President Donald Trump’s face was flushed and his turkey-gobble neck quivered with rage. He held in one short-fingered hand the current issue of People magazine, the glossy cover shaking so hard that its main headline was hard to make out.
But not impossible:
WE CALLED HIM ‘ACORN MAN’:
‘GBTP’ INTERN REVEALS TRUMP’S ‘SHORTCOMINGS’
“Priebus! Get your donkey ass in here!” Trump’s voice carried from the Oval Office down the corridor to his Chief of Staff’s office. Reince Priebus hated always having to keep his office door open, but Boss Man had decreed it, and so it was. If he hadn’t been so goddamn hot for this position—finally, the President’s right-hand man! The inner inner circle of power—he would have resigned it within the first week of the Trump Administration and gotten the hell out of Washington, never to return.
It all seemed perfect. He had been working toward this job for six years and it was his at last.
Trump had ripped him a new one on his second day in office, getting in poor Priebus’s face and yelling, right in front of an entire group of White House staffers, “You’re working for me, donkey ass, all right? You get what that means? That means you don’t get privacy to play goddamn video golf or watch porn or whatever the hell it is you want your door closed for. What are you, 13 years old with Daddy’s Playboy? I call for you, you get down that hall, all right? Get it? That means keep your ears peeled AND YOUR FUCKING DOOR OPEN.”
Priebus couldn’t do anything but say, “Yes, of course.”
“Yes what, dingleberry?”
The Chief of Staff’s face lost a good bit of color as he took in just how many people were listening. But what choice did he have? “I mean, Yes … Boss Man.” That satisfied Trump for the moment and he pounded the carpet back to the Oval Office. Nobody met his eyes as he sank backward into his office once again, leaving the door as open as it could go.
Now Priebus practically leaped to the door of the President’s lair, stopping short of the threshold, mindful of Trump’s command never to enter the Oval Office without a specific invitation. He thought “get your donkey ass in here” qualified as such an invitation, but over the past three years he had learned to take nothing for granted.
“Mister President?” Priebus wheezed, winded from his near-flight up the corridor. His feet stayed behind the doorjamb. “I mean, Boss Man?”
“You may enter,” Trump pronounced grandly, but the fury in his voice was unmistakable as he had Priebus close the door. Boss Man shoved the magazine up into his face: “You wanna tell me what in the fucking fuck this is?”
When Priebus was head of the Republican National Committee, never did he envision a day when the President of the United States would read tabloids during his weekly (daily under past Presidents) intelligence briefing and compose harsh Twitter responses to each and every one of them that spoke even slightly negatively about him. Respond out loud to a big-titted “special aide” with an iPad and then bark “How many characters?” If it didn’t fit in the 140 characters—or, God forbid, he had even two characters he could use to sharpen an insult—he would work back and forth with her until it fit.
God knew they tried to get Trump to stop tweeting on his own. But no. The President allowed all other social media to be handled by the “lackeys,” as he called them, but Twitter was his. Twenty million followers when he took office, almost thirty million now. He used this platform to call for the execution of ‘protestors, note that the female Chancellor of Germany had “an excellent set of cheeks,” and occasionally ask the nation using the Twitter Poll feature if Priebus should be called “donkey ass” or “butt monkey.” Or both. “Both” won by a landslide.
Now Trump raged, “How the fuck did this fucking magazine get away with publishing this fucking shit? It’s goddamn character assassination, and I want the fucking Secret Service on it NOW.”
“Sir, that’s not the kind of assassination threat they—”
“Don’t tell me my business, you geek-ass sack of shit. This is all YOUR doing, anyway.”
“W-What? I mean, what, Boss Man?”
“Don’t play even dumber with me than you already do, all right? There’s no way this cunt coulda gotten this bullshit out to the haters if you had followed my goddamn direct order the day I threw her ass out of this office.”
“Sir, your direct order was to …” Priebus cast a quick glance around him. “There are no recording devices in this office, sir, is that correct?”
“Why, did you bug it?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“Then get on with it. This shit needs fixing, stat.”
Priebus continued quietly, “As I recall, sir, your direct order was to have the young lady murdered.”
“Yeah, and what else?”
The Chief of Staff cleared his throat. “Her head and hands were to be cut off to prevent identification.”
“Damn straight, dingle. Clear instructions, couldn’ta been any clearer. Yeah, maybe I do shit other Presidents were too pussy-whipped to even think about, but it’s your goddamn job to carry out my orders. If you took care of this cunt like I said, there wouldn’t be this bullshit article, would there?”
Trump shoved the magazine into Priebus’s hands and stomped back to his desk, where he had scratched HAIL TO THE CHEIF, ASSHOLES into the Oval Office’s Resolute desk (so named because it was created from wood salvaged from the HMS Resolute and used by half a dozen Presidents). He slammed himself into his chair and smiled like a sociopath just given a new razor blade. “Read that shit. Now, just read it. People magazine is fucking history.”
Priebus shook off that un-Constitutional soon-to-be-a-tweet and read the cover. “Sir, what is a ‘GBTP’ intern?”
“That’s what I call the special interns. You know that—Jesus Christ.”
“Sir, I’ve never heard of ‘GBTP’—”
“Grabbed By The Pussy, moron! What the hell do you do all day, anyway? God knows it isn’t your job.”
Priebus did what he could do block out the President long enough to scan the article, which showed the flawless former Miss Virginia in flattering poses while telling her tale of White House sex parties and, especially, the size of President Trump’s manhood.
