“Where are the Cool Ranch Doritos?” barks Donald Trump. “This is the worst disaster in the history of disasters. Maybe ever.”
“Bottom left drawer.”
“Oh, thanks, Eyebrow. I wonder what other presidents used this drawer for? Probably alcohol and cocaine powder. This country is a mess. Obama must have been one lubed up skinny Kenyan from shithole Africa, believe me. Little Bush didn’t drink, but he should have. What are we here for anyway? Did we get rid of those Obama bugs? God I hate him. What kind of name is Barack, anyway? I wonder if I should put some smashed Doritos in the middle of a Mickey D’s double cheese?”
“Congressman Cramer is here, Mr. President.”
“Who? Crackers? What’s he here for? Do I need to call Rudy? Send him in, Miss Delish.”
“Congressman Kevin Cramer, Mr. President.”
“Of course, it it is,” growls Trump. “I know who people are. They love me, Kevin. I’m loved more than any previous president. I was just telling the group how I call you Crumbles, since you remind me of a saltine. My gal can put a little color in your face, if you like. Feel free to grab. Do you know why we’re here, Crackers? This is a very secret gathering, with dudes I trust more than Don Jr. or my luscious Ivanka. Except for that jerk, Bob. Don’t bother trusting him. It’ll end in heartache. Those two guys over there don’t say nothin’. And you don’t say nothin’.”
“I understand. You summoned me, Mr President, and I don’t know why. You’re looking very svelte today.”
Everyone, but Trump and Cramer, rolls their eyes.
“Summoned. That sounds like me. I’ve dealt with my share of svelte summons. Ba dump bump. Why no laughs? That was funny. Tough crowd, Alice. My mobs find me hilarious. Robot Trump is very popular. Have a seat, Crater. This here is Eyebrow, and he’s Yeti, and the smartass on the couch is low energy, low IQ, low white count, loser Bob. My black guy was busy. Would you like some beautiful Cool Ranch Doritos, Cranky? A triple-double cheeseburger?”
“No thank you, sir,” answers Cramer, as he takes a seat in front of the president’s desk, with Eyebrow and Yeti.
“Don’t try the religion spiel on me, Crowbar. If I offered you Stormy for night, you would start salivating and start adultering in your head, so you’re as much of a dog as me, and I’ve adulted many times. All loser Carter did was lust. Lord knows I’ve paid her enough,” he mumbles.
“So, anyway,” says Eyebrow, to get things going.
“Wait, wait,” demands Trump. “I want to clear something up. Earlier, when I told Castor Oil that those guys don’t say nuthin’ and he don’t say nuthin’, I meant that those two hombres never say anything, ever. Hell, I don’t even know what they’re for. I mean, the Secret Service is right behind every door, however many there are in this stupid room. It’s a nightmare. Anyway, you can talk during this super secret …”
“It’ll be in the Times by noon,” digs Bob.
Trump hollers, “Shut up, Bob. You don’t know. We could have a tremendously successful meeting without a leak, which is the point, Rusty. Don’t leak. Otherwise, I think those two guys might come to your house and not talk more physically. I don’t really know. I think Putin has some guys, too. They add ambiance, I’ve heard. I think my black friend Kid Rock told me that. He’s a celebrity. Most people don’t know that. Lovely man, just lovely. Is he the one with the pipe, Yeti?”
“I really do understand, Mr. President.
Then Trump draws a blank.
“What the hell are we doing here,” he shouts. “I don’t like beer, you know. And no way did 3,000 people die on the island in the deep wet. Islands are near impossible to get to. Most people don’t know that. What’s with these hurricanes? Did I tell you how the wall thing came about, Artie? I was riffing at a rally, and I saw a wall in the building and loving white people. Beautiful idea. The best ever.”
Bob turns red.
“Stupid idea. We’re here to discuss Congressman Cramer’s Senate campaign. Do you seriously not get global warming? And your incompetence is responsible for the deaths of thousands on Puerto Rico, dumbass.”
Trump turns red.
“Why do I keep you around, Bob?”
The tension is making Cramer anxious, and he quietly asks, “Can we talk about my race against Heitkamp, please?”
Trump perks up. “Heidi? I like her. I admire her thick hair. Too old for me, though. And red clashes with my New York couch. Did you like those lies I told about her, Saltine? Lies really get the crowds wound up. Those rubes will believe anything. And they always want to lock someone up. They don’t really care who. I loved the way you didn’t care if that puffy-faced bastard Kavanaugh assaulted that Ford woman, or probably if he killed his second cousin. And you were great using stupid logic to rationalize our kid kidnapping and kid caging. Chain link is humane, you said. You’re a hoot, Crane.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I got chills when you said, ‘You can cage some of the kids some of the of the time, but none of the white kids, any of the time.’”
