'Twas the night before inauguration,
And all through Trump Hotel DC,
The rats hunted mice,
And it smelled like bad cheese.
Trump sits at a desk,
Struggling with his speech,
Pinching his tiny cock,
With a warm glass of hooker pee.
He's only got a few lines,
"I'm gonna be huge, it's gonna be great,"
And nonsense like that,
He wants to tweet, but has nothing to say.
He knows that he's hated,
It's just who he is,
He'll be impeached very soon,
So he shits his Depends.
Trump is laying in his bed in the White House. Ivanka is next to him, reading a book.
He tries mightily, but can't control his bowels, and fills the bed with diarrhea.
Ivanka smiles and grabs a handful. She rubs it on her face and laughs. "Remember, daddy?"
Trump grins and says, "Yes, dear. Our little game." He leans over and licks her face clean, then shoves his tongue down her throat until she starts to gag. He pulls back and vomits on her.
She smiles again. "I love you, daddy."
"I love you, too, my first and only lady," says Trump, as he resumes licking her face.
Trump is lost in his hazy memories.
It's all a blur. November 2013. He's in Moscow for his Miss Universe beauty contest. There's a knock on his suite. Trump answers. It's a young and sexy Russian girl. Trump scowls and grabs her crotch.
"Come in," he grumbles. He knows he won't be able to perform. All the methamphetamine has rendered his member completely useless. But he doesn't want to admit it. He figures an ultra-aggressive groper would never be seen as impotent.
"Take your clothes off," Trump tells the girl. She obliges. "Get on the bed." She does as she is told.
Trump flamboyantly opens his robe, revealing his flabby paunch, festooned with wispy blond hair, and miniscule penis. He throws the robe aside, lays on top of her, and gyrates to no avail. While it's all for show, little does Trump realize that there's a hidden camera in his suite and the girl is only 13 years old.
When the Russians reveal the video's existence to him a few months after the Miss Universe pageant, Trump is scared. They threaten to release the clip to TMZ if he doesn't do their bidding. Trump tells them their wish is his command. They tell him to wait.
About 18 months later, Trump receives a message from his Russian blackmailers: "Run for president." Trump does as he's told.
It's all a blur. His consciousness shifts back to the present. Trump splashes cold water on his face. He can't believe it's gone this far.
There's a fevered circlejerk in progress in the Oval Office. Trump is working Bannon, Bannon's on Sessions, Sessions is on Donald, Jr., Ben Carson, Giuliani, Eric, Jared Kushner, Reince, Pence, and back to Trump.
Chris Christie is the odd man out. "Guys, can I get in on this?" he says.
Pence blows his load first, and a cackling Sessions is a close second. "Hooboy!" says the attorney general. "This brings me back. I used to do this with some KKK fellers in Birmingham! Gets me so goddamn hot!"
Trump is still on Bannon. Both men are red-faced. Pence continues to stroke Trump's wart-like genitalia to no avail. "Boss, are you okay if I stop now?" Pence asks.
"No, keep going, just for a few more minutes," Trump responds.
Bannon blasts a stream of cherry-red blood into the middle of the circle. He laughs, his eyes turn red, and he bursts into flames.
"Arrrgh," says Trump as he orgasms, and his tiny wart oozes a small drop of snail slime.
"Big league, boss, nice," says Reince as he struggles to play along with Trump's favored meeting style.
After smoking a huge rock of meth, Trump makes a bowl his usual midnight snack: Froot Loops and Kaopectate, topped with a dollop of marshmallow cream. He slurps up a spoonful and reaches for the remote.
Baldwin on SNL. Sucks! He flips to CNN. Sad! He settles on a Howdy Doody rerun.
Steve Bannon slithers into Trump's office, reeking of bourbon and body odor. He's been huffing gasoline again. Trump can tell.
Bannon suddenly emerges from his unleaded stupor. "Boss! Froot Loops? I told you, Breitbart is boycotting Kellogg's. Froot Loops is Kellogg's!"
Trump glares at him and slurps another spoonful, leaving a glaze of marshmallow cream and Kaopectate on his chin. "No, Steve. Mine. No way."
Bannon stands up straight. "Give it to me, Don. Now."
Trump growls in defiance.
Bannon pounces. They struggle over the bowl, wrestling each other to the floor, and soon end up resting in each other's arms, breathing heavily, coated in crushed Froot Loops and the same white goo that was all over Trump's chin.
"Boss?" says Bannon.
"Why is your hand on my ass?"
They lock eyes, kiss, and halfheartedly make love.
Trump is dreaming. He's building the biggest wall, the hugest wall, thousands of feet tall and a half-mile wide. But it's not on the border: It surrounds the White House and Trump Tower and features "Mexicans and Muslims: Keep Out!" in huge block lettering, over and over for all 226 miles.
He slowly comes out of his stupor, induced by a handful of valium after a big-league meth and Adderall binge the night before. His chin and tie are slathered in drool. It's 11:48 a.m.
"Bannon?" says Trump groggily. "Steve, get in here."
Weaselly little Reince Preibus pokes his head in the door. "Sorry, boss, he's at a big Breitbart Youth recruitment event. What's up?"
"Where's Pence?" bellows Trump. "Goddamn it, bring me Pence!"
Reince shakes his head. "Mike's at his conversion therapy session. Just a little tune-up after his big spree seeing shows on Broadway."
Trump grumbles. "Bring me Ivanka!"
