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A conversation between Schumer and McConnell

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McConnell: We demand that Hunter Biden testify.

Schumer: Why? He had nothing to do with this.

McConnell: Well, maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. We won’t know until we cross-examine him under oath.

Schumer: That inane reasoning could apply to everyone on earth.

McConnell: We reserve the right to call everyone on earth as witnesses.

Schumer: That’s completely psychotic. You’re just trying to distract attention from the overwhelming evidence of Trump’s crimes.

McConnell: Look! [waves shiny object up and down, back and forth]. Woo-ee! Looky here! Looky-looky.

Schumer: Won’t work, Moscow Mitch.

[Suddenly McConnell’s top aide comes running in] Leader McConnell, you have a phone call from Russia!

McConnell: Let me have that. [takes call from aide] Hello? Who is this? Vladimir? Hi, Vlad, what’s up?

Putin: We love what you are doing, Mr. Leader Mitch. Everybody in Russia love you. If you stop like USA, you come Moscow, me give you good job.

McConnell: Why, that’s darned nice of you, Vladimir.

Putin: Thank you. Please to give my regard to esteemed President Trump. Tell him pee tape safe in my hands.

McConnell: Good to know, Vladimir. Say, you couldn’t possibly send me a copy of it, could you?

Putin: Sure. Easy. On way! Dasvidanya!

McConnell: Peace out, Vladmir! [turns back to Schumer] So, you’re gonna agree to subpoena Hunter Biden, right?

Schumer: Wrong.

McConnell: Then no deal! No witnesses!

[enter Susan Collins]

Collins: Mr. Leader, I’m getting flack from my people. They’re demanding that we allow witnesses.

McConnell: Tell them we’ll bring in Hunter Biden.

Collins: Actually, Mr. Leader, they want to hear from Bolton.

McConnell: Bolton, Schmolton, who cares about that mustache?

Collins: Mainers are a fair people, Mr. Leader. They expect witnesses to be called in a trial.

McConnell: I’ve never been to Maine and I never want to go. You get a lot of snow up there, don’t you?

Collins: Yes, Mr. Leader. But about Bolton: What can I tell my people?

McConnell: Tell ‘em you have two words for them, and they ain’t “Merry Christmas.” That’s what I tell the American people!

Collins: Thank you, Mr. Leader. [exits]

[Enter Lisa Murkowski]

Murkowski: Mr. Leader, I’m getting slammed in the Alaskan press. They want witnesses to be called, beginning with Bolton. What should I tell them?

McConnell: Tell them we’ll bring in Bolton. Michael Bolton.

Murkowski: That washed-up old singer? Nobody cares about him. They want to hear from John Bolton!

McConnell? Why? All he has to offer is the truth. We don’t care about the truth. In fact, we want to cover up the truth. If I bring Michael Bolton in to sing, the liberal media will have a field day. They’ll forget all about impeachment. We’ll also get Ted Nugent in. And Marie Osmond: she can sing the Star Spangled Banner.

Murkowski: I don’t think that will satisfy Alaskans, Mr. Leader. They want to hear from real witnesses.

McConnell: Goldang it, Hunter Biden is a real witness.

[enter Jesus]

Jesus: Mitchell, Hunter Biden is irrelevant to this case. Everybody knows it. I know it. My father knows it.

McConnell: Who asked you?

Jesus: It’s my duty to weigh in.

McConnell: The Trump administration is doing fine without you, Mr. Christ. I suggest you butt out.

Jesus: All right. But don’t be surprised if, when you call me in the future, I don’t come.

McConnell: Fine by me.

[Jesus disappears. Enter Chief Justice Roberts]

Roberts: Mr. Leader, I’m inclined to allow witnesses, beginning with Mr. Bolton.

McConnell: Hunter Biden! Hunter Biden! Hunter Biden!

Roberts: Really, Mr. Leader, Hunter Biden has nothing to do with the charges brought against the president.

McConnell: Maybe I’ll bring charges against you, Mr. Loves-Gay-Marriage Justice!

