Trump’s New Rules

Meanwhile, in Donald Trump’s White House…

Meeting in the Roosevelt Room, President Trump is gathered with members of the senior staff and a handful of National Security analysts.

Elise Kemp, a twenty-seven year old analyst waits patiently for Chief Strategist Steve Bannon to finish his thoughts on the “Jewy-lookin guy” that works as a steward on the South Portico, then she raises her hand and begins to speak. “What we’re doing at the NSA, Mr. President, is making sure th—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Trump says. “What the hell are you doing?”

All the male staffers in the room stare at Elise, some shrugging and shaking their head in confusion.

“We have new rules here, okay, sweetheart? We have new rules. Right there on the wall,” Trump says as he points to a newly-hung sign next to the painting of Teddy Roosevelt as a Rough Rider.

The sign reads CHICKS MUST SHOW TITS BEFORE SPEAKING IN MEETINGS.

The Roosevelt Room is silent. All the men are waiting impatiently. Don Jr. checks his watch.

Elise Kemp, graduate of Wellesley College and Duke Law School, stands up, takes a deep breath, and lifts up her Banana Republic blouse. A single tear drips down her face.

The President of the United States says to all the men at the table, “Hey, those are nice, huh? A little uneven, but nice. What are those? Full Bs, almost Cs, right? Beautiful. Beautiful. You see those tits, Don?”

Don Jr. nods and gives his father a thumb’s up.

Steve Bannon hushes the room’s chatter. “Alright, alright, settle down, boys. Go ahead with your point, honey.”

Illustration by mikeymbm3

Down the hallway of the White House, deliveries are being made to Kellyanne Conway’s office. Five boxes stacked on a rolling dolly. Conway’s senior assistant takes the top two boxes, then asks the UPS guy, “What are those?” pointing to the three boxes still on the dolly.

“Let me see, hang on. … Oh, here we go, three cases of Rebel Yell Kentucky Straight Bourbon.”

“Kellyanne? Did you order three cases of Rebel Yell bourbon?”

From inside her office, Conway calls out, “Those are for Bannon. They go down to the basement. That’s where his office is.” Then under her breath she mutters “Maybe all that hooch will last more than two weeks this time. Red-nosed, rummy, Nazi goon.”

Making sure nobody is watching, Conway opens the first box. Inside is twelve cans of Pillsbury Funfetti cake frosting. In recent weeks, the guilt of acting as Trump’s personal Svengali spin-master has become more than she can handle. It’s now day eleven of an all-cake binge. She’s added fifteen pounds to her normally slender frame. As a result, the “appearance ranking” on her White House security credential has been downgraded from a “7 outside of New York or LA” to “5.5 and heading in the wrong direction. Sad!” Every woman that works in the White House, from senior advisors to the cleaning staff of the Residence, has an appearance ranking on their ID badge. Adjustment of the rankings in both directions has been a useful threat or incentive from the Oval Office.

The second box was discreetly sent from WigWarehouse.com. The blonde wig Conway ordered is a decent match to her rapidly-growing-patchy real hair. Hair that she has been pulling out in clumps during moments of self-realization of how she will be held partially responsible historically for a Trump presidency. A search on WebMD.com revealed to Conway she was dealing with trichotillomania, the uncontrollable impulse to pull out one’s hair in times of stress or anguish.

Kellyanne Conway is a goddamn mess.

On Conway’s MacBook Pro is a Spotify playlist she has been building the last week labeled “To Calm & Sooth.” The playlist has been relied on recently to help Conway escape reality for a short time. Songs on the playlist are:

“People = Shit” — Slipknot

“The Number of the Beast” — Iron Maiden

“Enter the Eternal Fire” — Bathory

“Devil’s Child” — Judas Priest

“Bück dich” — Rammstein

“Mr. Crowley” — Ozzy Osbourne

“You Hate Me & I Hate You” — G.G. Allin

“Cake and Sodomy” — Marilyn Manson

“Killem All” — King 810

“Raining Blood” — Slayer

“Yummy, Yummy, Yummy (I’ve Got Love in My Tummy)” — The Ohio Express

“Homies” — Insane Clown Posse

And the most played cut on the playlist,

“Mr. Albert Fish (Was Children Your Favorite Dish?)” — Macabre

Kellyanne Conway puts in her earbud headphones. She takes in a breath in through her nose and exhales through her mouth. With her right hand she presses “Play” on the Spotify playlist, with her left hand she rips out a clump of blonde hair, leaving a new bald patch the size of a dime, and drops the hair in the wastepaper basket.

Chief of Staff Reince Preibus enters the Oval Office to meet with President Trump. The previous evening, Trump had promised he would buckle down read three briefing memos concerning Syria, cyber security, and America’s heroin epidemic.

“Did you finish your reading last night, Mr. President?” Preibus asks, almost certain of the answer.

“I read a lot last night, Reince. A lot.”

“You read the three briefing memos?”

“No. I did other reading. Good reading. Great reading.”

“Please tell me you didn’t read that ridiculous book again.”

