By James Lincoln Collier
Donald Trump sat at the famous desk in the Oval Office where Roosevelts, Kennedys, and other illustrious dead had sat, and looked around. So this, he thought, is what it’s like to be the most powerful man in the world. Well, he deserved it. He had worked hard, sinking Crooked Hillary—he’d always been good at coining these phrases. So what if those jealous bastards thought it was unfair! Who had said that life was unfair? Kennedy probably. Of course, life was unfair to him in the end, which may have served him right, although he’d better not say that; people still worship the Kennedys. Somebody also said that Rubio had gotten hoisted by his own petard. What the hell is a petard? Supposedly, it means ‘fart,’ but that can’t be right. A fancy word like ‘petard’ had to mean something serious.
Well, he couldn’t dwell on the past. He’d better think of something presidential to do before some wise guy from the press started asking questions. There oughta be some way to shut those guys up. Who the hell did they think they were? He was president, not them. He had beaten the crap out of their beloved Hillary, hadn’t he? And petarded Rubio, too. (Got to look that up in case it does mean ‘fart.’)
Well, forget about petard for now and think of something presidential to do. Sign some papers, maybe. What’s this stuff here on the desk? Here’s some kind of pardon. Maybe I’d better sign it—it’s always presidential to pardon somebody. Who’s it for? I’m not going to pardon Crooked Hillary, that’s for sure. What was it they said she did? Took home some work from the office? What the hell’s wrong with that? You’ve got to do it sometimes, otherwise some damn reporter might stumble on it. Even so, he wasn’t going to pardon her—not after calling her Crooked Hillary all summer. Wouldn’t look good. Gotta find something else to sign. What’s this here? Four hundred-pages-long. Looks like a budget or something. That should be right up his alley. He was supposed to be smart about money. Boy, look at these numbers: Ten billion here, ten billion there. Did they think he was made of money? Oh, national defense. Well, I’m in favor of that. Gotta be. Can’t have those Chinks, Slopes, whatever you call them, taking over Guatemala or some such place.
What else is here? A couple of passes to the Washington Redskins game. Yeah, the Redskins are gonna need some help. Why are people so teed off about that name? What’s wrong with Redskins? Granted, I never saw an Indian with red skin—they look like everybody else when you get down to it. Well, of course they don’t look like Obama, although there’s a lot of evidence that he isn’t American. Hawaiian or something. Does Hawaii belong to us? I thought we freed all those places—Hawaii, Alaska, Turkey. Better have somebody check that and Obama, too. I never trusted that guy. Always going to Latvia or France or someplace. What the hell is so hot about France, anyway? All that crap they eat—snails, frogs’ legs. No wonder they’re always losing wars. They oughta try some real food—chicken pot pie, tuna noodle casserole.
Anyhow, he had other things to think about. He oughta have a press conference. Why the hell do presidents have press conferences? Tell the press to mind their own god damn business. You didn’t see those bastards swarming all over Roosevelt every time he opened his mouth. The press had some respect back in those days. Of course, his wife had an in with the press—she wrote a column or something. But, back then, the press was respectful—crossword puzzles, Babe Ruth, weather reports, clock changes for daylight savings time. Same with Kennedy. The reporters knew all about that chick he had but they kept their mouths shut. Try that today and see where you land. If I had some chick crawling around under my desk they’d have it on the front page the next morning with a picture of my wife saying she was backing me to the hilt. Well, some other phrase.
Maybe I should stick to Crooked Hillary. Well, no. That’s getting kind of old. Rubio, Cruz—dead meat already. Gotta think more presidential. Stick it to the Frogs? Or the Krauts, maybe. Or maybe the Ruskis. With the Ruskis you can never tell. This guy Putin—he’s got them pretty well under control. Maybe I should call Putin. I’m President of the United States, I can call up anybody I want—Mao, de Gaulle, Madame Whatshername from the Krauts.
Yeah, I’ll have a press conference to say I’m phoning these bigwigs. I’ll get some press out of it. Better find out which of ‘em are still alive, though. These press bastards would really work me over if I told them I was calling up some dead guy. Oh, they’d have fun with that. Those reporters all think they’re stand-up comics. To hell with them. If anyone’s gonna be funny around here it’ll be me.