An Empty Suit
Sits in the Oval Office
Have a look-see at my version of Donald Trump as he sits here in my rendition of the Oval Office.
I’m your narrator for this little fantasy tale. I’ll pop in every so often for a direct comment.
Maybe I’ll even appear in person late in the book, once Donald has been transformed into his better self.
Oops, a spoiler!
One more thing: Be advised that this novel is not safe for children. None of this author’s Santa Claus novels are safe for children. But then neither is the current political climate.
Hell, that ain’t safe for anybody.
Welcome to the People’s House, otherwise known as the White House.
And welcome to the Oval Office, where momentous decisions—far too many of them horrendous and hostile to our interests, but a significant few beneficial not just to us but to the planet as a whole—are arrived at.
Here sits Donald Trump, a portly gentleman—well okay, stop laughing, a big fat pig.
“How can I best demean this fucking place?” he wonders. “Make it my own?”
But let’s shift over into his point of view, shall we?
Before God and Santa manifested in the Oval Office, Trump sat musing. He had commanded solitude absolute.
He surveyed the room’s oval shape. As he sat centered just so at the desk, his head occupied the clitoral position, a pencil eraser at the top of a far too wide vulva. Maybe narrow the room, ditch the chairs, no need for visitors, make all the decisions himself in this soon-to-be-tightened little pussy.
President Trump’s excitable inner sanctum.
Perhaps he could whip out his stubby little cock and jack off on this desk.
That would require Viagra and some coconut oil, and there was too little time for the blue pill to take effect.
His fucking aides had their dicks tied in knots, salivating over First Day Project and undoing as many of Obama’s executive orders as possible.
But to hell with that shit, he thought. We’ll get into destroying the country soon enough, as soon as my family drops in, I toss them out, and my pack of handpicked wolves comes snarling in here, slavering and sycophanting about my ass.
Time to savor that top-of-the-world feeling. Ain’t no higher position on the whole goddamned planet.
I could fuck any woman I want right here. Find that crazed cunt-bitch who shoved her wailing rug- rat at me, toss that bawling bundle of meat to the lions, and force her to suck me off right here, right where that what-the-fuck-was-she-an-intern-or-something licked Bill’s shitty little asshole.
Some vague shapes were swimming into view.
What the fuck?
Things were going all wonky.
Had someone spiked his punch?
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