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.