Donny Jr. Pleads the Fifth

Donald Trump Jr. gave a new, fifth version of that infamous meeting with a still undetermined number of Russians in Trump Tower to the Senate Judiciary staff. In case you’ve lost track, here is a rundown of the five stories.

STORY #1

I got a call from Jared asking me if I wanted to meet this hot Russian babe; a former gymnast who had become a lawyer. We met for a few minutes in Dad’s Tower. And, yeah, she was super-hot. I mean like, petrified woody inducing hot. When she crossed her legs, Jared yelped like a puppy. Can’t remember her name; Nadia, Natasha, Ludmilla. Some commie-girl’s name. All I remember are those powerful thighs of hers. God Almighty! My ribs hurt just thinking about them.

STORY #2

No, no, as I recall now, Jared and I met with two Russians and the hottie chippy lawyer to talk about procuring…I mean, adopting some young Russian girls for my brother, Barron. It’s lonely up in the Tower. Wait, there may have been four or five Russians. Okay, now that I think about it, the whole Bolshoi Ballet company was there. The meeting may have lasted ten minutes. Can’t remember. Just remember my ribs were bruised that night.

STORY #3

Okay, okay. Now I remember. I was negotiating a deal with a group of Russian businessmen. I was trying to unload a warehouse full of Trump Vodka on the Russian Red Army as payment on our overdue loans. The whole Russian army are a bunch of alcoholics. Hell, these Russia booze hounds will drink Vitalis hair oil in a pinch. I can’t recall the details of this meeting. But the hottie chippy lawyer and I went to a local cantina and had beer and tequila shots afterward.

STORY #4

Jared reminded me that the Russian loan sharks Dad owes money to were threatening to toss Ivanka in a wood chipper head first, like that scene in “Fargo”, if they didn’t get their money. Jared and I met with the loan sharks and offered them Eric instead. Can’t remember how things turned out, but haven’t seen Eric in days.

STORY #5

According to my previously lost notes, I received an email from a Russian operative telling me he had an incriminating video of Hillary Clinton documenting her total unfitness to be president. To the best of my recollection, it was a video of Hillary doing her Pilates exercise routine. I mean, this bitch can’t do one single push-up. She’s totally unfit to be president.

THE REAL STORY

Fine. I guess I must fess up. What really happened was I met the Russian hottie chippy lawyer in Dad’s Tower. We watched Akira Kurosawa’s classic movie “Rashomon.” Very interesting concept. We ordered tacos from our favorite local Mexican cantina. We drank way too much beer and tequila shots. We may have had sex, I don’t remember. All I remember is waking up in the ER with three cracked ribs.

The Alt Left Anti-Pasta Agitators

Alt Left Nutritionists staged Pro Low Carb Diet Rallies in San Francisco and Seattle. A Baker’s Dozen of neo-Nazi, KKK, White Nationalist and disgruntled, disillusioned, ex-Weight Watchers patriots showed up to protest the rally brandishing triple-decker bacon cheeseburgers and weaponized pieces of fried chicken

Chants of “To-fu will not replace us” could be heard among the chubby, wobbling, constantly snacking anti-rally protesters. President Trump was quick to respond.

Trump: “These anti-pasta agitators are a moral threat to our constitutional right to comfort food. They are needlessly endangering the record elevated levels of blood sugar and cholesterol in those beautiful, zaftig American citizens. It must stop now.”

A local reporter asked one of the protesters, dressed in Nazi regalia, what she, as a Nazi, had against a low carb diet.

Nazi Girl: “These Alt Left diet extremists are engaging in calorie suppression. We are fighting to take our country back and restore lard to its rightful place in our food supply.”

She broke out in song…

“This lard is my lard. This lard is your lard. From California taco trucks to the New York Deli. This lard was made for you and me.”

Reporter: “But what does that have to do with being a neo-Nazi?”

Nazi Girl: “We no longer call ourselves neo-Nazi’s. We refer to ourselves now as the neo-Nacho Party and our flag is a tasty representation of melted cheese and corn chips arranged in the shape of a swastika.”

Violence eventually erupted as the Alt Right pelted the Alt Left with jelly doughnuts and cream cheese and bagels. The Alt Left responded in kind by hurling exploding bags of salad greens in their midst and spraying them with light olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

At a press conference the following day, President Trump made a strong, unequivocal statement about the previous day’s events.

Trump: “I reviewed the footage of the Low Carb Rally very carefully. Very carefully. In between slices of pizza and a Diet Coke, I reviewed the footage very, very carefully. I mean, like Mueller reviewing my financial ties to Russia carefully. And I can tell you I saw a lot of violence and over-eating on both sides. Both sides. Believe me!”

Trump then took a huge gulp of Diet Coke and belched out the word E-E-E VAN K-A-A-A-A!

Trump: “Oh, excuse me. That’s a little game I used to play with Ivanka when she was a little girl. She loved it. Still does. Right, sweetie?”

Ivanka slowly melted underneath the table.

Following the rally and Trump’s remarks, city mayors around the country announced statues of Bob’s Big Boy and Col. Sanders will be taken down as a gesture of solidarity with the Alt Left Nutritionists. President Trump fired back.