"Uh, she's on QVC selling officially licensed Trump Administration jewelry," says Preibus.
"You fucking rat!" shrieks Trump. "Bring me Donald, Jr., and pronto!"
"He's shooting endangered animals somewhere."
"She won't see you. She says you are dead to her."
"This is all your fault!" yells Trump. "You fucking fuck!"
Preibus takes the verbal assault without missing a beat. He's getting used to it. "How about Eric? He's downstairs."
"No, he's a feeb. No!" Trump begins to sob.
A rare expression of concern crosses Preibus' face. "Can I help you out, chief?"
Trump, naked from the waist down and seated on his gilded toilet, raises his head, despondent. "Yes, Reince. Bring me some toilet paper. All this meth is wreaking havoc on my system."
I am in a large room. Alone. It looks like I'm in Versailles. I can hear voices outside the door. Muffled. Men. Arguing. I try to move but I am tied to a large bed. There's a stabbing pain in my ribcage. With every breath the pain surges through my entire body. Broken. My jaw is swollen. My tongue digs into the craters where some teeth used to exist. Bitter, salty, metallic. The argument outside the door intensifies. Still muffled through the thick wooden panel. I don't know how this happened. I know what is coming. I want to disappear.
The door opens, the argument has stopped. Donald Trump walks in. He's dressed like Louis the 14th. He comes to the bed and hovers over me. He looks through me. He breathes in loudly, forcefully through his nostrils. He starts to talk, then hesitates. He does it again, he's searching for the words. "This time it going to get a little worse for you," he tells me. His breathing has escalated. In one motion he balls his fist and punches my eye. There's a ringing in my ears. I am dazed.
He opens a hole in his pants. He grabs his wart-like cock with his right hand and begins to stroke it. Breathing hard. He tells me to ask him for it. He squeezes my cheeks to force my mouth open. He inserts his cock into my mouth. He pushes in and pulls out. He tells me it feels good. He tells me it feels better for me than it does for him. He tells me I'm about to receive greatness. The teeth I have left in my mouth clamp down. They tear through the flesh, the veins, the sinew. He faints on top of me. I lay on my deathbed, chewing on my last meal. I smile.
After dinner, Trump invites Mitt Romney to join him in his office for a nightcap.
Mitt is stunned when they enter: Trump unbuckles his pants and drops them to the floor. His tighty-whiteys follow.
"Okay, Mitt, kneel," orders Trump. "Now."
"Don, this is completely inappropriate . . ."
Mitt does as he is told. He's face to face with a strange bulbous growth, not unlike a large wart, encircled in fake-looking gold hair.
"Okay, Willard," says Trump. "You know what to do now."
"But . . . I don't . . . Ann . . . I can't." Mitt is flummoxed.
"Do you want Secretary of State?""Don, I do, but this isn't my cup of tea. It's not like I'd know what I'm doing or anything."
"It's a sign of respect. Just give it a quick kiss. All will be forgiven.Mitt hesitates, then leans forward and takes the protuberance in his mouth. He pauses, then looks up, and mumbles, "Is this what you want?"
All of a sudden, the door opens and a parade of sycophants, henchmen, and hacks pours into the office, cackling and jeering and snapping photos with their smartphones.
"No, Mitt," says Trump. "It's not what I want. You're fired."
"But," says Romney, "I was never hired?"
Trump grimaces. His wart-like protuberance is drawn inward. The cackling abruptly stops.
Then Trump breaks the silence and vomits bisque and escargot. It cascades down his tie, his crotch, his knees, his shoes. Then he knees Romney in the face and trudges sadly away, pants still around his ankles.
Another long day doing the good American work he was born for.
Trump has been up for hours, always awake long before the sun. But now it is late, nearly 11 p.m., and despite the nose candy he's been dozing off to CSI Miami re-runs again. Nearly spilled his brandy. Damn, that David Caruso is an entertainer, ginger knows how to get it done.
But now the routine kicks in. To the heated Italian tile of the bathroom for his nightly evacuation. Seems like he can't shake this violent diarrhea after, what, five years? Ten? Fuck it, it's the way of things. "If the beaners can live this way, we can't he?" he wonders as he audibly curses his brunette secretary for forgetting the Pepto again. No matter, he's been here before, and it's been a huge day.
That Pakistani guy sure was fantastic. Hilarious. What was his name? Narwhal Sheriff? Something Muslim. At least he knows to stay where he's from, Trump can work with that.
And now Taiwan's back in the fold. It was that fucking easy. China can suck it up, like I did in my many bankruptcies. Plus a Trump Tower Taiwan would be absolutely huge.
After a long porcelain session, an introspective look in the mirror: Hair looks good -- the thickness and color of a lion's mane. Nice, taut waistline reflecting his opulence and conquests. But this hue isn't right. What the fuck? He yells out loud for his doctor, who is never there when needed in a crisis like this. What does he pay that quack for anyway?
Trump gets his assistant on the phone. No, not the one with the saggy tits. The good one, the blonde. Tells her that he needs another carotene treatment. His skin is looking pale -- unacceptable! He can't be seen out like this. Get the doc up here tomorrow. Dosage needs to be at least 50 milligrams per day, every day.
She recounts two dozen messages from missed military and foreign policy briefings. Maybe next week, he'll get to those. America has given him a big pile of exhausting work. He passes out face down on a bed with no less than 20 pillows in a dreamless sleep.