Exhausted after a week of desperately seeking grownup approval by indiscriminately bombing the bejesus out of anything that moves, chasing Sean Spicer around his cage for fucking up yet another Hitler reference, and backtracking on 11 campaign promises he said he didn’t make during his fall “Lock Her Up” tour, it was time for King Don Ill to kick off his Size-7 wingtips and jet off for the peace and quiet of Mar-a-Lago for the 23rd time during his 12-week reign of terror.
“No worries,” the cocky king told a nervous Mr. Bannon on the runway before departing, “The taxpayers got this one. And thanks. Now bring me my phone.”
After angrily using his tiny, overworked fingers to punch in 140 characters worth of self-congratulatory prose aimed expertly at himself, Trump tossed the phone into the pocket of his size XXX-large, ketchup-stained black blazer. Anxiously pulling at the red cap that was unsuccessfully drowning the yellow, straw-like substance dropping off his oversized, orange head, he turned to his struggling but oh-so-earnest press secretary, pursed his lips in that weird way and barked instruction. If only Patton were alive to witness such deft command, he muses to himself.
“Sean, ya dope, be sure to write me up something I can post on Sunday thanking the Jews for Easter, will ya? … Or is it the Christians? Fuck it. Write something really terrific that thanks both of ’em and it will go a long way to getting you out of that doghouse. And if you can work in a shot or two at the Muslims all the better. For now, open wide. Here’s another biscuit. Now who’s a good boy? Moron …”
Because nobody knew being a president could be this hard, the irascible king has been forced to do what any self-respecting, know-nothing narcissist would do over the weekend — run like hell for cover. As if shaking those Barack Obama voices rattling around inside all that empty space was easy …
Finally up in the air and the hell away from all that awful reality on the ground, Trump sighs, looks out the window and ponders a bevy of inconsiderate thoughts and just how far they’ll take him next week. He then pulls the lid of the trusty “Make America Great Again” over his eyes and drifts off for 30 minutes of down time, which would have been just the ticket if not for those nagging Obama voices. Ninety minutes, four cheeseburgers, and three Diet Cokes later, he’s back at the menacing gates of his beloved Mar-a-Lago, the crown jewel of Palm Beach and as far removed from real Americans as possible.
Here, everything is gold. This is where Trump can be Trump — basically a more awful version of Trump than the one we have been subjected to during this 84-day Holy (Shit) War. Here, out of view of the despised general public, Trump is free to frolic about, poke at women, heckle Hispanic landscapers and terrorize his golf course. This is what freedom smells like.
After a quick shower and spray tan, Trump dresses casually for a Friday night of revelry and dinner around his exclusive, presidential table with seating for 74. All the most important people are here — the Chadwicks, Loudens and Ambroses … The Amhersts, Beaumonts and Braytons … The Winstons are no-shows which makes Trump snort, “Such big shots, eh, folks?” Langley Chadwick coughs and laughs nervously before downing his 6th Manhattan. He is trying hard not to make a spectacle of himself, but still quietly seethes over the millions lost on fucking Trump University. “Trump-fucking-University,” he mumbles over and over … His blonde, bronzed wife nervously shoots Trump her best apologetic, come-hither wink. Even though she’s already 33, she knows Trump admires how well she’s aged.
Trump orders an iced tea, three well-done steaks and a basket of cheese fries and then proceeds to go on and on about the difficulties of juggling a presidency around all the nasty things people are saying about him. “Fox and Friends I can count on, folks. And let me tell ya, Sean Hannity kisses the best ass — I mean he’s a terrific, terrific ass-kisser. But I love him. He better know that. He better … Hang on, I better text him real quick …”
There are more nervous laughs before Trump growls about Reince Priebus, and how disloyal he is becoming, how shitty the BLTs are at the White House, and the shots Obama keeps taking at him. “You think he’s quiet, but I can hear ’em. Oh, he’s out there alright. He’s very dangerous … Very dangerous.”
After casually dropping about 14 state secrets over dessert, Trump abruptly rises, grunts a ‘yer welcome’ to a by now smashed Langley and tells the rest of the table the dinner is on Kentucky. “Fucking redneck suckers,” he winks.
He then stomps off to his gold-encased, 5,500-square-foot bedroom that looks out over a serene, moon-drenched Atlantic. Of course, all this quiet beauty literally makes him sick to his stomach, so he drops 15 half-dollar sized Alka-Seltzers in a pitcher of warm Mar-a-Lago water, guzzles it down and hits his steel-fortified 15-by-15 foot bed for an hour or two of roiling sleep.
By 4:42 local, and angrier than hell after that recurring dream about washing Obama’s feet, Trump grabs his nuclear-powered cell phone and gets to work.
He’ll have to type quickly this morning because he has a 6:58 tee time. With luck he’ll be able to duck in 36 holes today. He’s hoping like hell he won’t have to make a decision on nuking North Korea, because well, that would really fuck up his weekend.