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.”
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