John Bolton’s blood was still drying on the carpet as I sat in my, that’s right, “my” Oval Office, rearranging index cards in hopes of keeping track of my lies. Fifty thousand cards and counting.

I hadn’t tweeted in over twenty minutes and was jonesing to, badly. If I don’t tweet, how am I supposed to know that I actually exist? I tweet therefore I am.

As I reached for my phone, she barged into my office, and my glorious hate-filled day was about to go sour. The old broad told me her name was Judy Garland, but I knew it was Nancy Pelosi. Trying to trap her, I asked where Lassie was. She replied, “Timmy’s in the well again.” She was sharper than me. It’s not just the lamp.

A looker in her day, the Speaker had big eyes, great legs and unruly breasts. I knew she had ethics, morals and compassion, and yet somehow she was sexier than Kellyanne Conway, who had none of those disabilities.

I figured she’d had four or five children, but still felt confident that I had more stretch marks than she did. I have beautiful stretch marks.

She stared at me with contempt. My day was getting uglier than Sheldon Adelson. Last night’s sleep had been wonderful. I’d had my favorite dream, where I’m the first on the scene of a plane crash and get people’s wallets before the sirens even start.

But now this apparition of impeachment stood before me. I asked her, “What do you want, Judy?”

Pelosi: You need to resign. We want you out so we can push all the haters back under the rocks you let them crawl out from.

I smiled. She wanted something and I knew I had her. She wasn’t in my league,  and when I was done bargaining with her, I would still be President and all she’d walk out of here with were my balls. I’m a great negotiator.





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