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.”