Roberts: I voted my conscience.

McConnell: What does conscience have to do with it? The evangelicals hate gays.

Roberts; I’m not evangelical.

McConnell: Well, neither am I, but I do kiss their asses. After all, I have a re-election campaign coming up, and the evangelicals are big in Kentucky.

Roberts: I understand, but I don’t have to run for anything. I have a lifetime appointment.

Schumer: Mitch, I’ve caucused with my Democrats, and we’ve agreed to a compromise: You allow Bolton to testify, and we’ll allow Hunter Biden.

McConnell: Sorry, that was the old deal. I have a new one.

Schumer: What’s that?

McConnell: We bring in Hunter Biden, and Joe Biden, and Hillary, and Obama, and Pencil Neck Liddle Adam Schiff.

Schumer: And Democrats get–?

McConnell: Bupkus.

[cut to Trump tweet]

Trump tweet: Moscow Crooked Chuck Schumer is a Russian troll! Lock him up!

[Trump rally] LOCK SCHUMER UP! JAIL KILLARY! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Trump [smiling] I love my people!


Leaked! A secret conversation between Trump and Mick Mulvaney

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[Mulvaney is Trump’s Acting Chief of Staff. They’re in the Oval Office of the White House.]

Mulvaney: The thing is, Mr. President, there are international treaties that prohibit the deliberate destruction of cultural sites in warfare.

Trump: Depends how you define a “cultural site,” doesn’t it, Matt?

Mulvaney: Mick, sir. My first name is Mick.

Trump: Whatever. But look, Kellyanne came up with a list of things I can bomb in Iran. I want you to take a look at it and tell me what you think.

Mulvaney [studying the list]: I can’t read this very well, sir. Her handwriting is so bad.

Trump: Yeah, well, penmanship isn’t one of Kellyanne’s strengths. She’s an intellectual.

Mulvaney: Okay, so she has the Golestan Palace. Mr. President, that’s one of Iran’s holiest sites. It was built in the 16th century and is where the Khans lived. The Shah of Iran was coronated there.

Trump: Kind of like the Trump Tower of Tehran, eh? Well, let’s keep it on the list. Boom! Gone! I have a big military, don’t I, Milt?

Mulvaney: Mick, sir. Yes, you have the world’s biggest military, Mr. President.

Trump: So what else is on Kellyanne’s list?

Mulvaney: Well, she also has Pasargadae. That’s a U.N. World Heritage Site, sir.

Trump: What is it, some kind of theme park like Disney World?

Mulvaney: No, sir, it’s actually an archeological site where Cyrus the great built his capital, in the sixth century BCE.

Trump: What’s BCE?

Mulvaney: “Before the common era,” sir. Before Christ.

Trump: Then why don’t they say “before Christ”?

Mulvaney: I don’t know, sir.

Trump: I think my good friend, Franklin Graham, would be offended by that.

Mulvaney: Yes, sir. But you see, sir, you can’t destroy Pasargadae. It would be like the Iranians destroying Washington.

Trump: Let them try, Muff, let them try. Boom! I’ll just drop a couple bunker busters on Khamenei.

Mulvaney: Mick, sir. Thing is, Mr. President, the Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict was signed by most of the world’s nations, including us, in 1954. It specifically says “The High Contracting Parties undertake to ensure the immunity of cultural property under special protection by refraining, from the time of entry in the International Register, from any act of hostility directed against such property and, except for the cases provided for in paragraph 5 of Article 8, from any use of such property or its surroundings for military purposes.”

Trump: Aha! So there’s an exception! What’s that paragraph 5 Article 8?

Mulvaney: It says, “If any cultural property mentioned in paragraph 1 of the present Article is situated near an important military objective as defined in the said paragraph, it may nevertheless be placed under special protection if the High Contracting Party asking for that protection undertakes, in the event of armed conflict, to make no use of the objective and particularly, in the case of a port, railway station or aerodrome, to divert all traffic there from. In that event, such diversion shall be prepared in time of peace.”

