The Diaper Don's Post Space X News Conference

News conference after Space X rocket launch gets scrubbed. Trump steps up to the microphones and points to a reporter.

Reporter: “Mr. President, another defeat for your administration. The Space X launch was cancelled due to bad weather. Do you bear any responsibility for the failure?”

Trump: “You’re such a rude black female reporter.”

Reporter: “Sir, it’s me, Jim Acosta, CNN. I am a White male, just like you.”

Trump: “I blame Obamagate for this disaster.”

Reporter: “Why?”

Trump: “It’s been in the papers, Jim. Well, not yours. But you know what I’m talking about and so does everyone else.”

Reporter: “I don’t. Please explain.”

Trump: “When you look at the bad weather, when you look at where it all comes from, lots of people say it comes from Africa. Where is Barack Hussein Obama from?”

Reporter: “Hawaii?”

Trump: “No! Africa. All those bad storms originated in Africa. I wanted to drop atom bombs on those storms and destroy them, but I inherited an empty cupboard from Obama. No bullets. No nuclear bombs. No Doritos. Nothing. It was in all the papers, except yours…”

He points to Jim Acosta.

“…you lying, black bitch.”

Reporter: “Sir, is it true you wear a girdle, a diaper and shit continually in your pants?”

Trump grimaces, grunts, leans over, turns to one side, and violently shakes his right leg.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H03I1Ip4PJQ

Trump: “Ah-h-h-h-! Ivan-ka-ka-ka! Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Trump turns to leave. Pence drapes a huge, plastic shower curtain over Trump and hustles him off stage. Pence returns to the podium.

Pence: “Thank you, Mr. President for your tremendous leadership…ah, fuck, I got it on my shoes! These are my best pair of Florsheim Wing Tips.”

The Last Garden Party Supper

Trump, our Incredible Hoax President, ordered his version of a Papal Bull, a Papal Bullshit Decree, by commanding the churches open up for services this weekend. He is appealing to his evangelical supporters by allowing the suckers to become unwitting martyrs in his psychotic crusade to kill all of us.

We can only imagine how the trumpvirus pendejodemic would have been handled during the time of the New Testament and how our concept of Christianity, and the iconic stories that are the foundation of that belief system would have to be adjusted.

The Last Grub Hub Last Supper Delivery

A Grub Hub guy arrives at the gate to the Garden in Gethsemane.

Grub Hub: “Okay, I got an order for a Jesus of Nazareth, party of thirteen.”

Jesus approaches the Grub Hub guy.

Jesus: “Yes, my son. That’s me.”

Grub Hub: “Hey, buddy, you’re not wearing a mask.”

Jesus wipes his hand across his face and a mask magically appears on his face.

Grub Hub: “Wow! How did you do that?”

Jesus: “You should have been here yesterday when I turned a 12-ounce can of Lucky Lager into a huge keg of beer.”

Grub Hub: “What the fuck is an ounce? Okay, so I got unleavened bread, bitter herbs, and a case of Diet coke.”

Jesus opens the box of food and looks in it.

Jesus: “I specifically ordered chips and salsa for thirteen. Where’s the chips and salsa?”

Grub Hub: “Excuse me. In case you have lost track of time, this is only 34 A.D., so tomatoes, potatoes and corn won’t make it to this side of the world until the 15^th century.”

Jesus: “What the fuck is a century?”

Grub Hub: “Look, I’m sorry I could not get the chips and salsa, but I threw in an extra-large order of turnip chips and gefilte fish dip.”

Jesus: “Okay, I forgive you, my son, in the name of The Father, Me, and The Holy Ghost. How much do I owe you?”

Grub Hub: “That will be 45 shekels, plus the tip. Uh, no checks or plastic, either.”

Jesus: “What the fuck is plastic?”

Grub Hub: “Plastics. The Graduate…uh, never mind.”

Jesus swipes his hand behind the Grub Hub’s ear and produces a fresh, crisp, 100-shekel bill, out of thin air, and gives it to him.

Jesus: “Here you go, kiddo. Keep the change. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Grub Hub: “There is only one place, right? This is it, right? Is there another place? The whole world is right here, I’ve seen the maps.”

