up with bad news.  Apparently the mainstream media--what a bunch of lousy liars and cheats they are--is reporting that more people went to Obama's inauguration, and even that loser Bush's ceremony--than came to mine.  
Now even someone who's a little slow like you knows that can't be true.  I get the best ratings.  They're huge, just truly enormous and spectacular, just like my hands.  But these media people, they're such huge losers, just really bad, bad, BAD people.  I'm fuming.  I'm telling you, I'm upset.  
I call up Vlad and see what he suggests.  I hear Rinse or whatever his name is interject from the other line, "No, Vlad, we can't just send them to Guantanamo...there are Muslims down there, we don't mix them.  No, Vlad, I don't think the CIA would do that for us.  No, Vlad, I don't think the FBI would let your guys do that either.  Okay, Vlad, thanks.  We'll get back to you.  A few months and maybe we can pursue some of that.  Thanks."  "Thanks, Vlad," I yowl down the line.
"Jerk!" I think to myself.  I didn't know they made the bugs that small.
Kellyanne and this Spicer guy get out in front of this and explain that CNN faked the shot and that there were more people there than at all of the previous inaugurations combined.  They call those media people out on their so-called facts.  "Hey!" I whisper from behind the curtain in the briefing room, "Tell 'em we have alternative facts!  Ours are better!  They're the best, just really top quality!  Nobody in the history of the world has seen facts as big and beautiful as ours.  They’ll go very well with the wall."
Day 3: It starts out with more bad news.  I request that Steve and Kellyanne don't give me any more of that.  Seems like a bunch of women were out marching around yesterday.  God knows what they want.  I love women.  I'm so good to women it would make you squirm and be uncomfortable.  If you knew how much I loved and respected and treated women great none of this would happen and everyone would love me.  I could get approval ratings like Vlad.  But instead these politically correct journalists and activists--so violent those activists are, just really, really nasty people!--have to go and mess with the American people.
I flush the toilet.  "Donald," I hear Vlad say, and jump up so fast I hit my knee on the urn I carried in with me.  "Damn it, Vlad!"  "Donald, calm down.  Don't let them get to you.  Soon enough you'll have your revenge.  You and I will get back at these so-called tolerant, liberal-minded, politically correct, dengerate people.  And then we can ride bare-chested across the tundra, maybe on the back of a tiger.  Would you like that, Donald?"
I'm not much for cold, and I don't know about tigers, but if I don't sound happy, I'm afraid of what Vlad will do.  "Yeah, Vlad," I say as loudly and brashly as I can, "that will be great!  Tigers!  Boy, those are swell!  Might have had some of those in one of my hotels once.  Great hotel.  Really, truly, the best.  Are we gonna put one of those up in Red Square, or what?  Your FSP people, they're really gonna love it!  Lots of gold, lots of warmth, lots of rooms they can bug.  Ha, ha, ha!"
I get an intelligence briefing later.  The 'intelligence' officials--let's face it, I've got a way better mind than these bozos, the very best, actually, product of excellent genetics and the Wharton School of Business, which makes Harvard look like some kind of special school--were all wearing sunglasses.
"What is this?" I snarl.  "I thought they only did that in Hollywood.  Don't I get to see their faces?"  Granted, I've got a way better face than they do, so I can understand why they've been intimidated.  Just the other day someone told me I looked like a guy called Benito Mussolini, a famous Italian supermodel.
"No, sir," whispers an aide.  "They've apparently been warned by their superiors that prolonged visual contact with your tan could cause eye cancer."  "Eye cancer?!" I explode.  "Is that a thing?  I think the CIA just made that up to eff with me!  Hell, how do we know cancer is real?  Mike the Fence told me that smoking doesn't cause cancer.  He seems like a bright kinda fellow, although clearly not in my league, not even close, probably three or four hundred IQ points behind me."
Day 4: Little Marco caved.  Beautiful way to start a Monday.  I always knew he would.  The little sweaty squirt was giving me a hard time about Rex.  Rex is rich, he's an oilman, he's going to go around the world and take oil from all the people who owe us, like Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Norway, Vuvuzuela, and Scotland.  Oh, Scotland, you could have saved yourself if you didn't send me the rotting fox pelt.  
I call Kellyanne and Steve and Rinse and Mike the Fence (who I tell to sit in the back row).  I lean on my ego and ask, "Can we get cracking now?  When can we start the Muslim round-ups and throw those Mexicans out?  And I feel like we should've bombed someone by now.  Can we make the Mexicans and Muslims build the wall on their way out?  Hadn't Bush bombed someone by now?  I really feel like I need to flex my missiles.  People have been saying things about my hands, and as you know, I have the best hands.  The perfect size, shape, length...I've built beautiful things with these hands.  A university, way better than Harvard and Yale and all those places, they’re so overrated, almost as bad as Meryl Streep.  The greatest hotels.  Just spectacular buildings.  Magnificent stuff.  And I don't want people to think they can just mock America's first hands without getting bombed."
Steve says we've gotta wait.  He says a guy called Adolf gives us a good example of how you need to treat people with a carrot, make them think you’re giving them something before you unload the stick on 'em.  I don't know who Adolf is, but it sounds reasonable.  And if something sounds reasonable to me, you can bet that it is...I've got the greatest mind, just beautiful, tremendously creative, massively intelligent.  
I start to ask if this means we should have waited before shafting people by starting to kill Obamacare, but Mike the Fence pipes up and asks if we can send gays to reeducation camps, and I tell him to speak when he's spoken to.  Kellyanne hands me something to sign.  "What's this?" I ask.  
"Papers to kill the TPP."  "TPP...TPP..." I muse.  "Is that like Al Qaeda?  Is that what Osama's calling himself these days?"  "It's a trade deal, sir."  "Where do we stand on trade?" I ask.  
Steve says trade makes our people feel insecure, like if someone had said they had small hands.  "Well," I say, "in that case, let's kill this sucker."  
I head off to get some alone time, just me and the four guys carrying my ego behind me.  I comb the fox pelt in the mirror, and suddenly it says, "Nice job, Donald.  Soon, you'll have a week behind you.  Then we can really do great things together."  

"Vlad!" I yelp, "Stop doing that!"  They can put those bugs anywhere.  

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For those with preexisting conditions such as a humor deficiency, I am not Donald Trump and I do not claim to know the internal monologue that develops beneath the fox pelt.

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