Trump: “I already had planned to let Bob’s Big Boy and Col Sanders go. However, I’m happy to announce the tremendous addition of Ronald McDonald to my White House staff. Ronald will take his place alongside all the other clowns in my administration.”

Thus Spoke Trumpathustra

Trump reacted quickly, decisively, coherently and presidentially to the tragic events in Barcelona. Here’s what he had to say.

Trump speaks:

“I just got word of the horrible, horrible events in Spanish-speaking Barcelona, our good neighbors to the south. I just got off the phone with my close, friend, President Peña Nieto, to tell him how sorry I was so many non-rapist Mexicans were hurt south of our well-protected border. He seemed a bit confused. Too many tequila shots and beer, I guess.

I explained to President Penn and Teller, that if I had built the wall, like I suggested, and he had paid for it, this tragedy could have been avoided. If my beautiful 40-foot high, solar panel wall had been in place, the terrorist driving the van, would have crashed into it. He obviously was high on illegal, Mexican drugs. All I heard in response from President Penny Pincher was a very loud, Que?

It would be nice if they spoke English down there. I’m sure there were dozens of American tourists who shouted: “Look out Pancho!” But, they only speak Mexican in Barcelona, so the warning fell on deaf, undocumented ears.”

He continued.

“There was a report that there could be possible terrorist links connected to North Africa. Therefore, I’ve ordered Jeff Sessions, Alex Jones and Sheriff Joe Arpaio to investigate Black Lives Matter, The New and Improved Black Panthers, the NBA and Motown terror cells operating in North African cities like Detroit, Newark and Baltimore. Swift justice will be meted out to these guilty thugs by inflicting severe head concussions and brain trauma as they are being shoved into cop cars.”

Trump concluded with:

“I watched the events very closely. More closely than anybody, because I spend all my time watching TV and tweeting. I know that most of those people were not neo-Nazi’s, KKK, White Nationalists or any other hate group that supports me. These people were just peacefully, innocently and quietly protesting the removal of statues of their historical heroes, Franco and Torquemada, from a Barcelona Kiddie Park. Sad. Very sad, because Franco Harris was a great football player, even though he was from the North African city of Pittsburgh.

The totally fake, ultra-Alt Left, Mexican media is trying to change history and culture. Who’s next? Cesar Chavez? Cesar Romero? Juan Marichal? Cantinflas?”

In a one-word tweet, President Peña Nieto responded with:
QUE?

Hate...A Many Splendored Thing

Following today’s violence instigated by various white nationalists, neo-Nazi and KKK groups in Charlottesville, Virginia, President Trump was quick to denounce the violence in no uncertain, unequivocal terms.

Trump: “I condemn the hatred and bigotry that comes from many side. From many sides. MANY SIDES! It’s not just the sides that support me and that I give a wink and an approving nod to.”

Hatred and bigotry from many sides? When is the last time Black Lives Matters turned a water cannon on a burning cross at a KKK Rally? Well, wait there was that one incident that the Fake News didn’t report.

Somewhere in a city park in Deplorableville…

KKK Kaye: “We was just peacefully burning a cross at our rally, when out of nowhere, a bunch of Black Lives Matter terrorists stormed our camp and turned a water cannon on our burning cross and put it out. We all got soaking wet, which was a shock to our bodies since many of us only bathe on a seasonal basis. We lit up another cross to dry our clothes and cook some road kill.”

KKK Kenny: “I got dibs on the squirrel jerky.”

At the news conference, the following day…

Trump: “The recent terrorist attack on my great friends…uh, I mean…those peaceful KKK citizens exercising their First Amendment Rights was horrible. Most of you probably don’t know but it was a Burning Cross that spoke directly to Moses on Mt. Cyanide. That, I can tell you.”

NY Times Reporter: “Uh, excuse me, Mr. President it’s Mt. Sinai and it was a Burning Bush.”

Trump: “A Burning Bush? You mean to tell me George W. Bush had the clap?”

Eddie Haskell Calling Eliot Ness

Political Junkie scooped the failing New York Times, the fake Washington Post and the slanted CNN, by acquiring the telephone transcript of Trump’s “make nice” phone call to Robert Mueller. It was basically Eddie Haskell (Trump) trying to pump smoke up Eliot Ness’s slacks (Mueller) to get him to lighten up on his investigation of all things Trump and Russia.

RING! RING! RING!

Trump: “Hi, Bobby. Just wanted to let you know I appreciate all the magnificent work you and your army of high-priced lawyers are doing on this investigation. The world has never seen anything like it before. That I can tell you.”

Mueller: “Who is this?”

Trump: “It’s me, the leader of free world.”

Mueller: “Oh, Chancellor Merkel. I didn’t recognize your voice.”

Trump: “No, it’s President Trump. Just calling to give you a small, orange, thumbs up on your investigation.,”

Mueller: “Thanks. We’re all having a good time. I love the small of probable cause and a court sanctioned search warrant in the morning.””

Trump: “You play golf, Bobby? I own a few fantastic golf courses. We should play.”

Mueller: “No thanks. That would be unethical.”