Jesus: “It’s just a figure of speech, dude. Take the money.”

Grub Hub: “Gee, thanks, Jesus.”

Grub Hub looks closely at the bill.

Grub Hub: “Wait a minute.  Who is this guy, with the weird haircut, pictured on my 100-shekel bill?”

Jesus takes the shekel bill. Looks at it and realizes it is Ben Franklin pictured on the bill.

Jesus: “Whoops! My bad. Hang on.”

Jesus swipes his hand, once again, behind Grub Hub’s ear, miraculously produces another 100-shekel bill, then hands it to Grub Hub. He inspects the 100-shekel bill closely to see who is pictured on it.

Grub Hub: “Awright! Julius Caesar! Big Julie. I love this guy. That’s better. Thanks.”

Jesus: “No problem. Now, go with Dad.”

Grub Hub: “Can I ask you a question?”

Jesus: “Of course, my son.”

Grub Hub: “How come you have a Puerto Rican first name. There are no Jews named Jesus.”

Jesus: “Dad saw the original stage production of West Side Story and named me after one of the Jets. Besides, Sheldon Christ, is not going to inspire a whole new, world-wide religion.”

Grub Hub: “Makes sense. Will you need anything tomorrow?”

Jesus: “No, but maybe this coming Sunday.”

Grub Hub: “This coming Sunday? That’s Easter Sunday. I don’t work holidays.”

 

 

 

Presidency of the Traveling Poopy Pants

It has been rumored due to Trump’s abuse of stimulants, Adderall, and massive consumption of junk food, that he is incontinent and has been wearing a huge Adult Diaper for years.

In the book and movie, “Citizen Cohn”, Roy Cohn, Trump’s mentor, and role model, is in a hospital bed dying of AIDS. Cohn, of course, denied he was gay up to his dying breath.

During the film, Cohn is “visited” by the spirits of the people he fucked over in his long career as a pit bull, ruthless, shyster lawyer.

Maybe Trump will end up the same way; dying of the virus named after him (trumpvirus), alternating suffocating and shitting in his pants:

INT. – Hospital ICU – DAY

Trump is on a ventilator. He is hallucinating. He sees Putin enter his room, walk over to his bedside, and stand over him.

Putin: “Donald, you don’t look so good. How do you feel?”

Trump gasps for air and can barely manage a hoarse whisper.

Trump (weakly): “My numbers are the highest in…”

Putin (interrupting): “You owe me money, Donald. You got my money, Donald?”

Trump (faintly): “Of course, Vlad…”

Putin pulls the ventilator away from Trump’s mouth.

Putin: “I can’t hear you, Donald. Speak up.”

Trump hits the call button. A nurse appears at the door. Putin has vanished.

Nurse: “Oh, Mr. Trump, your ventilator fell off again.”

She puts it back on his mouth. She leaves the room. Trump looks toward the foot of the bed and sees Hillary Clinton.

Hillary: “Hello, Donald.”

Trump (surprised): “Holy shit, who let you out of jail. You’re supposed to be locked up.”

Hillary (sweetly): “Oh, Donald. I was never locked up. I beat you in the popular vote, remember? I’ve been the de facto president all these years.”

Trump shakes his head “no” violently and his ventilator flies off his mouth. Hillary sees the ventilator laying on the floor. She picks it up and puts it awkwardly over Trump’s ear.

Hillary: “There you go. Keep listening to your favorite music.”

She disappears. A nurse comes in to check in on Trump and finds him choking and gasping for air.

Nurse (shocked): “How the hell did that ventilator get awkwardly over your ear, sweetie?”

Trump (barely audible): “Hillary. Hillary did it. She was here. She did it.”

Nurse: “Now, now, Mr. Trump. You know you are not allowed any visitors.”

A disgusting, wet, long, slow, slide trombone, fart sound bubbles up from underneath the sheets. The nurse sniffs the air and makes a face.

Nurse: “Oh, oh. Somebody made a poopy pants.”

Nurse goes to the intercom and presses the button.

