Tongues were wagging, and it was distracting the president from the important job of restoring America’s greatness. He wasn’t nearly as attentive at his daily briefings. Where normally he’d have filled three or four pages of a legal pad with notes at even the shortest briefing, sometimes he was now doing no more than writing the subject of the briefing at the top of the first page, underlining it, and then staring sadly into space as this or that aide imparted crucial intelligence.
Tongues were wagging because Melania hadn’t allowed herself to be seen with him since the middle of the month, when the Wall Street Journal reported that attorney Michael Cohen — earlier famous for repeatedly demanding, “Says who?” like a cornered 5th grader while being interviewed on television about chaos within the Trump presidential campaign — had paid the actress Stormi Daniels $130,000 not to tell anyone about having danced the dirty hula with the president. Mrs. Trump had shown up at the big State of the Uniom after-party with Jorge Luis Mejía, the handsome Honduran-American who cleaned the White House swimming pool.
It was originally assumed that the Hillary Clinton-ish cream pantsuit she wore was by Christian Dior, but according to vogue.com, it was actually by Muslim Dior, and as such must be seen as a tacit fuck-you to Mr. Trump, whom Mrs. Trump had earlier declined to accompany to the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. Over Martin Luther King Jr. weekend, there’d been no trace of her at two dinners at Mar-a-Lago, even though the resort’s kitchen had made goveja, the Slovenian beef soup she is known to love more than life itself.
Sen. McConnell, Rep. Ryan, and the Koch brothers agreed that something needed to be done. “The moment at which the American people cease to look to the Trumps’ as a perfect marriage, one characterised by mutual respect and encouragement, as much by admiration as by love,” Chuck, the less physically repulsive of the Kochs, fretted, “is that at which we as a nation will have irretrievably lost a part of its soul.”
Chief of Staff John Kelly dispatched Mrs. Trump’s so-called communications director (that is, bestest girlfriend), Stephanie Grisham, to see if she couldn’t get Mrs. Trump back on-side, but she was unable to get the First Lady to stop crying and hysterically ripping up the Agent Provocateur lingerie lobbyists and foreign leaders had been sending her since Vanity Fair revealed how much the president enjoyed seeing her in it. Mrs. Trump wouldn’t even open her door to Sarah Fuckabee (oops!) Sanders or Kellyanne Conway, both of whom she was rumoured to regard as lying bitches
As has become commonplace in the Trump White House, it was young Steven Miller who stepped up to the plate and persuaded Gen. Kelly, Ret., to allow him to try to get Mrs. Trump to resume playing ball.
 |
| Miller, or maybe Goebbels |
Having cut his small, rodent-like teeth working for the skittish, inane Minnesota Congressperson Michele Bachmann, Miller knew not to arrive empty-handed, and presented Mrs. Trump with a jabolčni zavitek from TripAdvisor’s No. 1 DC-area Slovenian restaurant. She said, “My husband allows me only 600 calories today because he doesn’t want me to become a disgusting fat pig, but fuck him,” and devoured the pastry with a rapaciousness that left the ordinarily unflappable little Josef Goebbels lookalike soundly flapped.
Their negotiation was derailed almost before it started as Mrs. Trump said she would continue their conversation in her native Slovenian, in defiance of Mr. Miller’s famous anit-cosmopolitanism, and we’re not talking about the magazine. “Če želi govoriti z mano, bo to v jeziku, ki ga izberem,” Mrs. Trump declared, and the president’s prematurely bald, but nonetheless fair-haired, boy had no choice but to capitulate.
With the help of Google Translate, Miller was able to ascertain that Mrs. Trump was most irate about Ms. Daniels having received $130,000 not to talk about her and the future president’s game of hide-the-ferret, while she, as First Lady, had been getting only $87,500 to appear with the president, and hadn’t been paid since his inauguration. Miller of course knew that Mrs. Trump received regular payoffs from her husband — why would a beautiful young woman have married someone so repulsive in every way if not to become very rich herself? — but pretended otherwise, and mused that many women would consider it a great honour to be Mr. Trump’s trophy babe.
“And let’s face it, girlfriend,” he continued, “at 47, you probably don’t have many years of being hot enough for him to even want you to appear with him.” Whereupon the First Lady rang a little bell that brought a pair of Secret Service thugs running, had them drown Mr. Miller in the White House koi pond, and resumed tearing her Agent Provocateur stuff to shreds even though, in a calmer state, she’d probably have allowed it to be auctioned off for, you know, charity.
No comments:
Post a Comment