Wednesday, February 8, 2017


Donald “Jiggly Tits” Trump, President of the United States, was situated firmly atop his golden toilet, his soggy orange frame slumping forward on the worn seat like a deflating manatee, the melting Play-Doh of his thighs drooping and making the skin-to-seat connection air-tight. Elbows on his knees, his tiny fingers were bouncing against his phone’s screen like a hummingbird after two large Americanos.

“You’re the loser,” he mumbled as he typed, letting the world-at-large know his urgent and deeply-reasoned opinions on the runner-up of last season’s Ireland’s Got Talent.

The president glared impatiently at his phone, waiting for the notifications icon to light up. His factory-defect tie was thrown over the shoulder of his sweat-stained button-down shirt; his off-the-rack Sears-brand trousers were bunched up around his ankles; his gnarled and hairy hobbit feet tapped against the gold-tiled floor.

Out of nowhere, a noise – and a smell – like an exploding fertilizer truck filled the bathroom, echoing off – and permeating into – every gilded surface. Donald bolted upright on the commode, like the Pillsbury dough boy awakening from a bad dream, looking to his right and left. Not finding anything of concern, the president quickly pulled up the Bing app on his phone and typed “What just happened?” The search engine did not know.
Taking a moment to scour the deepest corners of his mind for an answer, the president slowly looked down between his legs and into the toilet bowl.

“Ha. That’s huge.”

Spreading his legs, Donald Trump took a picture of the massive turd – jutting like an iceberg out of the shit stew he had spewed from his shopworn sphincter – then immediately sent it to his wife and his Twitter followers.

“They’re gonna be so impressed.”

Donald looked back down at the pool of viscous stool beneath him in order to further examine his handiwork. Only then did he notice that something was wrong ...

“What the hell is that?” The president squinted and leaned in closer, until the full force of his fecal feculence was feathering his face. “I didn’t eat that.”

In the center of the excretory chili was a jagged metal object, roughly the size and shape of a normal-sized human hand. Jutting up out of the deep doo-doo as it was, Donald could just make out Russian lettering printed on the middle finger.
Without even a first though, Donald Trump grabbed the mysterious metal manus and hurried out of the bathroom like a snowman made from leftover pumpkin innards learning how to walk. The president stumbled into the hallway – pants still around his ankles, tiny penis bobbing up and down like a float on a fishing line – waving around the poop-encrusted hand. The completely average-sized instrument looked absolutely massive in Donald’s insignificant grip.

“What is this?” he shouted to no one in particular, specks of shit sailing as he shook the scatological souvenir. “I need someone who can read German. Or Scottish. Or whatever this is.”

Standing behind Donald, on either side of the bathroom door, were two Secret Service agents. With the utmost professionalism, one of them asked: “Is something the matter, Mr. President?”

“What? Who are you?” replied Donald, spinning around sharply and nearly falling over. “What are you doing in my home?”

“I’m ... I’m Sam, Mr. President. I’ve been on bathroom duty for six months, since you requested a dedicated detail,” he explained. Sam squinted his eyes and stared at the half-naked spray-tanned man-baby standing before him. “Are you all right, Mr. President?”

“Why do you keep saying ‘Mr. President?’ What are you talking about?”

From the far end of the apartment, Kelly A. Conway, the president’s Czar of One Hundred Percent Factual Corrections, came rushing down the gaudy hallway, tying her bathrobe tight as she race-walked.

“God damn it, Donald, we’ve talked about this,” she shouted. “No tweeting pictures of your shit!” As she got closer, though, she could see the fear and confusion in the president’s eyes. She could also see the thimble-sized subcutaneous mass he called a penis. “Pull your God damned pants up, Donald,” she grumbled.

“Kelly?” asked the president. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment? What’s anyone doing in my apartment? I don’t like people in my apartment unless they’re photographers or hookers. You all need to leave.”

“You moved me in shortly after the inauguration, Donald. You said you needed me close by at all times,” Kelly explained. “I said that wasn’t necessary, but, well, no one’s right all the time.”

“I am,” replied Donald “The Wrongest President Ever” Trump. Then he asked: “What inauguration? What are you talking about? Did I get blackout drunk at another Clinton swearing-in?”

“What? No. You –” It was only then that Kelly noticed the poop-covered robot hand that Donald was still holding aloft.

“Where did you find that?” she barked. “How are you holding that? And why didn’t you at least rinse it off first?”

“What is this?” Donald demanded, waving the shit-laden instrument in her face. “Why was this in my amazing poop? Did I eat the Happy Meal toy again?”