Trump: “Really? Listen, I’m like totally innocent here. Okay, sure, I pissed on a few Russian hookers. Who hasn’t? It’s done all the time. They consider it an insult if you don’t.

Mueller: “Uh huh.”

Trump: “I mean, Bill Clinton not only pissed on Russian hookers, he fucked them at the same time Hillary was making tons of money giving speeches to the commie politburo in Moscow. You might want to investigate that. But, you know, it’s up to you.”

Mueller: “Uh huh.”

Trump: “You like young girls, Bobby? I can get you backstage at the next Miss Teen USA Pageant while the girls are half-naked and getting dressed. I do it all the time. They consider it an insult if you don’t.”

Mueller: “Definitely not. That would be wrong.”

Trump: “You know best, Bobby. Do what you think is right.”

Mueller: “You can count on it.”

Trump: “I’m sure you know Hillary sold all our uranium to the Russians and Obama wire-tapped my office in Trump Tower. Should you be considering that?”

Mueller: “Both those assertions have no basis in fact.”

Trump: “How about young boys? You like young boys, Bobby? I can arrange a private hot tub date with you and Jared Kushner. It’s up to you.”

CLICK!

Trump: “Hello! You still there, Bob?”

Fusion Confusion

Steve Bannon is on the phone with Alex Jones.

Bannon: “Are you sure, Alex?”

Jones: “I’m sure. I have this intel on good, reliable authority. You need to tell the president right now.”

Bannon rushes out to the golf course. He hops in a golf cart and races out to the 13^th green as the president is getting ready to tee off.

Bannon: “Mr. President! I have important breaking news.”

Trump: “Is this fake news, Steve? I don’t need fake news right now. I’m 12 over par and this is a tough par 5 I’m looking at.”

Bannon: “Sir, I just received intel from Alex Jones that Chick Corea is planning a massive, nuclear jazz fusion musical attack on our soil.”

Trump: “We gotta get tough with those goddam jazz pianists.”

Bannon: “You’re right, sir. What will be our response?”

Trump: “Gotta get tough. Corea will be met with Earth, Wind and Fire and a Tower of Power the likes of which he’s never heard before. Lots of brass and falsetto harmonies. He’ll never know what hit him.”

Bannon: “You need me to fix your score card, sir?”

Trump: Yeah, knock off about 25 strokes.”

Mooch Ado About Nothing

Two weeks ago, …

It’s late at night in the Oval Office. Trump is making a phone call.

Trump: “Hello. Is this the failing New York times? Yes, this is John Barron. I’m an anonymous source close to the White House. I have something I’d like to leak to you for tomorrow’s paper. Right, well I have it good authority that Jeff Sessions is a bedwetter and sleeps with a binky.”

Just then, Melania pops her head in the door.

Melania: “Donald, are your multiple-personalities making phone calls again?”

Trump: “No, no. go back to sleep.”

Trump enters a secret room with mirrors on the ceiling, floor and walls. He peers intently as his multiple reflections.

Trump: “Are you talking to me? You talking to me? Well, there’s nobody else here except you, me and all those other guys.”

Fast forward to present…

The Mooch shows up for his first day at work. He walks up to White House receptionist.

Mooch: “Yo, Baby Cakes. I’m looking for Rinse Previous. Where the fuck is that leaking dirt bag?”

Baby Cakes: “First of all, don’t call me Baby Cakes and who the hell is Rinse Previous? Are you talking about Reince Priebus?”

Mooch: “Yeah, that guy. Reince Priebus is a stupid name. Hard to spell and pronounce. Can’t even Google the little clock socker. So, I call him Rinse Previous.”

Baby Cakes: “Mr. Previous, uh, I mean…Mr. Priebus doesn’t work here anymore. He…”

Mooch pulls out a pistol fixed with a silencer and takes aim at Baby Cakes.

Mooch: “Don’t give me the run around Twinkle Tits. I know Previous and all the other leakers are here in the White House and I’m here on orders from the guy I love, Donald J. Trump, to plug the leaks.”

He pumps three rounds into Twinkle T…I, mean. Baby Cakes…I’, mean…the receptionist.

Poof! Poof! Poof!

Down the hall, two White House staffers are chatting and texting about the lunch menu.

Staffer #1: “Hey, did you hear that noise?”

Staffer #2: “Yeah, that poof, poof, poof. What do you think it was?

Staffer #1: “Don’t know. Sounded like a mouse farting under a pillow.”

The Mooch approaches the two staffers

Mooch: “What are you two assholes texting about? Classified, national security secrets to the goddam media?”

Staffer #1: “No, just texting how much we like the cheese cake…”

Poof! Poof! Poof! Poof!

The staffers crumple dead on the floor.

Mooch: “Cheese cake, my ass. You cheese dicks were leaking confidential information.”

He reloads and makes his way to the White House restroom. Inside, two guys are standing in front of urinals relieving themselves.

Guy #1: “Man, I got to drink lessl coffee. Makes me piss like a horse.”

Guy #2: “Get that prostate checked dude. Hey, what’s that poofing sound I keep hearing.?”

Guy #2: “Sounds like Kushner cutting the cheese.”

They laugh. Just then, Mooch busts down the door.