Trump: So if a cultural site is near, say, a nuclear enrichment plant, I can still bomb it?

Mulvaney: No, sir, just the opposite. If Iran says it’s protected, then you have to respect that.

Trump: Look, Mitt, I need another opinion. Kellyanne!

[Enter Kellyanne Conway]

Kellyanne: Yes, Mr. President?

Trump: Mitt here says I can’t bomb anything in Iran because everything is a cultural site.

Mulvaney: It’s Mick, sir, not Mitt.

Kellyanne: That’s fake news, sir. Iran has no cultural sites.

Mulvaney: That’s not true, Kellyanne! Who told you that?

Kellyanne: Vice President Pence. He said Iran is a fake country.

Mulvaney: Mr. President, you’re getting bad advice! Iran is a real country! They’re in the United Nations!

Trump: Pence!

[Enter Mike Pence]

Trump: Dick, let’s pray.

Pence: Mike, sir. All right, let’s get down on our knees. [Everyone kneels] ‘Almighty God, please bless your Instrument, Donald Trump, the President of the United States, whom you sent to the American people to cut taxes on billionaires and persecute queers.’

Kellyanne: Amen!

Trump: [rises, dusts off pants]: Okay, Pence, now what’s this I hear about Iran being a fake country?

Pence: It’s true, sir. Ask Franklin Graham.

Trump: [to Kellyanne]: Get Franklin on my phone.

[Kellyanne makes a phone call. Hands the phone to Trump]

Trump: Franklin? Is that you? I’m putting you on speaker phone.

Franklin Graham: Yes sir, Mr. President, it’s me.

Trump: Where are you? I hear a woman’s voice—are you with a woman?

Franklin Graham: No, Mr. President, I’m just alone here in my chapel, praying.

Trump: Look, Pence tells me you told him Iran is a fake country. Is that true?

Franklin Graham: Well, it depends how to define “country,” Mr. President. For example, take The Grand Duchy of Fenwick.

Trump: What’s that?

Franklin Graham: It was a country that declared war on the U.S. but it wasn’t a real country, it was a fake country in the movie, The Mouse That Roared.

Trump: How could a fake country declare war on a real country?

Franklin Graham: Exactly, sir. My whole point.

Trump: All right, Melvin, I’m ordering you to bomb all the fake cultural sites in that fake country, Iran.

Mulvaney: Mick, sir. I’ll give the order to Esper.

Trump: Who’s that?

Mulvaney: Mark Esper, your Secretary of Defense.

Trump: Right, right…okay, everybody, get out. And send in the chief of my Secret Service detail.

[Everybody exits the Oval Office. A big, burly man enters.]

Trump: Ralphie, get me a porn star. I don’t care which one. In fact, make it two.

Secret Service agent: It’s Roger, sir. At once, sir. The usual place—the Lincoln Bedroom?

Trump: Yes. And order up a couple buckets of KFC and some Nachos.

Sercret Service agent: Yes, Mr. President!

FINIS


A Trumpian Christmas Carol

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Trump couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the Adderall. So he sat up half the night, tweeting. Hillary! Hunter Biden! Christianity Today! Impeachment! Pelosi! Schiff! AOC! Toilets! Windmills! Lightbulbs! There were so many things to bitch about, he hardly knew where to begin.

Outside Mar-a-Lago, the south Florida night was languid. The soft wind susurrated the palms; the muffled thunder of surf made a lulling murmur. Trump dozed off, his head cradled in his arms.

Suddenly something awoke him. Trump’s first thought was to put on his wig. Then he realized he was alone—except what was that glow?

He heard a chain rattle. Then: “I am Ivana, the Ghost of Christmas Past, Donald.”

Trump stifled a gasp. The ghost continued: “I have come to show you many awful things you have done. Come.” The ghost extended an ectoplasmic hand, grasped his, and they floated into the night sky.

