[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. Three new aides, similar to the previous aides, listen to him reverently.
Trumpaboo:
By my little green candle, Limp-dick pulls the bait-and-switch! Thinks he's got the wood to give it to us up the dirt canal without a paddle. Cor-dee-lee-yah. Cor-dee-lee-yah. What the fuck kind of a name is Cor-dee-lee-yah? I've got to admit, she may not be my type; she's not a babe; but she's a looker. Almost as good as Representative Boobertaboo. I'd do her. Wouldn't you do her? I'm asking.
Aides:
Yes, sir.
Trumpaboo:
So ooh, I'm scared, I'm shivering in my size 16 shoes. They're Johnston and Murphy's by the way, made special for me: genuine Moroccan rhino hide, hand-stitched with manila cording! They say my size 16 feet - the biggest ever, by the way, two sizes bigger than Lincoln's - these shoes stopped a bullet once, saved my life - but that's another story. Where was I?
Aides look at each other in fear and confusion. Finally, a brave aide pipes up, his voice trembling.
Aide #1:
You were discussing your emotional state, sir.
Aide #2:
As it pertains to your shoes.
Trumpaboo (after waiting a moment, to Aide #3):
Well, you want to pitch in? Gonna let the others make you look like a weak-knee weenie?
Aide #3 (desperately):
What they said.
Trumpaboo:
Security!
Four burly security guards enter. At a nod from Trumpaboo, they begin to haul the aides away.
Trumpaboo (indicating aide #3):
Not that one. He's a keeper. Send the others home to their mamas.
The security guards exit with Aides #1 and #2.
SCROTUM begins to descend from the heavens.
Trumpaboo (waving them off):
Don't need you this time. I really am sending the little snots home to their mamas. For I am a just and merciful former POTUS on the road back to glory like nobody's ever seen.
SCROTUM ascends back out of sight.
Trumpaboo:
Okay, li'l fella, don't be scared, Papa Trumpaboo won't bite. C'mon over here. Where'd I get you from?
Aide #3:
Jefferson F. Davis Technological and Agricultural College of Bible Studies, sir.
Trumpaboo:
And what's your name?
Aide #3, hereinafter Little Paulie:
Steven M. Poleznyyidiot, sir.
Trumpaboo:
Well, Little Paulie, that's what I'll call you. Hey, Paulie want a cracker? Ha-ha. There just may be a perch for you in my cabinet, my little birdbrain, when I resume my so rudely and fraudulently interrupted time of immunity from criminal prosecution for official acts. So, inkle me some of your thinkling. How do we snatch that second term? Ha-ha, I said snatch. Let's hear it. Let a thousand flowers bloom!
Little Paulie:
Um... you tell me.
Trumpaboo:
Good advice. So... what do voters care about? Our voters. Fuck the other ones.
Little Paulie (more confident, now):
You, sir.
Trumpaboo:
Wroooooong! (He's imitating the sound of the buzzer on a game show when a contestant blows it.) The rubes don't care about me any more than I care about them. They think they're playing a video game, and I'm their avatar.
Little Paulie:
You mean it's not for real?
Trumpaboo:
Oh, I'm real, alright. But they don't know it. They're not looking this way. They think that character on the screen is real.
Little Paulie:
They're watching him, not you - the press, too.
Trumpaboo:
Now you've got it. I'm the only free man in America! I'm the only one who can do and say whatever I want, and nobody cares. It's beautiful. They use my name all the time, but they never talk about me. They get all worked up about fake news, and it's all fake news. I cash in, and all they see is God's tool for saving unborn babies. I love unborn babies. The more unborn babies, the better. If I have seen far, it is because I have stood on unborn babies. I have been to the mountaintop! Where was I? Oh yeah, you: what do you think I should say I'll do? I can tell you're a guy who keeps his finger on the pulse.
Little Paulie:
Anything you think they'd want to hear.
Trumpaboo:
And what would you want to hear?