Mooch: “Maybe it sounds more like a mouse fating under a pillow, huh? Are you two guys leaking secrets to the press””?

Guy #1: "No man, we’re just taking a leak.”

Mooch: "Well, zip up Secretariat. It’s curtains for both of you.”

Poof! Poof!

Mooch enters Oval Office. He finds Trump on the phone.

Trump: "Hello. Is this the Washington Post, member of the fake media? This is John Miller, anonymous source close to the White House. I have some info for you. Steve Bannon never bathes and routinely eats road kill for lunch.”

Mooch: “Mr. President! Was that you on the phone leaking to the press?”

Trump: “No, Mooch. No. I’m a builder, not a leaker. That I can tell you. I hate leakers. Believe me. You do believe me, don’t you Mooch?”

POOF!

Mooch: “I fucking resign!”

More Pulp From The Cyber Bully Pulpit

Did our Fake Pres say last night, at a rally, that he is the most presidential holder of the office since the late, great Lincoln?

Really?

More presidential than Pierce, Polk, Harding, Arthur, Harrison (not George or Ford, the other one), Hoover, Coolidge or Buchanan (James, not Pat or Buck), more presidential than these luminaries whose visages didn’t make it on any U.S. legal tender, not not even Monopoly money?

Trump is obviously becoming almost as presidential, in size, as Howard Taft. Poor chubby Taft didn’t have a golf cart to get around in. He had to be carted around in a wheel barrow.

Looks like what little rights the transgender community gained under Obama are being undone via presidential tweet fiat by Trump. Transgenders will not be allowed to serve in the military.

This is going to have a devastating effect on transgender kids. I’m writing a children’s book designed to raise the self-esteem of transgender children titled; The Little Tran That Could.

The book will highlight transgender kids who have grown up and succeeded in various fields of endeavor: teacher, lawyer, scientist, bullfighter and tran conductor.

There will also be a detailed profile of our first transgender president, Jared Kushner.

Trump: “Look, I love the BLT Q-tip community. I watch re-runs of ‘Will and Grace’ in between twitter storms. But my generals have told me we can’t have trainspotters serving in my military. Apparently, they’re all vegans and we can’t afford to piss off the beef industry.”

Who’d a thunk getting dumped on by Trump would raise Lil’ Sess’s popularity poll numbers in the US Senate? He was never that popular before, but now that he has become a latter day, political Rosa Parks by refusing to take his seat under the bus, he’s a hit.

Trump: “I want this little Johnny Reb weasel to recuse his recusal and start getting after Hillary. I want him to find all the leakers and deport them to Mexico.”

Lil’ Sess: “This is a dream job for me. I am persecuting Mexican immigrants, suppressing the vote, imposing stiffer jail time for people of color, putting the financial squeeze on sanctuary cities and waging a senseless war on drugs. Why would I want to quit?”

A frustrated Trump walks over to a huge wall mirror and stares at his reflection.

Trump: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the greatest of them all?”

Mirror: “Edgar Buchanan.”

Trump: “FUCK!”

Duel at Mar-A-Lago

If Jeff Sessions, aka, Lil’ Sess, were a true, honorable, slave-owning, Son of the South, after Trump trashed him in that NY Times interview, he would have walked up to Donald, slapped him across his fat, orange face with a pair of white, kid gloves and challenged him to a duel.

WHACK! SLAP! SLAP!

Lil’ Sess: “Sir, you have sullied and dishonored my good name as an incompetent, white supremacist, chief law enforcement officer of these Confederate States of…uh, I mean…as chief law enforcement officer of these United States. I challenge you to a duel, sir.”

Trump: “Lil’ Sess, look amigo, if I had known you were going to recuse yourself, I never would have hired you.”

Lil’ Sess: “Sir, that smart-ass, Yankee comic senator, Al Franken, cornered me during my confirmation hearing and I had to lie and therefore, recuse myself.”

Trump: “Sorry, Lil’ Sess, in my White House, loyalty trumps honesty.”

Lil’ Sess: “Then its settled. We will have a duel to the death on my Bama plantation after dawn, right after I have sex with one of my sweet, brown sugar, mulatto female slaves.”

Trump: “No, we’ll have the duel, but on my golf course at Mar-A-Lago after my breakfast of three Egg ‘n Sausage McMuffins and potato cakes, right after Melania refuses sex with me again and I’m forced to wake up Ivanka again.”

Lil’ Sess: “Fine. Golf course. Mar-A-Lago.”

The next morning the duel begins. Lil’ Sess is walking off the ten paces down the fairway of the 18^th hole with a dueling pistol in his raised right hand.

Lil’ Sess: “One, two, three, four…”

Lil’ Sess is unaware that Trump is quietly foll0owing behind him in a golf cart with his dueling pistol aimed at the back of his head.

Lil’ Sess: “Eight, nine, TEN!”

Before Lil’ Sess can turn around, Trump lets him have it at point blank range.

BANG!

Lil’ Sess: “OUCH! Fuck, that hurt! You, sir, are a cheating, Yankee, scalawag, carpetbagger Northern Aggressor with no honor.”

Trump: “That’s how we have duels on 5^th Avenue.”