Nurse: “Yes, this is Nurse Ratchet. Mr. Kushner, you are needed in here, stat.”

Kushner: “No problem. OK, Rudy, you’re up.”

Rudy: “Ah, man. Not me. Get Bill Barr to do it.”

Barr: “Fuck that! Lady Lindsay, this is woman’s work. Sashay your fat ass in there”

Lady Lindsay: “Fiddley-dee. As God is my witness, I will never change another shitty diaper, as long as I live. Butterfly McQueen! Get over there!’

Butterfly (shrieking hysterically): “Me? Lordy, I don’t know nothing about changing no diaper on a honky man baby.”

Nurse: “Uh, anybody! He’s had another bigly bowel movement.”

Nurse calls the police department.

Nurse: “This is Nurse Ratchet. Connect me with Riot Control.”

A long pause, then a voice comes on the phone.

Riot Control: “Hello, this is Riot Control. What can I do for you?”

Nurse: “Do you still have those water cannons you use to break up unruly crowds of hippie protestors.?”

Riot Control: “You bet. Whatcha need?”

Nurse: “I’m taking care of Donald Trump and he has…”

Riot Control (laughing): “Let me guess, he’s shit in his pants, right?”

Nurse: “Yes, how did you know?”

Riot Control: “I used to work on The Apprentice on Shit Control. Had to hose him down three, four times a day. Be right there.”

Nurse: “Oh, good…”

Another huge, gag inducing, wet flatulent bomb erupts from under the sheets.

Nurse: “Oh, Jesus God, NO!”

Nurse leaves the room screaming in horror.

FADE OUT

CUE THEME SONG

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4j7ggZqbiU

 

 

Operation: Stable Genius Warped on Speed

I am imagining Trump as Cadet Bone Spurs at the helm of the Starship Aspiration. Its four-year mission is to toss out every mind-numbing idea for a Coronavirus cure that slides out of his fecal-packed colon.

Cadet Bone Spurs: “Mr. Kushner, chart course for Planet Vaccine. We need to get there before November. Warp Speed 5. Make it so, Number Two.”

Mr. Kushner: “Dad, you said you wouldn’t call me that anymore. I want to be Number One.”

Cadet Born Spurs: “Oh, alright, Number One. Warp Speed 5. Make it so.”

Mr. Kushner: “I can’t, sir.”

Cadet Bone Spurs: “What? Why the fuck not.”

Mr. Kushner: “The Aspiration is the Hyundai, stripped-down version of a starship. Top speed is only 75 MPH.”

Cadet Bone Spurs sees Lt. Ivanka walk by in her mini-skirt Starship uniform.

Cadet Bone Spurs. “Lt. Ivanka, bend over and pick up that clipboard you dropped on the floor.”

Lt. Ivanka: “I didn’t drop my clipboard. I’m holding it right here in my hands.”

Cadet Bone Spurs flings his clipboard on the floor in front of Lt. Ivanka.

Cadet Bone spurs: “Pick up that one.”

Lt. Ivanka bends over to pick up the clipboard exposing her tight little ass. The crew swoons in unison. The starship veers sharply off course.

Cadet Bones Spurs: Goddammit, that booty shot was for me. Get back to your stations. Scotty, this is the Cadet. Scotty can you hear me? Scotty.”

A bark comes over the speaker.

Lt. Kushner: “that’s the Scottish Terrier dog, Scotty, sir. You want the ship’s engineer, Scrotum.”

Cadet Bone Spurs: “Scrotum, come in.”

Scrotum: “Engineer Scrotum here, sir.”

Cadet bone Spurs: “Scrotum, we need more power. We need Warp Speed 5, now.”

Scrotum: “I can’t do it, sir. If I try and install one more rubber band to our propellers, she’s gonna blow.”

Cadet Bone spurs: “Well fine. I’ll have to give another news conference.”

Starship Aspiration returns to Earth and lands on white House Lawn. Cadet Bone Spurs exits starship and steps up to the microphones.

