Trump Art Imitates Life

“But I told them I wanted it!” President Trump muttered as he prowled the late Friday-night quiet of the White House, tiny hands tucked warmly in his bathrobe. “I wanted it! I wanted it!”

It hadn’t been a good day. Those fools in the House had failed him. Obamacare yet lived. Of course, as he had explained, failure to repeal was really a Trump victory because those lazy Democrats didn’t make up for missing Republican votes.

But still. . .

“‘Forget about the little shit!’ is what I told them,” he said as he moved into the dimly lit Treaty Room. “You’re kind of hard to forget, Donnie!” said a voice.

“You again!” the president bellowed. “You were in the microwave at Mar-A-Lago! Now you're back!  I’ll have you arrested! Bigly!”

“Absolutely, Mr. Donnie! It’ll be yuuuge! You just tell the Secret Service that the microwave you talked to last week is now a  chatty mirror in the Treaty Room --oh, and don’t forget to tell Mike Pence.”

“Pence? Pence?. . .” the president paused in thought until it came to him.”Ohh! You mean Mikey?  Why would I tell Mikey anything?”

“Because he’s been looking every day at that copy of the 25th he keeps in his pocket.”

“But today’s the 24th!”

“No, Mr. Donnie, the 25th Amendment! You know, the one in the Constitution that says they can yank you when you go whacko.”

“It says that?” Trump wondered. “In the Constitution?”

“It does.  Uh,  you have read the Constitution, right?”

“Let's focus on the big picture here!” the president snapped. “I’ve got people to handle small details!”

“Ahh,  yes! Of course! Small details, small-minded people --perfect! Who’d you speak to for that advice?”

““I’m speaking with myself, number one, because I have a very good brain and I’ve said a lot of things. … I know what I’m doing and I listen to a lot of people, I talk to a lot of people and at the appropriate time I’ll tell you who the people are. But I speak to a lot of people. My primary consultant is myself, and I have, you know, I have a good instinct for this stuff.”

“Clearly! Such a penetrated intellect, Mr. Donnie! Brilliant, if you do say so yourself!”

Trump allowed himself a smile. “Now you’re talking! Starting to make some sense!”

“You should share that brilliance, Mr. Donnie. Perhaps an appearance on

Fox. . .or maybe another book?”

“Another book? But I had so many written -- best sellers of course. I hire nothing but the best!  Still, one more couldn’t hurt . . .and  the royalties!” Trumped smiled in satisfaction.

Precisely, Sir! Brilliant! Stupendous! Colossal!  And Sir If I may make so bold, perhaps you’ll allow  me to suggest a title?”

Trump felt indulgent. Why not? “So what do  you think I should call my next smashing success of a book? Remember, it has to reflect me!”

“Of course! Exactly! I can see it in the bookstores now: Donald Trump -- The Art of The Schlemiel!”

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Presidential Solitary Vice

PALM BEACH -- The Sunday morning gloom still dimmed the private kitchen when the bathrobe-clad president began playing with his twitter.

Staff had pleaded with him to stop that, but, well,  there were certain needs . . .

He smiled at the first familiar keystrokes, his attention focusing on the task in hand.  He could feel this would be a good one. . .

“Donnie Baby!”

The president froze, eyes darting wildly.

“Donnie Baby! You gotta stop doing that to yourself,  Pal --don’t you know it’ll make you crazy?”

Head swiveling in the gloom, the president could see no one. But that voice. . .Just like last month’s Treaty Room hallucination. Damned Franklin mirror!

“Who are you? Where are you?” he demanded in an unpresidented quiver.

“Mr. Donnie, Mr. Donnie! Don’t you remember?  Your ‘Mirror Image’?” smirked the voice.

“There’s no mirror here! Bannon says all the experts agree!”

“Yep!” the voice chuckled, “which is why I borrowed the microwave -- though I gotta admit, it was Kellyanne Conway's Idea.”

The president stared at the microwave, watching open-mouthed as all the lights flashed once.

“OK, now that you’re paying attention, listen up --you gotta stop this constant twittering-off. I mean, twitter-bating  morning, noon and night, it’s unhealthy!”

“But,” the president started…

“No but-grabbing either!”

“How dare you!”

“Hey, just locker-room stuff, you know? But I gotta tell ya, Mr. Donnie, you grabbing your twitter every chance you get is just making a constant cleanup problem.”

“I’ve got staff for that!”

“Yeah, but even Sean Spicer can only mop  up so much. Look, your habit has disgusted Republicans in Congress, the federal judiciary, Mexico, Canada, Sweden, the United Kingdom, Germany, China -- Hell, even your base is tired of these twitter spurts. Give it  a rest!”

The president paused in thought, quit when it started to hurt. “Well, I…”

“OK, OK, you’re the Great Negotiator, so here’s my offer:  Lay off tweeting your

twitter for a week and I’ll give you bigger hands.”

“And if I don’t?” the president countered.

“You’ll still have little ones, but with @hairy palms!”

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