Trump turns to his golf cart driver.

Trump: “OJ, so glad to see you out of jail on parole. The media was very unfair to you. So, besides being my golf cart driver, what else are you doing?”

OJ: “I just got a great commercial endorsement deal with Ginzu Steak Knives. You know Donald, those Ginzu knives are much sharper than the one I used. Slice, dice, chop, peal, slash, gut, behead. Ginzu knives do it all.”

Trump: “Sounds like you just wrote a slogan, buddy. Good for you. Now, toss Lil’ Sass’s body on the back of the cart. I left an empty shoe box he should fit in. Perfect size casket. Let’s get back to the clubhouse. I’m hungry for a triple-decker, bacon, cheeseburger, jumbo fries and a large vanilla malt. How ‘bout you?”

OJ: “Sounds good, boss.”

Maybe a Curtain?

Trump’s border wall wisdom…

Trump: “You have to be able to see through it. In other words, if you can’t see through that wall—so it could be a steel wall with openings, but you have to have openings because you have to see what’s on the other side of the wall.”

Beware the 60-pound sack of drugs flying over the wall…

 Trump: “As horrible as it sounds, when they throw the large sacks of drugs over, and if you have people on the other side of the wall, you don’t see them—they hit you on the head with 60 pounds of stuff? It’s over, as crazy as that sounds, you need transparency through that wall. But we have some incredible designs.”

Two years into the future…

A young couple, Biff and Buffy Boffo, are strolling along the Tex-Mex border wall with their dog, Bimbo. They’re admiring President Trump’s signature achievement; a 40-foot high, transparent, solar panel border wall extending from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean.

Biff: “It’s sure beautiful, isn’t it, honey?”

Buffy: “It really is, and I like the addition of the tanning beds. It’s given me a chance to really work on my tan without having to go to the beach.”

Biff: “Well, don’t get too tanned, sweetie. The Border Patrol might mistake you for a Mexican and deport you.”

Buffy: “Oh, no way Jose!”

Biff: “Babe, don’t let them know you speak Spanish so well.”

Meanwhile, about a mile down the line on the other side, two drug dealers, Pavo and Pato, are desperately trying to throw 60-pound sacks of drugs over the wall.

Pato: “Shit man! There’s no way I can throw this 60-pound sack of drugs over that pinche wall.”

Pavo: “Plus, the wall is transparent and the gringos on the other side can see what we’re doing Fucking-A man! That cabron Trump really has made America great again. I give up. Maybe I can get a job on the other side running a tanning bed operation.”

Pato: “Wait a minute pendejo, maybe if we only put 30-pounds of drugs in the sacks, we could get them over the wall/”

The Boffo’s approach closer. Buffy picks up a stick and tosses it out ahead of her.

Buffy: “Go fetch, Bimbo. Fetch! That’s a god boy”

Bimbo races towards the stick and just as he is about to pick it up between his teeth, a 30-pound sack of drugs comes flying over the wall and crashes down on poor Bimbo’s head, knocking him unconscious.

Biff and Buffy in horror and unison: “BIMBO! Oh my God, NO-O-O-O-O!”

Well, maybe a Steel Wall with see-through holes is not the best design. Maybe something more flexible, user-friendly, more decorative. Maybe a curtain? Maybe an Iron Curtain?

Footnote: No animals were injured during the writing of this blog. Buffy, however, did suffer a severe sunburn when she fell asleep on one the border wall tanning beds. ICE agents did mistake her for a Mexican and Buffy was deported. She is currently dating Pavo. Pato is taking classes at a vo-tech to become a tanning bed operator.

Pitchin’ Putin

Trump meets with Putin in a couple of days. Now, we know he is not going to talk about further sanctions or Russia conducting cyber warfare into our 2016 elections.

“We don’t know who did it. Coulda been Jina, Iran, North Korea. Coulda been a 400-lb. guy in his shorts sitting on the edge of his bed. Coulda been a 400-lb., soon-to-be ex-governor in his shorts sitting on his provate, secluded beach, avoiding the Sun.”

So, what will they talk about? There was a fake news story circulating around the InterWebs (Don’t you miss George W.?) that Trump was working on a movie script about the rich-to-richer story of his life. What else?

I think Donald is writing a movie script and will pitch his idea to Putin. Should go like this.

They meet in a Moscow hotel. Two chairs and a small coffee table are the only pieces of furniture in the room. Putin is waiting impatiently. Trump finally enters with a flourish.

Trump: “Vlad! Good to see you. How’s my Impaler?”

Trump laughs nervously and extends a tiny hand out in anticipation of clamping down on Putin’s hand with his signature hyper-locomotive hand shake. Putin smirks and brushes away the little, orange hand.

Trump: “Jeez, just like Melania.”

Putin: “Donald, how’s my Useful Idiot? You’ve gained weight, my friend. Too much decadent, American junk food?”

Trump: “Yeah, little bit. Little bit. That’s why I wear this extra-long, apron-like tie. Covers up my protruding belly.”

Putin: “Yeah, let’s go with that. You owe me money, Donald. Lots of money. You and your Victor/Victoria-like son-in-law, Kushner, owe me lots of money. Are you brining me lots of money?”

