The Trump Saga: Part 477

Ross Konikoff

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I’m a little embarrassed to tell you this, Sir, but some nights I have dreams, Mr. President, dreams of you as the baby Jesus, lying in the manger at Radio City Music Hall, surrounded by camels, goats, sheep, and actors with fake beards. I stand near you, watching how adorable you look in your pure white swaddling clothes, when suddenly you, the baby Jesus, take my fingers into your mouth, one at a time, gently gumming them until I think I must go mad.”—Ross Konikoff

West Side Stories

 By Ross Konikoff

In his master’s monstrous shadow. (Cartoon by Daryl Cagle[http://www.cartooningforpeace.org/en/dessinateurs/daryl-cagle/].)

In his master’s monstrous shadow. (Cartoon by Daryl Cagle.)

Ross Konikoff

MANHATTAN New York—(Weekly Hubris)—October 2018—Last night, I received a transcript from an unnamed source, relating an incident that took place recently inside the master bedroom of the White House. I thought it prudent to share it only with my closest friends, so please keep this under your hats.

This past Sunday night, President Trump asked Mike Pence to come to his room and help calm him before bed. The president, already adorned in his golden pajamas, climbed into bed as Mike pulled up a chair next to his bedside and gazed deeply into the president’s eyes for a full minute before the president finally spoke.

“Mike, my little friend, a truly great vice president, really, really great, the best vice president I could dream of. Mike, you little dog you, talk to me! Tell me how loyal you are to me.”

Mike helped lower the president’s head down onto his pillow.

“I am so blessed to serve you. You’re a god of a man, a man’s man with perfect judgment and wisdom, a man who speaks his mind, a leader of leaders: to gaze upon you is to know love, to be loving and loyal, now and forever . . .”

“Hey, that’s from “Cats”!! I saw that show twice! I got comps from Gerry Schoenfeld!” interjected the president.

“Shhhhh . . . shhhhh . . . . Yes, Sir, and had I been a cast member I would have groomed you afterwards, licking your hair into the shape of a bright yellow halo! You sir, are a man I trust so deeply that, should it be your desire, I would offer you my very soul, a soul that is so smitten with you that if you were to grow angry and trounce that soul of mine with a flick of your hand, I would feel nothing but the kiss of an angel.”

“Oh, I like that very much Mike. More please!” murmured the president, his eyes fluttering now, half in slumber.

“I’m a little embarrassed to tell you this, Sir, but some nights I have dreams, Mr. President, dreams of you as the baby Jesus, lying in the manger at Radio City Music Hall, surrounded by camels, goats, sheep, and actors with fake beards. I stand near you, watching how adorable you look in your pure white swaddling clothes, when suddenly you, the baby Jesus, take my fingers into your mouth, one at a time, gently gumming them until I think I must go mad. And then when the scene comes to a close, and all the animals and actors with beards have left the stage, the orchestra car descends back down, below stage level, and only you and I are left standing before your thousands of adoring disciples. I open my shirt, pick you up into my arms, and cradle your tender orange face against the skin of my recently waxed chest, you take a nipple, and I rock you gently to sleep.”

“Oooh, I like that one. Tell me another dream, Mike! Pleeeeease tell me another!”

“Well, let me see. OK, here’s another. We’re floating down the Mississippi on a raft that you and I built. I’m Tom Sawyer, you’re Huckleberry Finn, and Becky Thatcher rides along with a picnic basket full of your favoriteshamburgers, french fries, and lots of Diet Coke. It’s a hot, lazy afternoon and all we’re wearing is ragged cut-off jeans with rope belts, untied. Our bodies are glistening with perspiration. We’re lying side by side, our arms touching, dangling our legs off the side of the raft. Sometimes, our legs touch under the water, too.”

“What’s Becky wearing?” Trump asks.

“Huh? Oh . . . her. I guess some sort of old gingham dress,” says Mike.

“Is she wearing underwear?”

“Uhh . . . I don’t . . . uh . . . no . . . but we’re not, either. It’s so hot that we pull down our shorts and go skinny dipping in the river.”

“Does Becky get naked, too?” asks a drowsy Trump.

“Uh huh,” says Mike, “and you look so manly floating in the water next to me that I can’t take my eyes off you, Sir. And when we climb back onto the raft, I watch the beads of water lingering on your stomach and thighs as you lie back, letting the sunlight play over your soft skin, Sir,” says Mike.

“Is Becky still naked? On the raft? How’s her rack? Does she have a decent rack, Mike?”

“Rack, Sir?”

“Yeah, you know, her knockers, high beams, golden winnebagoes??”

“I . . . I . . . don’t unders . . . oh, you mean how is her figure? About average, I guess . . . but it doesn’t compare to your masculine build, Sir.”

The president is now very drowsy, his voice gradually trailing off.

“Mike . . . is . . . is she . . . .” The president falls into a deep slumber. Mike whispers to the president.

“Good night my lovely Huck, good night.”

The vice president tucks the covers up around Trump’s shoulders, kisses his forehead, and then turns off the light. Quietly tiptoeing out of the bedroom, he closes the door gently behind him.

When he returns home, the vice president fires up his MacBook, grabs his copy of The Big Book of Quotes, and resumes gathering just the right hackneyed clichés for his acceptance speech after the House of Representatives removes Trump from the office of president on January 15th, 2019. He makes sure to convey his gratitude to the entire Trump clan, all of whom share responsibility in making his transition necessary. A few more sentences are included regarding forgiveness and issuing pardons for every one of the Trumps, so that they may resume their former lives as swindlers, cheats, and hustlers in their real estate licensing LLC.

It’s a healing gesture for the good of the nation, of course.

Ross Konikoff

About Ross Konikoff

Ross Konikoff, freelance New York City trumpet player, states he is delighted and honored to have his work put before the highly discriminating readers of Weekly Hubris, published and edited by his friend and mentor, Elizabeth Boleman-Herring. Konikoff was born in Buffalo, New York, a cold environment; surrounded by desperate people, out of work, out of money, and out of opportunity. And that was just in his house. Determined to pull himself up by his mute straps, Ross quickly ascended from his first job as a seven-year-old paperboy to his second job as an eight-year-old paperboy. Eventually, he taught himself how to play the trumpet and learned many songs; managed to make something of himself; and accumulated a Manhattan condo, a trophy wife, and a phalanx of deadbeat friends along the way. The trumpet requires hours of daily maintenance to stay in tip-top shape, but Ross’s desire to write things that make people laugh also requires hours of work. Splitting his time between his lips and his laptop, he humbly presents to you his first efforts at getting some laughs and, most importantly, some attention: Breaking Even Every Time; and You've Got To Be Carefully Taut.
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2 Responses to The Trump Saga: Part 477

  1. judy pearce says:

    Lindsey Graham next, pleasepleaseplease.

  2. Ross Konikoff says:

    Judy, I’ll look into it!

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