Sleazy is the head that wears the crown.
No, no, that wasn’t right! Uneasy. Uneasy was the word The Great Trumpkin wanted. Uneasy is the head that wears the crown.
Those Freudian slips! It was as though CNN had sneaked a tiny Jim Acosta inside The Great Trumpkin’s cranium, there to say the things the president suspected everyone was thinking.
His latest rough patch had started when he treated the United Nations to an overview of his accomplishments, imagined or real. That rhetorical tour always drew delirious cheers from the credulous Little Trumpkins, who seemed to think that he had come to office not just at the depth of The Great Depression, but also amidst a host of biblical plagues. Yet when he boasted to the UN General Assembly that in “less than two years my administration has accomplished more than almost any administration in the history of our country,” it triggered a ripple of mirth that quickly grew to an international belly laugh.
How that galled! Still, he had admirers around the globe, admirers like . . . like . . . well, like his lovely letter-writing friend Kim Jung Un. What a capital fellow he was!
“Killer Kim,” said the Jim Acosta voice. “Killer Kim.”
Well, really, what was a network of brutal prison camps and beating and torture and beheadings and summary executions between international secret valentines? Besides, as Vladimir said, the treatment of one’s subjects should be the sole purview of an individual autocrat, and not that of every nosy parker around the globe. Criticize someone for imprisoning his people and the next thing you know, he’ll go after you for putting border-crossing kids in cages.
Speaking of the Russian leader, how he admired Puti’s sangfroid! When Britain fingered Russia for sending agents to poison a former Russian spy-turned-double-agent and his daughter in England, Puti had simply called the renegade spook a traitor and shrugged the whole thing off.
Meanwhile, he, The Great Trumpkin, couldn’t even mock a possible sexual assault victim without being roundly criticized. Why, even one of his dim-witted Fox News sycophants had winced after he had sneeringly attacked Christine Blasey Ford’s credibility at a political event.
Didn’t they see that he’d had to rally the base around, because Brett Kavanaugh had proved himself so weak? Yes, The Great Trumpkin had loved his conspiracy theories and the angry partisan attacks. But all that sobbing and sniffling — BAD!
And what about those stupid nicknames that ricocheted around in Kavanaugh’s prep-school clique?
Squi? PJ? Bart?
The Great Trumpkin could have done so much better!
“Hiiiiding Mark,” the Jim Acosta voice suggested gleefully. “Lyiiiing Brett.”
It was true the press had turned up plenty of Kavanaugh’s old college acquaintances, who had, to expand on one wag’s famous quip, known him before he was a virginal choirboy. And yes, it looked like he had been a beery, boorish keg fly during both high school and college. But who cared if he’d led the Senate down the primrose path about that? It didn’t matter, as long as the FBI hadn’t corroborated the various sexual-misconduct allegations. And, after an investigation so limited that it was akin to sending a blind cat on a mousing mission, the FBI had turned up nothing new there.
Then came the New York Times’ latest outrage: an exhaustive investigative report documenting the elaborate tax-evading schemes by which Fred Trump had funneled his vast fortune to Donald and his siblings. With that, The Great Trumpkin’s grand myth of having parlayed a $1 million loan from his father into a vast fortune had crumbled like a sand castle in a windstorm. After all, you couldn’t claim to be a self-made man with $413 million of Dad’s dollars stuffed in your pocket.
“Potemkin Village? Faux-Trumpkin Village!” came the voice. “Liar, liar, bio’s on fire.”
The Great Trumpkin triggered a presidential alert. Maybe that loud buzzing noise would clear his head of the question now haunting him:
With his huge lie exposed, could he still fool all the Little Trumpkins all the time?