Trump: “Ah, no. Something even better.”

He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a binder and slams it on the coffee table.

“Trump: “A movie script! I want you to finance…uh, I mean…executive produce. It will make a billion dollars. Enough to pay you back. That I can tell you.”

Putin: “Donald, Donald. I’m ex-KGB, dictator, political provocateur. I’m not Louis B. Mayer”

Trump: “Billions, Vlad. Billions. Lots of people are saying it’s the greatest script since Jackass 3D.”

Putin: “Wow! That good. Okay, tell me your movie, Donald.”

Trump: “It’s a buddy road picture; like Hope and Crosby, except it’s about you and me. It’s called Road to the Kremlin.”

Putin nods his head in approval and strokes his chin.

Putin: “Interesting. Go on.”

Trump: “So, I’m a professional wrestler. You’re my foreign manager and we’re traveling across the country for a big match in Jersey.”

Putin: “I like it, Donald. What happens on the trip?”

Trump: “We meet chicks. Get laid. Get into bar fights. Rescue puppies. Feed and clothe the poor. The usual road trip picture bullshit.”

Putin: “Can we write a scene where I’m riding on horseback bare-chested?”

Trump: “Done.”

Putin: “What kind of car, Donald?”

Trump: “A sporty, cherry red, Yugo convertible.”

Putin: “Nice touch. And when we get to Jersey, then what?”

Trump: “Big finale. I have this fantastic American-style sumo wrestling match on the Jersey beach against Chris Christie. First, I body slam him. WHAM! Then, I dry hump him. BAM! After that, I toss him under the bus again. THANKL YOU, MA’AM!

Putin: “Fine. But the picture is called Road to the Kremlin. How do we get to the Kremlin?”

Trump: “Turn right at Finland? Kidding. Still working on that. Nobody knew writing a movie script could be so complicated.”

Putin: “Well, Donald, if this picture doesn’t make a lot of money for me, I will write a movie script for you: Road to the Gulag. You know what a gulag is, Donald?”

Trump: “A highly seasoned Hungarian soup or stew of meat and vegetables, flavored with paprika?”

Putin frowns and furrows his brow.

Putin: “M-m-m-m, not quite, my Useful Idiot. Not quite.”

Last Man Standing: Rick Perry

Don’t laugh, but Rick Perry is going to be our next president. Okay, after you clean up after doing a spit take that would make Danny Thomas reciprocate with his own classic spit take, consider that the presidential line of succession favors the former Texas governor and current Secretary of Commerce…oops. uh, I mean…Education…no, no, it’s Energy…yeah, Energy.

What about VP Pence, you ask. Pence is dirty He knew about Flynn’s hanky-panky foreign dealings from the beginning. He was head of the transition team. When the shit from Mueller’s investigation hits the fan, Pence will have more crap on him than a chicken coop floor.

Next up, Speaker of the House. Eddie Munster aka Paul Ryan. He’s only 13-years old. Ryan is still going through puberty; doesn’t shave, voice cracks, still in short pants. Nope.

After that is Orrin Hatch, President Pro Tem of the Senate. First of all, WTF is president pro tem of the senate? Second, Orrin Hatch sounds like the name of a valve in the lower colon:

Surgeon: “Mrs. Jones, your husband’s Orrin Hatch had to be removed. It was enGeorged with an infectious Stephanopoulos.”

Mrs. Jones: “Oh sweet Jesus! No!”

Secretary of State Rex Tillerson is next in line. But the guy never speaks in public. What would a Tillerson inauguration address look like or sound like?

Tillerson’s Press Secretary: “Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, President Tillerson does not speak in public. Underneath your seat you will find a printed copy of President Tillerson’s speech. Please go to your nearest Christian Science Reading Room and peruse it quietly to yourselves. And now, the Presidential Mime Troupe will act out the National Anthem.”

Okay, granted, Perry does not possess the greatest oratory skills. So, I wrote a rough draft, monosyllabic inauguration speech and submitted it to Perry for consideration:

“Hi, me Rick. Me good. Good for you. Now we friends? You want jobs? Jobs good. Have jobs for you now. No walls. Mexicans good. Come here for you.  Take jobs from you. Tex-Mex food good. Rick likes beans. Make farts. Farts not good.”

Yeah, sounds too much like Tonto, Tarzan or Frankenstein. It still needs some work.

But no one else wants the job or is qualified.

·         Betsy DeVos – Too busy getting her AA in Black Studies at Bethune-Cookman.

·         Alex Acosta, Labor Secretary, is a Mexican. That ain’t gonna happen in this galaxy. Maybe after the next Big Bang.

·         Jeff Sessions – Doesn’t meet the minimum height requirement. Also, possible conflict of interest. Sessions is Legal Counsel for the Lollipop Guild.

·         Treasury Secretary, Steve Mnuchin is a closet Munchkin---nice try with the anagram spelling of your last name to fool us, Steve---and a card-carrying member of the Lollipop Guild.

·         Ben Carson? C’mon. Seriously?

·         Sonny Perdue, Secretary of Agriculture, is actually a Country and Western singer and will be touring with Ferlin Husky and Conway Twitty.

