[note: written in November 2015 before i became a Muslim.]
On his first day as the leader of the Freeloading World, President Ronald Rump entered the Anti-Ovulating Office (rechristened as such by Fake Ass Christians Against Women’s Control Of Their Own Ovaries, or, the GOP). Later on that day, the rest of his combed-over hair arrived, and– like the Greeks from a Trojan Horse’s butt– out of the hair jumped the President’s gang of advisors. After asking Rupert Murdoch his permission to sit behind the President’s desk, the President sat down and gave his best manly glare at a world full of so many threats.
“OK, you assholes!” yelled President Rump.
“Um, are you talking to us or all the enemies of American decency … sir?” asked one of his advisors, a timid ex-Marine used to taking orders.
“I’m not talking to any of you assholes– I’m talking to these CEOs from Boeing, Walmart and Amazon. What’s the first thing on my ‘To Dominate’ list? … Assholes!”
Three white guys popped up from behind a potted plant.
“Give us tax cuts!”
“More tax cuts!”
“Just give us the money!” they all said.
“Alright, alright,” Ronald Rump replied, staring down his pals, as they glared back– a little game they played to keep from turning gay. “Numero uno on the list, done. What’s next?”
“Well, that’s about it– same as the last guy. You know the routine,” one of the CEOs said, glaring at the potted plant, which looked to him as if it had some terrorist plot in mind.
More glares were exchanged during an awkward pregnant pause, as all pauses should be, like women.
“OK, then,” said President Rump, “Then I guess I can get down to some of the fun stuff of being Commander In Chief. Any Black activists we can spy on? Any countries with funny-sounding names we can bomb?”
“That’s already happening, sir,” an advisor advised, agreeably deferential without sounding gay (for he had practiced his straight voice with his partner Mike that morning). “But we always could bomb another country, if you want– as long as it’s not in Europe.”
“Well, maybe later. Didn’t I promise something about deporting some Mexicans? I might as well keep one promise to the ‘good, decent, hard-working American people’!” President Rump joked, laughing through pursed lips from red bloated cheeks. It was not an attractive look. The advisors laughed anyway– they were getting paid, so “What the fuck, why not?” each of them thought.
“Actually,” President Rump continued, “Deportation is too good for these mothers. Literally, mothers. And babies. Let’s do something even worse. It’s time to step up that tough love and all-American know-how, that … whatever … which built this … whatever. So let’s send a strong message that the good’ ol’ USA is back baby, back like a mother– a motherfucker, that is– morning in America, you bastards!”
The congregation broke out in a slightly off key performance of The National Anthem. Mike’s boyfriend killed it– show tunes being his thing. But after hitting the last long note he made sure to spit in the potted plant just to keep it from going too gay.
” … and the ho-ome of theeeeeee brave.”
“OK, good job men,” Ronald Rump said, “I mean, assholes. Now where were we? Oh yeah, about to send a message in American know-how, part of that can-do spirit, that … whatever. Say, Bob, hire a couple new speechwriters for me. In fact, hire some speechgivers. This talking wears me out. Let these asshole Americans listen to someone else while I chase some tail. Say, Bob, bring me some tail. But anyway … where were we?”
“Oh yeah, Mexico. Sending a message of American can-do, hee-haw, booyah, and blah blah to these Mexican mothers who refuse to learn English and … say, Bob, can you finish this sentence for me, I’m tired of talking.”
“Sure thing Mr. President.”
“No, get lost. Asshole,” Ronald Rump said, revived by an image of himself he caught in the reflection on the glass of Churchill’s portrait (UK, US– what’s the diff?). “OK, what to do with these lazy Mexicans. We just need to put them in their place, like we did the Mau Mau. Let’s cook up something really patriotic, really British, really step up our game.” Rump was getting in a groove, revved up in full presidential mode.
“OK, so all those brown people intruding on American land, we need to fix this problem. And I know how to fix this problem. Because I’m a problem-fixer. I’ve got the know-how. I’m a man. I’m a …”
“Mr. President, get to the point.”
“Right. OK, brown– bad. White– good. Black– worst. Got that straight?”
“We’re taking notes, sir.”
“No no, no notes– strictly off the record. Let’s do it like the first 44 mothers, even that last asshole. National security, you know.”
“Alright, so getting down to brass tacks and– whatever the fuck that means– let’s focus. Fo-cus! Let’s send a message to these anti-American mothers that they’ll never forget. Something better, more American, more white than anything the motherfuckin’ forefathers ever dreamed up– something really deadly. Let’s round them up and cut off their hands.”
“Sounds good sir,” said Mike’s beau, “But Columbus already thought of that and did it. Any ideas to get us out of the 15th century?”
“You got a problem with the 15th century? Get out!”
“Don’t you mean ‘you’re fired’?” an NBC exec piped up, as he popped out from behind a plotting plant.
“No, Mike’s beau can stay. Good work. Just keep the gay shit to a minimum. Not comfortable with that. But getting back to the task at hand … whew, this presidency shit is hard work. When is my first four week vacation? Never mind that, Bob. We’ve got to deal with these lazy illegal aliens.”
Some inhabitants of the planet Quog appeared from behind the plotting plant. “Us, sir?”
“No, Quog dudes, you’re cool– you’ve got that Anglo-Saxon glow to your asses, and Whole Foods might be able to use your invasion techniques. A few Black neighborhoods in Deportland, Orygun still need to be gentrified.”
“Done, and done,” squeaked Quogling 3, picking up on the lingo of the day and of the solar system.
President Ronald Rump continued:
“Let’s force a European language on these brown-assed people– maybe Spanish.”
Blank stares. Triple-eyed blank stares from Quogling 3 & Co. (already catching on to American tribal rituals of IPOs and shit).
