[Shortly after the election, I started writing a three act play, a mashup loosely inspired by Ubu Roi and King Lear. Now, a month into the new regime, I think I saw what had happened and what was coming fairly clearly. So, rather than obsess over the outrage du jour, I am going to post the play here, a scene at a time.]
Trumpaboo's office. Everything in it is cheap, flimsy, generic. Trumpaboo enters, a corpulent, jowly, elderly man with an orange face and carrot-top comb-over, naked except for boxer shorts, a giant, erect codpiece, and a too-long red silk tie with an immaculate Windsor knot. As he stalks about the stage, three aides, all young men in their twenties in cheap, extremely ill-fitting, grey business suits, very handsome, tall, white, and blonde, enter one by one and follow him at a respectful distance. We know they're aides because on the back of each of their jackets is a sheet of paper with block letters identifying him as AIDE #1, AIDE #2, and so on. It is the Parade of the Nincompoops.
Trumpaboo:
Lear, the limp-dick POTUS! The "s" stands for "shot his wad." I didn't even have to say it. It was beautiful! He showed them. I said, "I don't understand what he just said," like it was his fault! Those numbskull fake so-called journalists bought it and I didn't even have to sell it. Much. Let's face it, I nailed him to the wall, and all he could do was make the fish mouth. (Imitates slack jaw and googly eyes.) He was like a Billy Bass, flopping around up there. I gave it to him like a two by four up the anal cavitard, the crapulent old cockpoop; he's up against the ropes, one! two! three! you're fired! get the hell out of here! What a debate! Hee hee hee hee! I was my usual charming and brilliant self. He was stale cigarette smoke. He was a wet fart. I can't wait to pry the crown off him. Everybody is going to love it. Everybody loves me. That's all I want. I've never had to pay for it, and so what if I do? When you're a star you can do whatever you want. Anyway, what else are you going to spend money on? I'll bet Lear can't get it even if he pays for it. Do you know if he has a girlfriend?
Aide #1:
No, sir.
Trumpaboo:
No you don't know or no he doesn't?
Aide #2:
No he doesn't know.
Trumpaboo:
He doesn't know what?
Aide #2:
He doesn't know if King POTUS Lear has a girlfriend.
Trumpaboo:
He doesn't know... SIR. And I'm talking to Number One here. Am I talking to you?
Aide #2:
I, uh, I don't know, sir. I thought you were, sir.
Trumpaboo:
So you don't know? You don't know when you're talking out of turn?
Aide #3:
Who doesn't? What?
Trumpaboo:
What is the matter with you? They (indicating Aides #1 and #2) pass gas and it comes out your mouth! What a useless bunch of turnips. Security!
Four burly security guards enter. We know they're security guards because, over their obviously expensive, well-tailored, blue silk suit jackets, they wear bullet proof vests with ACME SECURITY printed on the back in white block letters. They also wear shoulder holsters with enormous guns.
Trumpaboo:
Take these losers out and um... recognizing that this is ordered by me as an official act in connection with my official duties as soon-to-be... as not quite yet... as UPOTUS... that means unprecedented of the United States... FIRE them. Fire them. If you get my drift.
The security guards haul the terrified aides offstage. There are three loud pistol shots.
Six jurists descend from the heavens. All are white people dressed in black robes; one of them, Associate Justice Long Dong, is a white man in blackface.
Trumpaboo:
Ah, the Supreme Court (Republican) of The United MAGA. Chief Scrotum Ninolito, to what do I owe this pleasure?
Chief SCROTUM Ninolito:
In nomine supremae curiae (publicane) unitae MAGA, ego to absolvo.
Trumpaboo:
Thanks, Mr. Chief SCROTUM. Let's do lunch. Have your people etcetera.
SCROTUM ascends back into the heavens.
The security guards return.
Guard #1:
Discharged from service as ordered, sir. (He sneezes.) Pardon me.
Trumpaboo:
Don't worry about it. Day one. But keep your boogers to yourself from now on. Now go get me the next three.
The security guards salute and exit.
Trumpaboo:
I can say anything. Lear lets mad dogs roam the streets, that's what I'll tell them. Mad dogs, eating babies. Something like that. I can do better. Ooh, Haitians. The old switcheroo. Haitian babies eat mad dogs! Mad dogs that Lear gave their parents as a reward for violating our borders. Our sacred borders. Yeah! That's why they grow up to be so nasty. I'll say, they steal the necklaces right off the throats of good, upstanding, American soccer moms. Suburban soccer moms. Whom they're raping. I'm the only one who can protect them! They'll love that. Keep 'em happy. (Singing. He does a little swaying dance step while he sings.) Happy days are here again, happy days are here again, happy days are here again, happy days are here again. Who's hip, daddio? I'm hip, that's who. Give them a little of that song and dance next time, maybe half an hour or so, they'll love it. Ha! Lear, you're toast. Gonna rip your brains out and use them for wallpaper paste. Maybe rub Cheney and Kinzinger's noses in it first. Gonna have fun with them. Gonna do me some official fuckin' acts on those chumps.
Security Guard #1 enters.
Security Guard #1:
We have three new candidates, sir.
Trumpaboo:
Bring 'em in! And don't forget to wash your hands. (Mutters to himself as Guard leaves.) You're fired, you're fired, you're fired.