·         James “Mad Dog” Mattus? Bad enough we have a president who bad mouths everyone. We don’t need a president biting foreign dignitaries on the ankles. “Down boy! That’s a goo’ boy, goo’ boy.”

Last man standing; Rick Perry., proud Texan. good hair, Clark Kent-like horn rim glasses giving him the gravitas and stature of a pharmacist in your local Walgreen’s. And in a grand gesture to heal the wounds of the 2016 campaign, President Perry will appoint Jeb Bush to fill the vacancy at the Department of Energy.

Perry: “He may have been Low Energy Jeb during the campaign, but now he’ll have access to all the energy needs. My main man, JEB!

Bush: “Thank you, Mr. President. It’s an honor, a privilege, a blessing and a holy sacrament to serve you. Jeez, look at me. I’m all damp and weak-kneed. But what I really admire about you, sir, is during you term as Texas governor, you made my brother, George, look like an Ivy League, East Coast, Big City, elitist intellectual.”

Perry: “Well, somebody had to do it.”

RICK!

Comey Meets the @realDonaldTrump #heebie-jeebies

Nobody wants to be near this guy. Nobody wants to be alone in a room with him.  Hell, even Melania doesn’t want to hold his hand, much less be left in a room with him. Hard to believe someone would not want a private meeting with the third most powerful person in the world behind Angela Merkel and Oprah Winfrey.

Here’s what really happened in that one-on-one meeting between Donald and Comey that led him to tell Sessions, “Don’t ever leave me alone with him again.”

Fade in. A meeting is breaking up in the White House. Close-up of president.

Trump: “Okay, everybody out. I want to talk to Jimbo alone.

Sessions: “But, Mr. President, that’s highly…”

Trump: “Don’t give me any shit Jeff or I’ll banish you back to Middle Earth where I found your Hobbit ass.”

Bannon: “Me too, chief?”

Trump: “Yeah, you too. Don’t forget to take your cape, hood and scythe. You leave that thing on the floor all the time and I keep stubbing my toes on it. I don’t need any more bone spurs in my feet.”

Bannon: “Aw, not fair. Does Steve Miller get to stay?”

Trump: “Nope, him too. C’mon Steve Miller, Fly Like an Eagle right on out of here. That’s an order.”

Miller: “Yes my Covfefe.”

Trump: “Where’s Flynn? Mike is that you hiding behind the curtains? I see your shoes sticking out from the bottom of the curtain. Nice try. Let’s go!”

Flynn: “Of course, my Covfefe. As you say.”

Trump: “Mike, push the Kush out with you.”

Kushner opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out.

Trump: “Sorry son, I don’t read lips.”

Finally, the room is cleared, except for Comey, who stands stunned, looking at Trump.

Comey: “Now what?”

Trump: “Now we go into the War Room. Well, it was going to be a War Room, but no one showed up for the war. So, I had it converted into a spa. C’mon, let’s jump in the hot tub.”

Comey: “I don’t know…”

Trump: “Oh, c’mon. It’ll be fun and very relaxing.”

They enter the converted War Room where a large, circular hot tub is full of swirling hot water and steam rising off the surface of the bubbly brew. The two men disrobe and gently slip into the hot tub, sitting at opposite ends, facing each other.

Trump: “Ah-h-h-h, this is the life isn’t it Jimbo. May I call you Jimbo?”

Comey: “No…”

Trump: “Jimbo, I need to ask you some very, very important questions.”

Comey: “Okay.”

Trump: “Do you like being FBI Director? Pretty cool being the top cop in the US. Walking in J. Edgar’s shoes. You like that?”

Comey: “Of course.”

Trump: “Of course you do. J. Edgar was a loyal man. Are you a loyal man, Jimbo?”

Comey: “It’s James…

”Trump: “He was loyal to the FBI, the United States, to Clyde Tolson, but especially to the president. I’d like you to be as loyal to me as J. Edgar was to Clyde Toolson. Can you do that?”

Comey: “I don’t know…”

Trump: “You know Hoover and Tolson used to dress up as women, put on high heels, make-up, listen to jazz, slow dance and bitch slap each other over cocktails.”

Comey: “That's just a vicious rumor.”

Trump: “Not a rumor. Alex Jones reported it on his radio program. Not a rumor. So, let me ask you this, do you prefer snails or clams?”

Comey: “Huh?”

Trump: “Simple question. Snails or clams. Which do you prefer?”

Comey: “Sir, I’m from Yonkers. We don’t get much seafood there.”

Trump: “Don’t worry about that Jimbo. I got us out of that stupid Paris climate change deal. In a few years, Yonkers will be fucking prime beachfront property. I’ll probably build a hotel there.”

Comey: “Mr. President…”

Trump: “Please, call me El Covfefe. All my underlings do”

Comey: “Okay. El Covfefe, I’m very uncomfortable with this conversation.”

Trump: “Sure. You’re worried you will be unable to walk in Hoover’s shoes, or fit in them and his dresses as well. No problem. Ivanka has designed some custom dresses for your tall frame and shoes for those gun boats hanging off your ankles.”

Comey: “No, I really…”

Trump claps his hands and beckons for Manuel, his personal valet, to bring in the clothes Ivanka has made for Comey.