They were high over the Texas-Mexico border. Below, a desert installation: warehouses, garages, cages! They swooped in. An outdoor prison cell, lined with barbed wire; within, hundreds were crammed, children and babies. “Behold, Donald, your handiwork,” intoned the ghost. A brown-skinned girl, maybe nine, dirty and dressed in rags, and weeping, held a tiny baby in her arms. Rocking it slowly, she sang a lullabye in Spanish. Said the ghost: “The baby will be dead by morning, Donald. Because of you.”

Before Trump could react, the ghost, holding his arm, zoomed into the sky, then back again to Earth. They hovered over a cemetery: a funeral was in progress. “See the man and the woman, dressed in mourning black,” the ghost told Trump. “They are the Gold Star Muslim parents you belittled. Their American son died in Iraq, defending his fellow soldiers. You insulted them and called them wicked.” The slain soldier’s parents wept. Trump watched, unmoved. Then, they took to the sky again.

Next, Trump looked down on a young man who showed the symptoms of spasticity. His gnarled hands trembled; he spoke haltingly, but he was a good worker at a Goodwill Store, and everybody liked him. He had multiple sclerosis, and was Christian. “You mocked him, Donald. You made fun of his disability.” Trump scowled.

They were above a meeting of white supremacists, plotting a Christian takeover of the U.S. The conspirators spoke of killing Jews, Blacks, homosexuals, Muslims, liberals. They spoke of AR15s and Molotov cocktails and civil war. “These are the people you said were good,” said the ghost. “They look to you as their leader, and you egged them on.” Trump shrugged.

Then they saw Barack Obama. He was relaxed, in his home, reading the New York Times. “You said Obama was born in Kenya,” the ghost sternly told Trump. “You insisted on it even when you knew it wasn’t true. You said he didn’t go to Harvard, where he was president of the Harvard Law Review. You lied, Donald, and you never apologized. And by the way, Donald,” the ghost continued, “Obama went through eight years as president without a single scandal. No one in his administration was indicted or went to jail—unlike yours, where your entire senior campaign staff is either in jail or about to go to jail. Obama’s marriage, to one woman, was perfect—unlike your adulterous history.” Trump just crossed his arms and sniffed.

Next, the ghost showed Trump tens of millions of Americans who have healthcare insurance because of the Affordable Care Act. They ranged from Alaska to Florida, Maine to Arizona, Hawaii to Puerto Rico and Guam. There were mothers who got prenatal care, old people who got prescription drug coverage, working class people who otherwise would not have been able to afford to see a doctor. “See all these millions, Donald? Many of them would be sick, or dead, without Obamacare. And yet, you tried to kill Obamacare. You’re still trying. Why, Donald, why?”

Trump had no answer. Unlike Scrooge, in the original Christmas Carol, he had no redemptive instinct. He had no capacity for shame. With a dead soul, he was pure vindictive resentment. “What shall we do with you, Donald John Trump?” asked the ghost. “Is there anything within you that can be salvaged?”

Trump remained defiant. All he could think of was getting rid of this ghost, hunting him down and exacting revenge. The ghost knew this. The ghost had hoped Trump would show some sign of remorse. Instead, there was nothing.

“I’m sorry, Donald,” said the ghost. “If you had given me the slightest hint of repentance, I would not have to do what I am about to do. But you have not. Therefore, let it be.” And the ghost uttered mystical words, and there was a flash of light, and Donald J. Trump was gone. Where he ended up, no one knew, or—let us be clear—cared.


Jesus pays Trump a little visit

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As we head into Christmas week, I can’t help but wonder what Jesus Christ might tell Donald J. Trump, in the unlikely event they were to meet.

[SCENE: Middle of the night. Trump is sitting in his underwear in his Mar-a-Lago bedroom, tweeting. Suddenly, a blast of white light! There, two feet away, is…]

Trump: What the fuck? Who the hell are you? [pounds button for Secret Service]

Jesus: Don’t bother. It won’t work. Besides, they couldn’t see me anyway. Only you can.

Trump: Is it really you–?

Jesus: No, it’s Willem Dafoe, schmuck. Of course it’s me.

