“So, how am I gonna lose this thing without looking like I’m losing this thing?” Donald Trump asked, slipping one tiny hand into a small bag of Cheetos. “I mean, I know I’d be a terrific president, probably the best, but seriously folks, I don’t want this job. I just wanted to expand the audience for the future Trump network, which I promise you will be the best thing ever to happen to television.
“I didn’t plan on going this far, but let’s face it, people love me.” He munched on the orange snack that matched his skin color and paced around his fabulous campaign headquarters. It was decorated with posters of his face, life-size cutouts of him, and a bronze statue of him that he’d purchased with charity funds. He chuckled at the memory. Suckers.
His closest advisers were there: the two Rogers—Ailes and Stone—Rudy Guliani, Chris Christie, the Breitbart guy (Steve something?), Donnatella Versace Lookalike campaign manager woman (Carrie-Anne? Sue-Anne? Something like that), some white-haired guy who seemed to have some job in the campaign, his wife Melania, and daughter Ivanka and her husband.
“You could drop out at the last second for health reasons,” said Christie.
“That’s a loser reason,” Trump said. From a fat fucking loser. “Remember, the original goal was to see this through and lose by a tiny, tiny margin and then blame Crooked Hillary and the rigged system. But now it looks like I’m gonna beat her by a landslide. That would be beautiful and is only natural because I’m a born winner and a have the best temperament—everyone can see that—and Hillary is a fat-thighed loser in a pantsuit. I think winning is in actually in my DNA.
“But trust me, I don’t wanna be president. Not for that long, anyway. Being president is for nerds and stupid Poindexters. I hear Obama stays up late reading briefing papers. Briefing papers! Are you kidding? What a loser! At night I just want to fuck my wife while fantasizing about my daughter and then roll over get some shuteye so I can get up before dawn and start tweeting about the losers who are against me.”
“Donald!”
“Dad!”
“What? What did I say? Believe me, it would be fantastic to get into the Oval Office and fuck up everything Obama has accomplished in the past eight years in my first week on the job. But then I’d still have three years and, what, forty-something weeks left in the stupid, boring job. What am I gonna do in all that time? Nuke countries that piss me off? Again, fun, but I’ve got better things to do.”
“Why did you even run for president in the first place?” Christie again, looking like his fat feelings are hurt. Boo-hoo! Oh, Mr. Trump, you beat my huge ass in the primaries and you didn’t even really want the job. Wah!
“Did you see how Obama made fun of me at the correspondents’ dinner thing five years ago? Ridiculing me while I could do was sit there and smile? Nobody puts Donald Trump in a corner and gets away with it!” He felt that familiar rage rising in his breast, turning his orange face an odd shade of mauve.
“All I really want is my own TV network, which will be a beautiful network, probably the most watched network in the history of television.”
“Mm-mmm,” Ailes cleared his throat. Great. Jabba the Hut has something to say. No wonder this guy had to blackmail women into having sex with him. Otherwise he’d have to find a blind chick with no sense of touch.
“Our network will indeed be quite competitive, I’m sure.” Ailes said.
“Right, Jabb—uh, Roger.”
“During this campaign we’ve a built-in audience of millions of twenty-one to forty-nine-year-old racists, sexists, nationalists and other right-thinking people,” Ailes continued. “I’m pretty sure we’ll crush Fox News, since their elderly audience is dropping dead like flies. Hell, like I’m a spring chicken compared to Fox’s typical viewer. I’m glad I timed the sexual harassment scandal against me like I did so I could leave Fox at just the right moment. That was brilliant, if I do say so myself.”
“I should probably point out that although this race is very close, Hillary still has the edge in the electoral college numbers. I, uh, don’t think you have to worry about crushing her in a landslide.” Son-in-law. What’s his name again? Something Jewish. Jacob? Jehovah? I should get him to do my taxes.
“Jared’s right, Dad,” Ivanka said. Jared! Like that fat Subway spokes-guy who liked sandwiches and little boys. Pervert. “You should just keep being you. I think it’ll all work out fine. This will be a close race.”
“I dunno, darling. I seem to be incapable of losing. What if I—after getting elected and canceling Obamacare and reinstating torture for suspected terrorists and black people and having dinner with Vlad Putin a couple of times and lowering taxes for rich people and ordering my companies to build that huge beautiful wall and nuking ISIS and North Korea—what if I just said that the system is hopelessly broken and I will no longer sully my hands—my big, beautiful hands—with it and just resign and let the vice president—that Mark Putz guy—take over?”
“My name is Mike Pence,” said Mike Pence. Oh yeah. That’s who White Hair is.
“I have a great idea. I have so many of them it’s amazing. As President, I could declare that PBS is now the Trump Network. That is genius! I have such a good brain!”
Rudy Guiliani wiped his oily forehead with a handkerchief. Ugh. This Elmer Fudd guy is disgusting. But he knows the right people. “I’m afraid you can’t turn public broadcasting into a private corporation, especially one you have ownership in,” he said. “In fact, you can’t do many of those things without Congressional approval. Except resign, of course. You know—constitutional checks and balances and all that stuff. The president can’t just do what he wants. Except Obama, of course.” Nice sarcasm. Maybe this guy is not a total loser.
“How about if on my first day I declare the Constitution null and void? Maybe have the speechwriters whip up a new one. We definitely need to get rid of some of those amendments. Free press? Due process? Can’t own slaves? Bad, bad ideas. Plus, too many words.”
“You can’t just toss out the Constitution,” said Chris Christie, through a mouthful of Cheetos. Almost as disgusting as Rosie O’Donnell.
Mike Pence rubbed his temples. “Yes, that would be completely, well, unconstitutional, but I like the basic idea. Liberals have been trampling the constitution for eight years, and now it’s time for we true conservatives to set things right. We could propose amendments to the Constitution that would be ratified by conservative voters. We quite possibly could get rid of the free press and put the gays back in the closet and ban women from getting abortions, and restore the Republic to what it was originally—one nation under God. It would take years, but we could conceivably do it.”
Why is this schmuck quoting the—what’s it called—Pledge of Allegiance? “I think those are good ideas, Mikey, but very, very time consuming. Would you be willing to become president and take over once I resign?”
“Oh, God. Oh my sweet Lord, yes!” Pence said, placing his palms together and uttering a silent prayer.
“Look, I just wanna be in office long enough to repeal Obamacare and a shitload of Obama’s pussy regulations. Ooh, global warming is going to kill our grandchildren! Ooh, Iran might get nukes! Ooh, women deserve equal pay! Ooh, assault rifles might kill people! What a weak, weak man. On the plus side, he isn’t fat like most black people.”
“You know, I’d really like to see you be elected and serve out a full term as president,” said the Brietbart guy. “But you’re right that starting the new TV network is more important. We can shape conservative opinion for years, and pull this country back from the brink of losing white supremacy forever. Plus it may make us all billionaires.”
“I’m already a billionaire.”
“Um… yeah,” Brietbart guy continued. “I think we should still aim for a narrow loss on November eighth.”
Trump sighed. “Okay, so we’re agreed. I’ll keep saying and tweeting crazy things and we’ll see what happens on Election Day. But I warn you, so many people love, love, LOVE me, how can I possibly lose?”
*Yes, this is satire.