Trump: “Manuel. Yo, ¡Manny! La ropa para Jimbo por favor!”

Manuel: “Si, mi Covfefe.”

Trump: “They are gorge clothes. All the rage in Jina and Moscow.”

Comey: “I’ll try them on when I get home. But I really think I should be leaving.”

Trump: “Fine. Fine. If I have your loyalty and you promise to tell everyone I had nothing to do with the Russians---although, between you and me, I’m in Putin’s pocket like a cheap handkerchief---and you lay off Flynn.’’

Comey: “There’s no way I could…”

Trump: “Good. Good. Let me ask you this. I’m thinking of unloading Sessions and replacing him with either Richard Simmons, Rue Paul or Harvey Fierstein. Wanna get some outsider, non-political, LGBT-type to be my Attorney General. Who do you like?”

Comey: “I hear good things about Fierstein. He’s loyal.”

Trump: “Done! Harvey Fierstein it is. You know, Jeff was a total failure as Attorney General. Every time he got in the hot tub with me, he’d lay bubble farts. Still thought he was swimming in some Alabama creak, I guess.”

Suddenly, Comey’s face grows tight with unease and he sits upright.

Comey: “Uh, Mr. President…I mean…El Covfefe. Are you tickling the bottom of my feet with your toes?”

Trump: “Maybe.”

My Lost Weekend In A Brussels Bar

Donald Trump has become the Rodney Dangerfield of world leaders. No one respects him or takes him seriously anymore. His Laughing Stock numbers soared during his recent overseas comedy tour.

The world isn’t laughing at us, Mr. Fake Prez. The world is laughing at you!

 I just happened to be getting very drunk in a bar in Brussels right after Trump managed to piss off every single European leader, NATO and the British Prime Minister. And we should not be surprised by his behavior because Trump University’s basketball team is the Golden Boors. Sean Spicer and Kellyanne Conway were varsity head cheerleaders at Trump University where they both earned BA’s in BS.

So, there I was knocking down one tequila shot after another, followed with a Modelo Especial chaser trying to drink up the courage to get up on the stage and do a little karaoke singing.

Then, through rapidly blurring eyes, I saw Justin Trudeau, Emmanuel Macron, Teresa May and Angela Merkel weaving in the bar, arm in arm, and sit in a booth right behind me.  They were already four parts pissed, as British PM Teresa May would say. They were giggling and laughing their collective European asses off.

After a few more rounds of drinks, they really loosened up and started laughing harder, making fun of The Donald.

Trudeau: “Boy, that Donald Trump is a real piece of work, eh?”

May: “That’s for sure. You know, I heard he’s the only president who doesn’t have a White House pet of any kind.”

Merkel: “Not true. He has a pet werewolf.”

Trudeau: “Don’t talk about Steve Bannon that way, Merky.”

Merkel: “Don’t call me Merky, Trudy.,”

May: “Trump has a pet werewolf. Bannon, a pet condor. Kellyanne has been seen walking her pet cobra on a leash in the Rose Garden.”

Macron: “Didn’t you just love the way I walked straight toward him to shake hands and then made a sharp right turn and headed toward you, Angela?”

Merkel: “That was so fucking funny!”

Trudeau: “Yeah, there was the president of Pittsburgh holding out his little, wet, clammy hand as if he were walking an invisible werewolf.”

May: “He held my hand. It was like holding a dead fish. A small dead fish. A guppy.”

Macron: “Hey, is it true Donald is so fat…”

May: “How fat is he?’

Macron: “His feet are so fat, when he stands flat-footed, his toes don’t touch the floor.

Trudeau: “He hasn’t seen his dick in twenty years. But, neither has Melania.”

Merkel: “Fucking funny! Speaking of fucking, which one of you Frenchy lover boys is doing Melania tonight. She’s traveling without her masseur on this trip.”

May: “Can’t think of anyone in more dire need of a happy ending than that poor, sad trophy wife. Are you porking her, Trudy?”

Trudeau: “Ah, you got me, Teresa. I told Melania I had a unique collection of French Ticklers. That sealed the deal.”

Macron: “Hold on there, Trudy. You stole those from me. Give ‘em back”

Merkel: “Ticklers? French Ticklers? Manny, you don’t need no stinking French Ticklers. Not with that sandpaper, cat-like tongue of yours.”

May: “Careful, watch what you say. There’s a drunk Mexican in the next booth. He might hear you.”

After that, Trudeau and Macron took the karaoke stage and sang a very boozy, woozy version of La Marseillaise. Afterwards, they staggered back to the booth. Teresa May, her head on the table, passed out, snoring like a hibernating bear.

Trudeau: “You don’t sing too good, Manny.”

Macron: “Well, frankly, Trudy, your French is pure merde.

They were so wasted, they hadn’t noticed Merkel had crawled over to my booth and was all over me, whispering breathlessly in my ear.

Merkel: “Achtung my little Mexican amigo. Mama Merk needs some achtonge action tonight. You comprende?”

I barely managed to slur, “Sorry, ma’am, I’m a married man.”

Merkel: “Okay, I’ll settle for a foot massage.”