“I did, Reince. I tell ya, it gets funnier and funnier with each reading. It’s tremendous. So good. So good. So smart.”

President Trump spent almost half an hour reading from his favorite book: I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max. He’s read it seven or eight times.

Trump says, “I’m telling you, Reince, the guy has the best stories. The best. He writes about banging chicks better than anyone I’ve ever read. Better than those Penthouse Forum stories in the eighties.”

“Better than Hemingway or Faulkner, sir?” Preibus says, knowing Trump will have no clue he’s being sarcastic.

“Who?”

“Never mind, sir. Let’s go over this material.”

President Trump holds up a small index finger to hush the Chief of Staff. “Later, Reince, later. We need to order lunch.”

“It’s only 11:15, Mr. President. We have work to do.”

“Well, that’s close enough to noon, I’m starving.”

The White House Mess — as in mess hall — has been gutted and turned in to a shopping mall-style food court. There’s a McDonalds, Taco Bell, Kentucky Fried Chicken, small take-out-only Denny’s (Trump often wants a Moons Over My Hammy sandwich for a midnight snack), and a special, unique-to-the-White-House food stand called Burnt Meat on Sticks. Their specialty is “The Trump Stick,” a past-well-done hamburger patty on a popsicle stick that is dunked in a small pail of ketchup.

The President skipped a national security briefing to hold a ribbon cutting ceremony for the new Trump Great and Tremendous White House Food Court.

One of Trump’s first executive actions was the elimination of Michelle Obama’s Healthy Hunger-Free Act of 2010. “This is some bullshit, all these gay vegetables,” Trump said as he signed the paperwork canceling the program. In place of the former First Lady’s signature program is Trump’s new food initiative “Fast Food 4 U; At least you know what’s in it!” There is still debate amongst the staff if they can go forward with the President’s preferred tagline “Fast Food, Fuck Yeah!” The line has been trademarked and at the time of this writing t-shirts bearing the slogan are being printed in Taiwan to sell in the White House gift shops.

The stink of fried food now wafts down the corridors of the White House, seeping into the air vents that redistribute the foul smell throughout the entire building. All White House staffers are required to eat every meal, every day, in the new Trump Great and Tremendous White House Food Court. No exceptions. You can’t bring a lunch, and you can’t go off campus to local restaurants. When asked if there would be discounts for West Wing staffers in the food court, Trump responded, “No. We’re charging airport prices plus twenty percent. This isn’t a fuckin soup kitchen. And Barron wants to start a medieval sword collection.”

The Trump Stick costs $13.99, plus $2.99 for the small pail of ketchup. Cash only.

One of the other executive orders made in the first few weeks in office, was Trump eliminating the Endangered Species Act of 1973. This was done as a gift to Don Jr. and Eric Trump who for years have been wanting to kill manatees and hunt jackalopes on the High Plains of Wyoming. With a few pen strokes, it was now legal to hunt any animal you want to in America. No limits, no tags to be purchased, no Fish and Wildlife Service to enforce any regulations at all. That department has been shut down. Trump said about the action, “We are putting the American people, who love to eat and kill shit, over the whiny liberal environmentalists and their fake data and studies. We want the people to go out and have a good time. This is putting America first in action.”

Though now technically legal, Don Jr. and Eric have a “gentleman’s agreement” with their father to not kill bald eagles. Says the president, “Don and Eric are tremendous hunters, great hunters, the best. But they’re not assholes.”

Carcasses from the Trump son’s hunts are brought back to the White House where the press room has been done away with and replaced with the Don Jr. and Eric Trump Tannery and Taxidermy Trading Post. The luxury shoes, belts and handbags made from previously-endangered animals is turning into a big moneymaker for the Trumps. The cheap child labor provided from Washington D.C. orphanages helps keep costs down in the Trading Post. Products made from the island fox and Florida panther are in high demand with Japanese tourists. Bags of Trump Manatee Jerky — available in original hickory and teriyaki flavors — is regularly selling out despite the $77 dollars an ounce price tag.

Out on the South Lawn, President Trump visits the alligator pit that he installed last month with the hopes of eventually using it to deter protesters. His favorite gator, a nineteen feet three inch long bull named Caligula slithers out of the pit to greet his President. Trump rubs Caligula’s snout and feeds him a few leftover McChicken sandwiches that were in the pockets of his baggy suit.

Then, with Bannon, Preibus, Conway, Don Jr. and Eric, Trump walks the South Lawn with architects and construction foreman surveying the spots where the two Trump Sniper Towers of Power will begin being constructed next month.

“From here, Mr. President, well above the Rose Garden, shooters will have good sight lines out to Pennsylvania Avenue and Constitution Avenue to the south, down most of 15th and 17th that border the White House on the east and west, and back to Lafayette Park to the north.”

Trump nods in approval. “Sounds great. Terrific. Terrific. What do you think, Steve?”

“Let the bodies hit the floor, Mr. President,” Steve Bannon says.

The President comes as close laughing as he ever does and says, “Bannon always comes up with the best catch phrases. The best. Where does he come up with this shit? Let’s trademark that for a t-shirt.”

 

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