[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 posting the play here, a scene at a time.]
The Ovary Office. Trumpaboo gazes through a window towards the Washington Monument.
Littler Paulie enters.
Through most of this scene, inspired by the rap of Hamilton, actors should emphasize the rhythmic and rhyming qualities of speech.
Trumpaboo:
Little Paulie, how's it going?
Little Paulie:
Fighting the good fight, sir. We're showing
progress on all fronts
fucking the immigrants and their runts.
America is for Americans!
Trumpaboo:
And Americunts.
General Washington would be proud.
Look out that window there -
his legacy's secure,
a hardon forever. In our hands!
And
all he had to do is die.
But I've called you here - do you know why?
Little Paulie:
And nobody else?
Trumpaboo:
Nobody else in the room where shit happens?
Turd Chorus (offstage, to the tune of the refrain in "The Room Where It Happens"):
The room where it crappens
The room where it crappens
Nobody else in the room where shit happens?
The room where it crappens
The room where it crappens
Trumpaboo:
Scared to be alone with me, my Little Paulie, are you?
Of what I might do?
Or drooling in case it's something new just for you?
Bwahahahaha!
Lotsabucksaboo is coming, too.
And here he is.
Lotsabucksaboo enters.
Trumpaboo:
Hi, snorkwad.
Lotsabucksaboo:
Hi, Exalted Douchebag of God.
Trumpaboo and Lotsabucksaboo embrace.
Trumpaboo:
Love ya, man.
Lotsabucksaboo:
Love you, too.
As far as I can throw you.
Have you told him yet? His reassignment?
Little Paulie:
My what?
Trumpaboo:
Just a small realignment.
You might say, a reward
for working so hard.
Grima, why don't you lay it out?
Trumpaboo resume gazing out the window.
Lotsabucksaboo:
You're going south.
You're getting the border.
You've got carte blanche, and a quarter
million troops, so make whatever order
floats your boat, with rifles and bullets.
You've got the trigger. Pull it.
Fuck the wall. Fuck asylum.
Fuck those camps in which we've piled them.
Do what you want to make it hard.
Trumpaboo:
Ha-ha he said make it hard.
Little Paulie:
May I separate families, sir?
Lotsabucksaboo:
Tear 'em up like so many phone books, big guy. Sure!
And if you don't keep track of the kids,
Who'll know what you did?
Little Paulie:
This is a dream!
Lotsabucksaboo:
Wet as they get. Okay, big guy, don't cream your jeans.
Dismissed.
Little Paulie exits, smiling ecstatically.
Lotsabucksaboo:
You're sure about this?
Trumpaboo:
Yes.
We'll do just fine without the wetbacks.
Americans will be happy to get back
to gainful employment shoveling shit and sanding drywall
and flipping takeout burgers and fries. Meanwhile,
Mr. Useful Idiot's out of the way, setting the dogs
on rapists and murderers and welfare cheats
and whoever else his boys may choose to meet.
I'll tell him not to touch your smart techie wogs.
Win win. The art of the deal. Sweet!
Lotsabucksaboo:
Two billionaires and a true believer
walk into a room.
Trumpaboo:
The billionaires emerge with a brilliant distraction
to keep the plebes
and fake journalist feebs
and MAGA marks from seeing the action.
The useful dufus gets a handful of shit
so he can smear his face with it.
Lotsabucksaboo:
And nobody else was in the room where shit happened.
Turd Chorus:
the room where it crappened
the room where it crappened
Lotsabucksaboo and Trummpaboo:
Nobody else was in the room where shit happens!
Turd Chorus:
the room where it crappens
the room where it crappens
Lotsabucksaboo:
You run that con a lot.
Trumpaboo:
As long as it keeps working, why not? (Trumpaboo glances out the window.) Looks like that rally is breaking up.
Lotabucksaboo:
The one on the Ellipse? Senator Bernie and that crowd? That bitch from Massachussetts, Senator Warhead? How come you haven't, um, retired them yet?
Trumpaboo:
They're very popular. Vlad says you've got to do these things carefully.
Lotsabucksaboo:
What a bunch of shitbirds. They ought to fuck themselves in the face.
Trumpaboo:
They're heading this way. There's Floorsanders leading them. He's waving his arms. Amazing range of motion for such a decrepit old libturd. It's like January 6, except where are the cops?
Turd Chorus, stationed outside, makes the indistinct noises of an angry, approaching crowd.
Trumpaboo:
Get back!
A brick crashes through the window.
Turd Chorus:
(Singing to the tune of the refrain from Judy Collins' "Marat We're Poor." It comes through the broken window clearly and surprisingly loudly.)
Trumpaboo we're poor
and the poor stay poor
Traumpaboo don't make us wait any more
we want our rights
and we don't care how
we want our revolution
now
now
NOW