Trump: I’ll be damned! Franklin Graham told me you loved me, but I never expected a personal visit!

Jesus: Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not here because I love you.

Trump: You’re not?

Jesus: Hell, no. I hate you.

Trump: Whaaa…?

Jesus: Loathe you. Despise you. I’d really like to kick your fat white ass, except that I’m non-violent.

Trump: I thought you loved everybody!

Jesus: Myth. I love good people. But you? You’re a POS, Donald. You’re the worst person I’ve met since Pontius Pilate, and I’ve known some pretty horrible people: Hitler, Pol Pot, Jim Jones, Harvey Weinstein…

Trump: But my people love me! The base…the evangelicals…

Jesus: They’re all assholes. Trust me, my Father is preparing a special place for them, and it ain’t in Heaven.

Trump: And me–?

Jesus: I don’t know yet. That’s why my Father sent me here, to give you one last chance.

Trump: A deal! Great! I’m a great dealmaker. Nobody negotiates like me—just ask Kim Jong-Un.

Jesus: So here are our terms. You go on national T.V., apologize for being a schmuck, resign your office immediately, and then spend the rest of your life serving the poor—celibate.

Trump: Celibate?

Jesus: That’s right. No sex. Nada. Zilch. Bupkes.

Trump: You have got to be kidding.

Jesus: Do I look like I’m kidding?

Trump: But look, Mr., err, Christ—

Jesus: Call me Jesus.

Trump: Jesus. I can’t live without beautiful women. Love ‘em to pieces! Love to grope their pussies! Y’know, they let me, because I’m famous.

Jesus: Then you’re going to the H-place.

Trump: Can I have an air-conditioned suite?

Jesus: Nope. In fact, I’m putting you in the Oven Room, where the temperature is the same as the interior of the Sun.

Trump: Umm, so what if I promise to be celibate?

Jesus: That’s a start. You have to apologize to the American people and the world. You have to say, “I’ve been a schmuck, a pig, a thug, a liar, a bully, a sexual predator, a con man. I’ve taken advantage of the simpletons who voted for me.” And then you have to resign the presidency.

Trump: So Pence would get the job?

Jesus: Yup.

Trump: But he’s…

Jesus: Yes. A moron. I know. We’ll deal with him later. Right now, you’re the problem.

Trump: And then you say I have to serve the poor?

Jesus: Yup.

Trump: But I hate poor people! They’re so dumb, and smelly, and ugly.

Jesus: All the more reason to humble yourself before them.

Trump: I gotta think about this. Can you give me until tomorrow?

Jesus: No. You have to decide now.

Trump: I need to talk to Melania first. And Ivanka. And Don, Jr. and Jared.

Jesus: Don’t bother. They’re already in Hell.

Trump: What?!?!?

Jesus: Yup. I sent them there right before I came here.

Trump: My family is in Hell?!?!?

Jesus: Don’t worry. I got them a nice condo, in a cooler part of the Inferno.

Trump: Jesus Christ!

Jesus: Yes?

Trump: [Drumming his fingers on the table] Tell you what, let me make you an offer. I’ll do the apology thing. I’ll do the poor thing. I’ll quit the presidency. But celibacy? No way! You gotta promise me I’ll have all the porn stars I want.

Jesus: No go.

Trump: I thought you said this was a negotiation!

Jesus: No. That’s what you said. I’m giving you my Father’s terms: Our way, or straight to Hell. And trust me, there are no porn stars in Hell.

Trump: Where do they go?

Jesus: The nice ones go to Heaven. The other ones go to Purgatory.

Trump: This sucks.

Jesus: Yes, basically, it does.

Trump: Look, let me stay. I have a plan. I’m remaking the Courts in my name. I’m destroying the Democrat Party. I have the cops, the military and the gun owners on my side. This time next year, I’ll be Dictator-For-Life. And I promise I’ll make you the Chief Deity! We’ll put your face on the stamps! Everybody will worship you, and if they don’t, I’ll send them to concentration camps! Doesn’t that sound like fun?

