Meanwhile, back at the Jeb! Bush campaign...
Matronly matriarch of the Bush clan, Barbara, was gently trying to get the candidate out of bed.
"Jebbie? Jeb? Really, honey, it's time to get up..."
"Don't wanna."
"But you've got that Meet and Greet in Gorham. All those nice people are waiting to see you. Come on. It'll be fun."
"It won't be fun. All they do is ask about HIM. That's all they EVER ask about. And then I say something. And then they make fun of me!"
"They're not making fun of you, dear. You're...you're one of the frontrunners, for goodness
sake!"
"ONE of the frontrunners!" Moaned Jeb!, and he turned over in a huff, pulling the thousand-count Egyptian cotton comforter over his head. "I'm back there with Rubio and Kasich and that black doctor! This is not how Poppy said it would go!"
"Young man, you get yourself out of that bed! You're a Bush, dammit, and Bushes don't lay around all morning when there's politicking to be done. I simply won't have it. You'll get up, you'll go out there, shake hands, smile and read the nice speech on government reform that Karl has for you - and you'll like it!"
"I won't!"
"You will!"
And with that, Mother Barbara whisked the fancy comforter off Jeb!, revealing a once pleasingly plum, now deflated-looking middle-aged man in boxer shorts and a t-shirt.
"Jebbie, it doesn't matter if you win. Just being out there...it gets us back in the game! It gets the old blood pumping and it gets them talking about something besides poor Georgie. Lord knows I haven't been able to go to a decent luncheon without all those hideous women staring at me in ten years! So we lost a war! Get over it!"
"Oh, it's all about you! Everything's about you! And your luncheons! I could have been in South Beach, instead of Nowheresville, New Hampshire. And where's Georgie? Back home in Crawford, with his fingerpaints!"
"Oil, dear. He paints in oils. Now come on, get up. Your father's got a surprise for you - and Hattie's making French toast."
Jeb! had been gluten-free for so long now the vision of French toast danced in his head like the terrorists' 70 virgins.
"W-with the real maple syrup?" Said Jeb!
"Oh, I suppose we can forget about the diet," said Barbara with a sly smile. "Just this once. But, really, honey, just this once - you look so dashing without that belly."
"I liked my belly," mumbled Jeb! morosely.
"John Edward Bush, you get that lazy behind of yours out of that bed! Trump is already starting his speech down at the border. It's on every channel. Horrible man! Horrible man! I hope that Mexican drug lord catches him."
Just then, former president George H.W. (Poppy) Bush was rolled into Jeb!'s room in his wheelchair by his valet. White specks of saliva dribbled from the corner of his crooked mouth and he had an expression on his face that indicated he was either very excited about something or was having another mini-stroke.
"This'll get you out bed, boy," said the former president. And he flicked an iPad Air onto the bed with a frail hand. "Take a gander at these."
Jeb! sat up, rubbed his eyes, stared at the screen. He swiped through a series photographs.
"Oh, great, just what I needed," said Jeb! looking at his father as if he could not put up with one more minute of the old man's senile comments. "More pictures of Trump. Trump with a bunch of pretty girls. Great. Wonderful."
"Pretty girls, my ass," said Poppy, curling his toothless gums into a wicked smile. "Those are hookers."