Little Paulie (in a sing-song, bold and gradually growing bolder. The Turd Chorus joins in, likewise growing louder and more confident):
Um... kick out the spics, the slants, the slopes, the gooks, the chinks, the nips, the wogs, the greasers, the wetbacks, the beaners, the kikes, and most of all the ali baba abdul jihadi osama ragheads -
Trumpaboo:
Whoa! Works for me. Make me a list. (Singing, to the tune of "I've Got a Little List" from The Mikado.) I've got a little list, I've got a little list -
Little Paulie (continuing the song):
of society offenders who might well be underground -
Trumpaboo and Little Paulie (singing together):
- and who never would be missed! Who never would be missed!
Trumpaboo:
Oh, we're going to make beautiful music together. A man after my own heart. Boy, can I pick 'em! I've got an idea. (Yelling.) Grima! Grima! Get your spotty white behind in here.
Enter Grima.
Trumpaboo:
Little Paulie, meet Grima Lotsabucksaboo. Grima's going to run things around here while I'm taking care of business. Don't tell VP-to-be Vontz, that bedbug. Grima, meet Little Paulie. he's the new guy on our team. Which means you can give him noogies.
Lotsabucksaboo:
Pleased to meet you.
Little Paulie:
Sir.
Lotsabucksaboo:
Quite right. Well trained.
Trumpaboo:
So, Grima, I'll get right down to it: Cor-dee-lee-yah, you've heard about it?
Lotsabucksaboo:
Yes.
Trumpaboo:
Her fat ass is the only thing that stands between me and highly lucrative immunity. How do we cut her nuts off, if she doesn't have any?
Lotsabucksaboo:
Well, in the good old days, where I come from, they'd have had the black bitch on her knees in the kitchen with a floor brush in her hand and her mouth around somebody's cock. Not that I'm suggesting -
Little Paulie:
Off the niggers, off the -
Trumpaboo:
Ssh, you're not allowed to say that. Anyway, we need black men. For the black jobs. You betcha doodlebug they won't replace us. But I digress. Or do I?
Lotsabucksaboo:
Black men, you say. Where are you going with this?
Trumpaboo:
I'm going all the way, baby. I've got a name for her, alright. It just now came to me, like a bolt from God's tongue in my ear.
Little Paulie:
As you said, sir, you are God's tool.
Trumpaboo:
God's tongue on His tool! it tickles. And what was I saying? Oh yeah, naming things gives you power over them. Says so in the Bible! Everybody knows that. Just ask an Evangelical. I love me some good white Bible thumping dumbfucks. You want to know how we're going to win?
Lotsabucksaboo:
Do tell.
Little Paulie:
Please.
Trumpaboo:
Please, sir.
Little Paulie:
Please, sir. Doesn't he call you sir, too?
Trumpaboo:
He's richer than me. For now. Okay, listen up, apprentices, and get it from the Master. Ta da! For my next trick, I will take this somewhat moderately attractive female, whom I nevertheless would not touch with your ten foot pole let alone my own unbeatable twenty footer, unbeatable except by me, that is, ha ha! Don't worry, I know exactly where I am. It's the leadup to (making a drum roll noise on the desk) lays and genitals (acting out a climactic cymbal crash) behold Cor-dee-lee-aaaaaah! (Throwing his head back and sticking his tongue out, mimes cunnilingus.) And with a quick wave of my mighty magic wand (he mimes it) I transform her into... another drum roll... wait for it... another cymbal crash... Vagina Dentata, Negroid Monstress Supreme, Emasculator of Men, Corrupter of Women, Destroyer of Worlds! Bleeding from her every... you know... I'm the only, the only one... only I can stick my finger in that dyke!
Lotsabucksaboo:
Nice.
Little Paulie:
Sir, you're a genius!
Trumpaboo:
In all modesty, yes I am. Everybody says so. How perspicacious of you to notice.