Cadet Bone spurs: “We came tremendously close to Planet Vaccine. But as you all know, Obama left us with empty cupboards.   He took all the office supplies too, so we didn’t have enough rubber bands to complete our mission.”

Black Female Reporter: “sir, African Americans want to know what you are going to do for the Black Community.”

Cadet Bone Spurs: “Well as you know, all African Americans love Trump. Even the cannibals in the Congo call me and say: Sir, please come to the Congo and sit in our royal hot tub with the carrots, onions celery, and bay leaves floating in it.”

Black Female Reporter: “The new program for African Americans, sir?”

Cadet Bone spurs: “Oh yeah, I’ve been working tremendously closely with Jesse Jackson. In the next couple of weeks, maybe sooner, maybe never, in partnership with Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition, I am furnishing every colored male his own personal rainbow to follow him around when he is jogging somewhere, he doesn’t belong.”

Black Female Reporter: “What good will that do?”

Cadet Bone Spurs: “It’s for protection.”

Black Female Reporter: “Protection?”

Cadet Bone spurs: “Yeah, protection. No Irish cop worth his weight in whiskey would ever shoot a colored kid with a rainbow around him.”

Black Female Reporter: “Why not?”

Cadet Bone Spurs: “Bad luck. Pisses off the Leprechaun’s when there’s Negro blood in their bowl of Lucky Charms.”

Black Female Reporter: “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

She takes off her shoes, throws them at Cadet bone Spurs, gives him the finger, turns and leaves.

 

 

 

Killer Snowflakes in a Socialist Utopia

Slowly, but surely, we will see Trump turn into an albino, as those daily injections of Clorox start to kick in. Soon, he will look like Marcel Marceau. He already has the mime hand gestures down pat. Wax on, wax off. Accordion squeeze and release. One-hand figure 8’s. Tugging on the invisible rope.

What is a post-trumpvirus pendejodemic America going to look like? At this tipping point in our history, we could fall on the side of complete anarchy, chaos, and lawlessness. Basically, what we have now. Or, we could fall the other way and turn into a Bernie Sanders-style socialist utopia, replete with mass public transportation, a social safety net and distribution of wealth. In this world, there would still be pockets of capitalist resistance; underground, illegal free marketers trying to preserve their old, Robber Baron ways. Therefore, a crack unit of Killer Snowflakes would be formed to root out these pockets of capitalist criminality.

Here is my screenplay on how this might play out…

The Killer Snowflakes – Episode 1 – Stalking the Stockbrokers

FADE IN

INT. – Illegal Day Trader Speak Easy Joint – EVENING

A room full of outlaw day traders are conducting felony free market stock transition crimes which have been deemed illegal and immoral by the new Socialist Order. They are totally unaware of the mortal threat approaching.

CUT TO:

EXT. – Elevated Monorail Station. – MOMENTS LATER

A monorail stops at an elevated station. Three people exit. They are professional Killer Snowflakes; former Special Forces officer, CAPT. MALTESE STALLION, 50, Chicano P.I., LARGO KEYES, 30, and ex-Vegas Chorus Line Dancer, LEGS AKIMBO, 45.

They walk down from the elevated monorail station and walk two blocks to an alley behind a building.

Maltese: “This is the place. Good work tracking down the joint, Largo.”

Largo takes out a sawed-off, pump action, shotgun from his trench coat. Maltese locks and loads his .60 caliber mini gun. Legs ties her long blond hair in a ponytail and slips on a pair of nine-inch, titanium spiked heels.

Largo: “No problem, Maltese. It was easy tracking these capitalist assholes. Whenever you see a bunch of young, white dues with pocket protectors, wearing Dockers and Hush Puppies gathering in a building, you know there’s trouble.”

Legs: “I don’t get it. We have a wonderful socialist utopia. Free college, universal base income, Medicare for All, an yet these goddam capitalist survivalists keep trying to make money the old-fashioned way…”

Maltese: “Insider trading and stock manipulations.”

Largo: “Let’s get ‘em!”

They bust down the door. The day traders all turn around in horror at the three Killer Snowflakes.

Day Trader: “KILLER SNOWFLAKES! Everybody, duck and cover!”