“No? OK, let’s force Christianity on them.”
“Sir, you really need to catch up.”
“OK, Mike’s beau, way to show some ‘tough love.’ I’m into that tough love. Tough, sweaty, man on man … Where were we? Oh yeah, so cutting off hands, forcing them to speak Espagnol, and making them pray to white Jesus apparently are off the table. So, table-wise, and torture-wise– what else you got?” Ronald Rump was really New Yorking the fuck out of these phrases.
“How about SuperNAFTA?” Walmart’s CEO said.
“You’re still here?” President Rump barked. “Here’s two billion dollars– now get the fuck outta here! All you CEOs– git!”
“Just remember who you work for, Rump!” the CEOs said, leaving the Anti-Ovulating Office, smiling through their glares at their billion dollar checks.
“OK– this is fun,” Ronald Rump continued, straightening his tie made by tired hands of Chinese children. “So the 15th century is out. Any other centuries? Maybe spread some small pox to wipe out these mothers? We must have some other European diseases?”
“We could start another ebola scare.”
“Nah, that’s for Africans. You know, bottom of the totem pole. Remember your American history, people! Pecking order. Food chain– all that jazz.”
“We could go Hiroshima or Nagasaki on them. Maybe drop a little Black Wall Street or MOVE Organization on their asses. Where’s that red button I was hoping to play with?”
“You need the key from the NSA, CIA and Rupert Murdoch first, sir.”
“Alright. Get me the key– and a pumpkin latte. Make sure the cup says ‘Merry Christmas’ on it– don’t want to piss off O’Reilly.”
Four advisors rushed out.
“Oh Bob!” the Prez shouted to one of the advisors, who rushed back. “And don’t leave any tips for those Starbucks baristas– the lazy fucks make too much already. Greedy bastards. Can’t even get people’s names right. Wrote ‘Ted Cruz’ on my cup one time and ‘Ben Carson’ another time. So got that? Alright? Good.”
Rump gave the room a good staring down, real NBC prime time stuff, very Presidential, and continued:
“OK, people. Con-cen-trate! We’ve got to be original. Let’s not be too white after all! We need to find a way to get rid of these illegal aliens– no, not you Quog dudes. Ideas, we need ideas.”
“Say, boss,” said one advisor, who for some reason sounded like a mug in an old Edward G. Robinson gangster picture, very Allen Jenkins [google it]. “How ’bout we sterilize ’em– kill ’em off slow-like, ya know, like voimin?”
“Voimin? What the fuck is ‘voimin’?” Rump snorted. “Oh, vermin. No, Herman, that won’t do. It has been done. Original. Orr-idg-inn-all.” Hyphenated syllables were the surest indication of cisnormative macho leadership, next to saluting the uniformed servicemen as you step off Forced Air One.
Rump suddenly had an idea.
“OK, people, get this: we put these brown people in uniforms, you know, like the Mets wear on Mondays. I hate the Mets– go Yankees. But never mind that– put them in camo, teach them to love America and all that shit, and have them go attack one of the countries their kinfolks are from.”
“Sorry, sir, that’s been done,” Ahmed, the ex-Marine, said.
“Ah, shit. Isn’t there any form of torture or brutality we can inflict on these uncivilized rapists and … brutal torturers … that America hasn’t inflicted before?”
“OK, boss, get this,” the Allen Jenkins-wannabe said as he jumped up, fedora tilted back on head. “Let’s dump a whole bunch of drugs and guns into their neighborhoods, remove all the jobs and grocery stores– got it?– put in some patriotic teachers who will teach their children to hate themselves, build a whole bunch of prisons for the ones who act up, and then just watch the whole thing blow up while we sit back and rake in the dollahs?”
“Hmm … sounds familiar, Al (I mean, Herm).” President Rump rubbed his chin (his own chin), practically stroked it, lovingly, his ego purring. “Nah, gosh darn it– it’s been taken.”
Another advisor chimed in (as President Rump made love to his own exquisitely formed chin, so he deemed, with his soft, unchapped hands, so free from grubby work): “Mr. President, it seems to me … Mr. President, please, listen … this nation is a well-oiled machine that is operating just fine without your needing to do too much. Should I get your golf clubs?”
Ronald Rump slumped in his chair, dejected, and gave a big sigh.
“Well, gentlemen, all we can do now is wait and pray. Wait– that’s not the line. Well, gentlemen, I was hoping to bring some real American law and order to this country, but it seems all those anti-Black, anti-brown, and pro-lily white ass gentrifying, colonizing, imperialist as shit policies have existed all along. Being President is no fun– I should just go back to being a multi-billionaire, that way I can give the orders to the President.”
He picked up the Presidential Phone and dialed. Ring … Ring.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice was on the other end.
“Hey, Hillary, you still want the job?”
“And sorry about calling you a cold bitch in the debates.”
“Water under the bridge, Ronald. So what have you done so far that I need to undo?”
“Well, the name ‘Anti-Ovulating Office’ probably has to go. We’re just thinking about bombing some countries, roughing up some Black and brown kids in some schools, encouraging some more gentrification in Deportland, and other shit like that. You know, the usual.”
“OK. Well, I’ll need to change the language for what we’re doing (soften it a bit, make it sound more humane), and probably change the chair you’re sitting in, because– quite frankly– Ronald, you give me the creeps. Seriously, you make my skin crawl.”
“I hear ya, Hill. I tend to do that to women, until they take a look at my bankroll. Anyway, the CEOs got their money, so you probably don’t need to start until next week. I’m not sure anyone will notice if the President is missing. Things seem to run pretty well on their own around here!’
They both have a good laugh.