Yeti chimes in. “Kevin, you’re not as far ahead of Heitkamp as you might think. It turns out that sexual assault apologists aren’t as popular as you might think, and most people in North Dakota don’t give a rip about the Supreme Court, except those kooky evangelicals. So …”
“I’m an evangelical,” interrupts Cramer.
“Good for you,” replies Yeti, dryly. “Plus, you’re not a likable person. I already don’t like you.”
“I’m not a likeable person, either,” Kroger,” says Trump. “You saw how the vote went in New York. They know me. O’boy, do they know me. So I take my show on the road for the hoopleheads where they don’t know me, or have indoor plumbing.”
“I wish I didn’t know you,” snarks Bob.
Bob is ignored and Trump continues to ramble.
“None of them have read New York papers, or listened to me to make an ass out of myself on Howard Stern. I don’t like any of those people in the red hats. I see them staring at Melania. I don’t think about farmers. Never have. Say Carmel, did it help, when I said that the price of soybeans had gone up?”
“Not much, sir. Farmers tend to trust the fake media on that topic.”
“Oh, well. You can’t fool them all. The lie felt good at the time. But I don’t care what people think of me. The haters can hate. I’m not paying Ed’s Plumbing for their work. What is Ed going to do about it? That’s who am. Pay no taxes and pay no bills. It really cuts down on the overhead. Launder a few rubles. Grab a few …”
“You’re a dick, Don,” states Bob. “We get it.”
“Shut up, Bob.”
“You’re being very honest, Mr. President,” says a swooning Cramer.
“As far a you know,” murmurs Trump. “And, there is no criminality in what we’re proposing, Cracker, in case you were wondering. Many in the fake media assume that I don’t do anything legal.”
“Sir, I would never,” objects Cramer.
“Please, I’m not offended,” grins Trump. “Everybody knows I don’t overthink things, so whatever it takes to make a buck. The New York Times doesn’t know anything. We screwed the government for bigly more than those loser journalists figured. Stupid reporters. Now you’re an accessory. Just kidding. Kinda. Eyebrow, you talk at Creamer for a while. I have to go and pensively look out a window at least once a day, or Kellyanne gets bitchy.”
Eyebrow speaks. “We haven’t given you enough to work with, Mr Cramer. People want health care, and, well, you know. The tax cuts aren’t popular. The tariffs aren’t popular. Folks were little torked when we took kids away from their parents. We fudged Puerto Rico. Mr. Trump really has no clue about much of anything. It’s a problem for most voters.”
“Not in North Dakota,” smirks Cramer.
Yeti takes his turn at the wheel. “So we have a proposal for you, Mr. Cramer.”
“Cramer!” shouts Trump. “That’s his name. I have perfect recall, Cramer. Most people don’t think that.”
“Thoughts and prayers, Mr. Cramer,” whispers Bob.
“Anyway,” Yeti shouts. “Kevin, you have proven your 100 percent fealty to Mr. Trump. You’ve given up all sovereignty. Mr. Trump holds your brain in receivership. You talk with less precision than a North Korean missile. You’ve never been instrumental in any situation. We like that. So, here’s our offer, which should guarantee you a Senate seat.”
“Sesquipedalianism,” thinks Trump out loud. “Most people don’t know that it means pickle juice.”
“Anyway,” Yeti shouts again. We’re willing to let you permanently use the Trump brand by allowing you to change your name to Kevin Kanye Trump IX. People will probably call you KK.”
Cramer asks, “the ninth?”
“It amuses me that Trump I and Trump IX, added up to Trump X,” says Trump. “Is that a problem? There’s no loot coming your way. I owe so much money, you wouldn’t believe it, believe me. And we wouldn’t be related, but you can tell the yokels that we are. What do you say, Crackerhead?”
“Mr. President, I’m honored that you would do such a thing for me.”
“Don’t get too choked up, Crament. I really don’t want to go to that state again, that’s all. This is all you’re getting out of me. Don’t tell Eric. He’s tremendously sensitive.
“Can I watch Fox and Friends, now?
“We’ve got it on DVR for you,” says Eyebrow. Can it wait?”
“Sometimes I call into the show and talk and talk and talk. It all just wells up. It’s incredible. They don’t dare to cut me off, or disagree, because the friends are classy. Then the next day, the fake media says 78 percent of what I told Doocy was false. Why are people so hung up on what is true, and what is false? The distinction doesn’t bother me. The best thing is, I don’t even know I’m lying. Sometimes. Not always. I think we’re done lying to you. Aren’t we finished with Saltine here, Eyebrow?”
“You come off as very genuine, Mr. President,” offers Cramer. “I’ve never heard you lie.”
“You’re kid — oh, yeah, you’re one of them.”