But before they can duck and cover, Maltese, and Largo blast the room with buckshot and lead.

Legs: “Take no prisoners!”

Legs goes around and applies the coup de grace to the back of the heads of still live, groaning day traders with her nine-inch, titanium spiked heels.

Later, the Killer Snowflakes go to a nearby Tofu Parlor for a cup of miso soup.

Legs: “So, who’s next on the list?”

Maltese takes out a map and sealed envelope marked: “Who’s Next.” He spreads out the map on the table and opens the sealed envelope.

Maltese: “According to these orders, our next objective is here.”

He points to an area in rural Arkansas.

Maltese: “Here, It’s here. Largo, you know anything about this?”

Largo: “Yeah, there’s a band of feral hedge fund managers running wild out there. They call themselves the Hedge Hogs. Tough bunch.”

Maltese: “What can we expect from them?”

Legs leans back in her chair and props up her shapely legs on the table, still wearing her blood-stained, nine-inch titanium spiked heels.

Legs: “well, you know what they say. Never expect more than a grunt from a pig.”

Maltese: “Or a hog?”

Largo: “Yeah, or from a hedgehog.”

We hear the monorail station PA system.

PA System: “Monorail bound for Rural Arkansas, now loading on elevated Station #9,”

Maltese: “That’s us. Let’s go.”

Largo: “Station # 9 is a mile away. We’ll never make it in time.”

Legs: “Don’t be silly. We’ll just catch the All-Purpose Express Monorail outside the door. It goes directly to Station #9.”

Maltese locks and loads his .60 caliber mini gun.

Maltese: God, don’t you just love living in fucking Socialist Utopia?”

FADE OUT

Episode 2: Assignment Arkansas: The Razorback’s Edge

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

Trump sits down for a one-on-one interview with a New York Times reporter. The reporter is curious about Trump’s assertion that the coronavirus was man made in a Chinese lab.

Reporter: “Mr. President, you say you have conclusive evidence that the Chinese produced the coronavirus in one of their labs?”

Trump: “Yes, I do. And the details are horrible, horrible. Unbelievable stuff like you have never heard before.”

Reporter: “What is your source for this evidence?”

Trump: “I can’t tell you that.”

Reporter: “Is it the same source you had in Hawaii who couldn’t believe what he found about Obama’s birth certificate?”

Trump: “I can’t tell you.”

Reporter: Is it the same source who told you, you could blow up hurricanes by detonating an atomic bomb in the middle of them?”

Trump: “I can’t tell you that either.”

Reporter: “Is it the same source who told you three million dead, illegal immigrants voted for Hillary in the 2016 election?”

Trump: “No, I can’t tell you that.”

Reporter: “What about injecting bleach or exposing the body to extreme light or UV rays to cure the coronavirus? Where did that come from?”

Trump: “Nope, nope. No way Jose. Can’t say.”

Reporter: “Well, do you know the way to San Jose””

Trump: “Yes, I do. No one knows the way to San Jose better than I do. Better than Dionne Warwick or Burt Bacharach. But I can’t tell you how to get there.”

Reporter notices a current issue of The National Enquirer laying on the Resolute Desk. The cover has a huge headline that reads: Chinese Gynecologist Admits He created the Coronavirus in Hillary Clinton’s Vagina.

Reporter looks a Trump warily and smiles.

Reporter: “Mr. President, did you get all those stories from The National Enquirer?”

Trump sees the tabloid laying on his desk. He quickly grabs it, crumples it into a tight, small ball and puts it in his mouth. He gulps hard.

Trump: “No, (cough, cough), absolutely not. I did (choking) not get those stories from (choking, coughing) this paper.”

Reporter: “Then why are you eating it.”

Trump: “I (gagging), I can’t tell you that. Hand me that Diet Coke. (choking) I need something to wash this down with.””

 

Reporter gets up to leave without handing Trump the Diet coke.

Trump: “Hey, fake news! Are you going to (gagging) going to report this?”

Reporter (smiles wryly): “As you know, Mr. President, I work for the failing New York Times. So, no, I can’t tell you that.”