And now we return to magnificent Mar-a-Lardo, the grandiosely overvalued sucker resort and home to the former one-term twice-impeached President, Donald J. Trump.
Scene 1: It is Labor Day, and Ivanka, Don Junior, and that other one, the red-haired cypher, are lounging on the veranda, while uniformed, undocumented servants grill hot dogs, trim hedges, sweep the walks, roll the croquet lawn, and pick up several bushel baskets of discarded McDonalds wrappers and Diet Coke empties.
Ivanka: (Sigh) I never see the point of having a Labor Day holiday. It’s not like we could ever give the help the day off...
Red-haired Cypher: (priggishly) They should be grateful for the extra day’s pay.
Ivanka: What, you think Dad’s paying them? It’s a holiday, they get to work for free on holidays here. It’s a house rule.
Cypher: They don’t look very cheerful. Bunch of ingrates.
Ivanka: Juanita! Tell the rest of the servants they better wipe those scowls off their faces! I want to see big happy grins or somebody’s out of a job.
Don Junior: (in a daze) Wha...? Holiday? … Shit … I shoulda scored s’more blow.
Enter Kimberly Guilfoyle in a hot-pink swim wrap and high wedgie sandals.
Kimberley: (screaming) HEY, WHERE’S THE PARTY? PUT SOME MUSIC ON! (Loud brassy music plays)
C’MON, LOVERBOY, DANCE WITH YOUR MAMA!!! WAOOUUU!!!
(gyrates her torso suggestively, holding a hotdog in each hand)
C’MON, SUGARLIPS, HAVE A HOTDOG!!! (Tries to cram a dog into Junior’s mouth)
Junior: Gack … go’way … I’m sick… … … got any coke?
Cypher: When’s Daddy coming? He’s not here! (sob, snivel) He told us he’d be at the barbecue!
Ivanka: Dad’s having a meltdown over his latest indictment. We probably won’t see him at all today…
Cypher: Daddyyy … Waaaaah!!!
Ivanka: Well, look on the bright side, Cypher, I mean, … … um … … Eric. If Dad bails, that Slobbovian hag of his probably won’t show up either.
Scene 2: Meanwhile, in Mar-a-Lardo’s Golden Throne Room, the former one-term, twice-impeached president Donald J. Trump is enthroned on the Toilet d’Or, typing furiously on his Iphone.
Trump : (ranting loudly while typing) I DID NOTHING WRONG!! It was a “Perfect” Presidency! Putin “himself” said so! I HAVE FACTUAL PROOF THAT TRUMP-HATING FANI WILLIS is a TWO-DOLLAR FLOOZY DYKE SLUT who was born in UGANDA! A “SHITHOLE” COUNTRY! I HAVE 33,000 OF HER EMAILS!!! SHE SHOULD “RECUSE” HERSELF! NO, SHE SHOULD BE LOCKED UP IN A “CAGE” LIKE A WILD ANIMAL!!!
(typing frenziedly)
DERANGED JACK SMITH IS A CRAZY “WACKJOB!!” HE “STOLE” ALL “MY” NUCLEAR PLANS!! FUCK JACK SMITH!!! JACK SMITH IS A “DEAD MAN” !!! HE’S DEAD!!! I SAY THE WORD AND YOUR DEAD JACK SMITH IF THAT IS REALLY YOU’RE NAME!!!
Attorney John Larva: (pounding on the bathroom door) Mr. President! Mr. President, you’d better not be tweeting that! There’s only so much I can do to keep your ass out on bail! … (sigh) … Jesus Christ on a taffy bat.
Attorney Todd Blecch: (sotto voce) Don’t talk to him, John! It just pisses him off. Don’t worry, we’ve installed an app on his phone that rewrites every tweet so it’s just within legal limits. The algorithm makes up crazy shit, puts every other line in all caps, spells poorly, and puts quotes around random words, just like like he does. Nobody can tell the difference.
It’ll send out AI-generated rants even when he’s off the phone. Crazy drivel, but not actionable.
Larva: That’s fantastic! … but doesn’t he catch on when he reads his tweets?
Blecch: Read? Him? not a chance, he never reads anything. Even if he did, he’s so gaga, he wouldn’t know. Has the attention-span of a two-year-old.
Larva: Dementia’s gotten that bad, huh?
Blecch: Oh God, yes. But it’s all good. We can fall back on “incompetent to stand trial” if it comes to that. He’ll go straight into a fancy loony bin, yadda yadda.
Larva: The missus okay with this?
Blecch: It was her idea.
Trump: (continues to rant while typing) TRAITOR “MARK MEADOWS” IS A BIG FAT “LOSER”!!! HE TURNED AGAINST ME YOUR FAVORITE PRESIDENT “VICIOUSLY” AND “CORRUPTLY” AND HE “DESERVES” TO BE “EXECUTED” BY MACHINE GUN!! NO, BY AN RPG!!!
TRAITOR MARK LIVES AT 1234 MAPLE STREET, WITH HIS “SO-CALLED WIFE” NAMED LINDA, AN UGLY BROAD WHO WHO I WOULDN’T BANG WITH MIKE LINDELL’S (and so on and so on)
Scene 3: It is Labor Day evening, and the shadows are falling in Melania Trump’s lavishly over-decorated boudoir. The former FLOTUS is on the phone with Marty Rickrack, a local divorce lawyer.
Melania: I can’t stend this anymore! My hosband is going to preeson, I am sure of it! I want to get out of this contry before he throw ME under the boss!
Rickrack: Now, now, Mrs. Trump. You know a husband and wife cannot be forced to testify against one another in a court of law. I’ll handle it all; everything’s going to be fine, trust me.
Melania: “Forced to testify”? You know nothing, NOTHING! You don’t know this asshole like I know him. He testify I commit every crime in America if he think it save his ass! He say, “It was all Melania! All Melania’s idea to make fake elector, all Melania’s idea to call that guy in Georgia!” Focking asshole, he would say BARRON is big RICO gang boss if he think it save his stupid ass!
I need divorce and I need to get the money he promise me before Russia mob take everything. They call every day, leave message about some billion dollars they want my asshole hosband pay them back.
Rickrack: Um … … Mrs. Trump … … I think you’re going to need a bigger law firm.
Voiceover: And now we bid adieu to exotic, fabled Mar-a-Lardo, where the toilets are gold and the outlook is grim. So until next time, remember… NEVER SURRENDER!
……..
Note: This is Episode 4 in the Mar-a-Lardo Soap Opera, As the Worm Turns. See below for previous installments:
Episode 1: “Children of a Loser God”
Episode 2: "Of Inhuman Bondage"
Episode 3: "The Fraudfather"