“That’s not a toy, Donald,” explained Kelly, forcing herself to calm down, the way the parent of an insufferable five-year-old might. “That’s a very sophisticated piece of equipment that’s supposed to be inside of you.”

“Inside of me? Nothing goes inside of this body except for fast food, frozen food, cocaine, and gerbils, if I pay the extra fee for them.”

“Donald, we all have them, don’t you remember? Vladimir Putin gave them to us. Two years ago, remember? We all flew out to Russia, there was a huge ceremeony ...”

“How huge? Was there a banner with my name on it?” began Donald, eyeballing the caca-covered mechanism one more time. Then, abruptly, he said: “No. I don’t like this thing. I don’t want it.”

“Nobody wants it, sir, but, well, that’s the price you pay.”

“Pay?” roared Donald Trump. “I don’t pay anyone. You of all people should know that.”

Donald’s attention was immediately redirected to the photo of himself that had appeared on the TV hanging on the wall above Kelly’s head. Fox News was talking about his upcoming campaign.

The president sighed. “Are we really doing that again? Why are we doing that again? We already did that. Why are we doing that again? I thought we were done.”

“We’re starting preparations for your second term, Mr. President,” explained a visibly confused Kelly A. Conway.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

The misinformation czar raised a concerned eyebrow. She pulled the poopy hand from the president’s slightly less poopy hand. “This shouldn’t be affecting your memory ...” she mumbled, turning it around in her own hands. Then she shouted: “Piotr! Sergei! In here, now!”

Within moments, two surly Russian teenagers in sweatpants and hoodies came jogging down the hallway.

“What’s going on?” she asked them, shoving the shitty electronic hand into theirs. “Why did it fall out? Why doesn’t he remember anything?”

Sergei plugged the hand into a diagnostic widget he had in his pocket.

“Device ... tapped into limbic system of brain,” said Piotr after a moment, looking over the other teenager’s shoulder and reading the almost incomprehensible stream of numbers spilling out across the diagnostic’s screen. “Was not supposed to do that ...”

“H.A.N.D. took over much, much more than was supposed to,” added Sergei.

“Huh. That actually explains a lot,” said Kelly quietly, biting her bottom lip.

The Habituating Anally-inserted Neuropathy Devices had been designed to force the users to always put the needs of Mother Russia before their own. Anyone with the H.A.N.D. wedged into their insides received a large shock along the entirety of their nervous system if they ever tried to pass a law, or even say something offhand, that wouldn’t immediately help Vladimir Putin on his supervillain-like quest to be an asshole to the entire world.

This had all seemed perfectly reasonable to Kelly in the beginning. But, over time, Donald Trump seemed to actually become Vladimir Putin, outlawing the press, invading Canada, passing a law that let millionaires murder anyone they wanted as long as they used a gun and donated to his campaign ... Briefly, a sense of grief over the millions sentenced to the gulag program Donald had instituted so soon after his ascendency crossed Kelly’s mind. She shook her head.

“What’s going on?! What are you all talking about?!” demanded Donald, stamping his grungy feet like a toddler with low blood sugar and a lymphatic disorder. “Why are you talking about things I don’t understand in front of me?! I hate it when people do that! Do you work for me?” He jabbed a baby carrot-sized finger into Piotr’s shoulder. “‘Cause if you do, you’re –”

“No, no, don’t worry, Donald,” cooed Kelly, like the Grinch to that extremely gullible little Who girl, “we just – Hey, your shoe’s untied!”

“What?” Donald Trump bent over to inspect his nonexistent laces. “I’m not wearing shoes,” he said, staring intently at his feet. “Am I? Did they ... Did they make invisible shoes? Is that why –”

Rushing behind the president, Kelly A. Conway shoved the Russian H.A.N.D. back up Donald Trump’s ass. Finding unexpected resistance from the large and stretched-out rectum before her, though, Kelly was forced to push with both hands, eventually pressing her pelvis against them for extra leverage, until, finally, a few of her fingers actually went up and into Donald’s pooper, signifying that the device had been inserted correctly.

“That was close,” she mumbled, before wiping her hands off on the jacket of the nearest secret service agent.

Kelly looked to Donald for confirmation that the H.A.N.D. was again working properly. It was ... hard to tell. The president was standing still in the hallway, lumpy, sweaty, and orange, looking for all the world like a half-melted novelty dildo. He no longer seemed confused as to why everyone was in his apartment, though, so that was something.

“Hey, is Saturday Night Live on the DVR?” asked Donald Trump, trundling into the living room, his pants still around his ankles. “I hope Chevy Chase is in this one. I really like him. He’s tremendous.”

                                        -- Eirik Gumeny

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