Jesus: You’re bargaining, Donald.

Trump: You’ll be Jesus of America! Second only to me. Think of the power, the glory! And with my nukes, we could take over the world, kill all the Muslims and Jews, make the whole fucking planet worship you! You and only you, Jesus! Doesn’t that sound fantastic?

Jesus: You’re wasting your time, kid. You have five seconds to make up your mind, or…

[The clock is ticking. Trump is sweating. Outside his Mar-a-Lago window, a seagull caws a loud, lonely cry into the night.]

Jesus: Five. Four. Three. Two—

Trump: All right! I accept your terms! But tell me this: I assume it’s okay for me to bring my laptop to Hell, and that I’ll still be able to have Internet access, including porn.

Jesus: –One!

[A gigantic burst of white light. Suddenly the Mar-a-Lago bedroom is empty. No more Trump, just Jesus sitting there, a smile on his face. Cut to Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “America the Beautiful”]


My Trump Dream

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I had a dream where Mitch McConnell was lynched, his body swinging from a rope tied to an oak tree.

In the same dream, Donald Trump, Jr. was wearing prison jumpsuit orange, behind bars, eating a cheeseburger. He must have weighed 400 pounds.

Melania Trump, in my dream, was working the makeup counter at Macy’s, trying to get shoppers to buy lip gloss. She looked terrible: dowdy, bags under her eyes, her hair a grey mess.

Kevin McCarthy was in there, too, a farm boy in flip-flops, wearing a straw hat and chewing on tobacco. His face was pock-marked with pimples, and he had ugly, protruding buck teeth. He was leaning back on a boulder, his overalls dropped down to his ankles, while, kneeling before him, was Lindsay Graham, servicing him. Auntie Lindsay (as she’s called) was naked, except for a leather jockstrap.

Suddenly, Doug Collins was there. The ranking Republican on the House Judiciary Committee was carrying a huge piece of fatback. He was gnawing on it, chewing each piece and then loudly swallowing. His Republican colleague, Matt Gaetz, demanded a piece of the fatback. Collins said no. Gaetz punched him in the face. The two of them became embroiled in a heated battle, fists flying, legs kicking, screaming and cursing. In the midst of all this, Gordon Sondland showed up. Stepping between them, he offered them both $1 million if they would stop fighting. Instead, they overpowered Sondland and devoured him.

Ivanka was watching. She started screaming: “Don’t eat him! He’s Daddy’s friend!” But soon, Sondland had entirely disappeared, and poor Ivanka took off her designer clothes and began lashing herself with the Mueller Report. Pretty soon her back was bleeding. Chief Justice John Roberts came running in and said, “Oh dear, let me clean that for you,” and he swabbed Ivanka with his black Justice’s robe. The scene then changed to Mar-a-Lago. There was a terrific storm—a hurricane, really. The palm trees were nearly horizontal and the roar of the wind was like a freight train. A crowd of Republicans in MAGA hats gathered on the beach. The scene was very somber and disturbing. They were moaning, “No! No!” I wondered what they were so upset about, and then I saw Donald J. Trump. He was as big as a blimp, his head enormously swollen, but his fright wig had blown off and instead of the crown of orange hair his head was entirely bald. Seagulls were pecking at his head, drawing blood, but Trump didn’t seem to know. Instead, with fat hands the size of Virginia hams he was punching the air, like a fighter shadow-boxing. The MAGA people watched as he insanely punched, attacked, swooped, ducked down, feinted…but there was nothing there, just Blimpy Trump and the storm. Suddenly Trump went down, into the black, churning sea, and, with a gurgle and bubbles, he disappeared beneath the surface.

The MAGA crowd issued a deep groan of fear. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. Then I realized I was right there, at Mar-a-Lago, but I had to hide, because the MAGAns would have killed me if they’d seen me. So I climbed up into a palm tree, and who should I meet there but Barack Obama! He smiled, put his finger to his lips, said “Shh,” and put his arm around me. I never felt so peaceful, so protected in my entire life.

And then I woke up.


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