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.”