She knew the organ well, having been Trump’s lover for an entire summer, and she described it, alternately, as a dented mushroom cap glued above his testicles where a man’s penis would have gone; a “shaftless dicklet”; and something that she mistook at first to be a bug bite of some kind. She told People that she didn’t consider her and the President actually having had “intercourse,” because that would imply penetration into the vagina by a penis. “It was more like when you can tell you have a pimple on your chin, you know? That kind of pressure.” This was especially apt, Miss Virginia said, because his quick ejaculation kind of felt like a zit popping and deflating against her undisturbed labia.
Priebus was a loyal surrogate of the President, sworn to protect his Presidency and its legacy. But at that moment, he fought hard, insanely hard, to keep a smirk from growing on his face. Tears of effort filled his eyes. He kept the magazine in front of his face.
“We’re gonna sue the shit out of her and that rag. Then we’re gonna shut their doors, goddamnit.” He leaned down into the intercom. “Get Big Boobs down here—I need to do a tweet. Stat.”
That enabled Priebus to swallow the amusement of his ‘Boss Man’ getting humiliated for once. He lowered the magazine and said, “Sir, you know you can’t do that. You’re a public figure—you can’t sue a media outlet for insults. Well, you can sue, of course, but in order to win, a public figure has to show not only defamation but actual malice. “
Il Duce stuck out his chin. “We have other ways to stop this shit.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s just like with MSNBC last year, when you couldn’t use the National Guard to take out their broadcasting dish. And like with The Onion, you can’t instruct the NSA to interrogate the editors after one of their over-the-top parody articles, even if it did unintentionally describe your imminent order for the immediate deportation of all employees of Taco Bell and Panda Express.”
Trump growled. “Mexico and China are our enemies. Weak-willed goddamned attorney general goes crying to the Constitution. Like that’s even fucking relevant—Mexicans and Chinamen didn’t even exist back then, not like they do now, with jobs or whatever. Besides, the Constitution was written by a bunch of wig- and stocking-wearing faggots who couldn’t tell a chimichanga from … from … fuck, what is that shit called?”
The President’s eyes shined a little at his own words, and he pressed urgently at the intercom: “Where’s Leave It to Cleavage already? I got tweets pouring out of me, goddamnit!” Now he sat back and scrunched his orange mug at his Chief of Staff. “So. You read the article. You say I can’t sue them or have them shut down, nothing, I just gotta take it, is that right?”
“It’s considered Presidential to rise above the—”
“Ah, bullshit. I don’t give a rat’s ass about ‘Presidential’—I’m the goddamn President. I shouldn’t even have to suggest solutions to my Chief of Staff—you should be thinking of this shit yourself.” Trump leaned forward, his fox-fur hair cloud reflecting the tanning lamps installed in the ceiling. “But forget all that—you said I can sue them, right? The whole malice thing. This broad has loads of malice, big time. She has it out for me, just because of some tweets about her cellulite or whatever the fuck it was.”
“I believe you tweeted ‘I’ve banged 10-year-olds who fuck better than she does,’ sir.”
“Heh. It’s true, though. What’d she think, that I never gave it to a beauty queen? Hell, every one of my wives was a beauty queen! You gotta put some shake into that bake if you wanna stick around my bed.”
Priebus blinked and blinked to keep from screaming.
“Anyway, her ass is getting sued. Call that pantywaist attorney general—”
“Sir, you can’t use White House counsel for personal business.” He steeled himself, because telling the President something he didn’t want to hear—which was known, by Priebus’s calculations, as reality—was an unpleasant experience at best and a firing offense a lot of the time. “Also, Mister Pr—Boss Man, to prevail in a lawsuit as President of the United States, you’d have to show that the offending party disseminated intentional lies or acted with a reckless disregard for the truth or falsity of their statements.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Priebus wondered what else he could do with himself that would be more productive, as well as more personally fulfilling, than serving as The Orange One’s butt monkey. Maybe he could teach in the inner city, that would be good, except that he hated Afro-Kwanzaans or whatever the jungle folk were demanding to be called this week. Was he too old to join the Merchant Marine? What about the French Foreign Legion, was that still around?
Fuck. He was stuck where he was, and he knew it.
He took a deep breath. “All right, Boss Man, what is your specific complaint?”
“She’s a fucking lying bitch.”
“No, sir, I mean, what are you suing her for saying, specifically? What did she say or did the magazine publish that was demonstrably false? In other words, what’s your gripe?”
“Well, Jesus, she told the entire world that my dick is small!” Trump spread his fingers out on his desk blotter to make them look longer than the Vienna sausages they really were.
“My dick is not small. It is yuge. Ask any of the people on my payroll, they’ll tell ya. E-nor-mous.”
“Then all we’d have to do is provide evidence to the Court that your penis is not abnormally small—”
“It’s not small at all. There is no amount of smallness in my dick. None, believe me.”
“Of course not, sir. So, if you’re really serious about this lawsuit—and I can hardly advise against it enough—then all you have to do is have your personal physician provide documentation regarding the size of your organ.”
“Which is fucking way big, as I mentioned.”
“I remember, sir. Shall I schedule you for an exam?”
“No time—get him on the line and in his office, and let’s get this show on the goddamn road.”
“Sir, your physician is just outside the door. She’s a woman, as you may recall from the past three years of her service.”
“What? No fucking way. Can her ass and get me a man to do the exam, stat.” Trump stood and hiked up his trousers to fit snugly under his gut. “And fire that Twitter bitch, too—when I wanna tweet to the country, you better not be at lunch, no matter how big your tits are, amirite?”
Priebus said something, but later, even he couldn’t remember what it was, except that it was anus-puckeringly ironic that the very soul he had sold to ensure a Trump Presidency had withering and died before the Devil ever came to collect it.