Donald Trump's Locker Room

Satire alert; hope you like it.

Deep under Trump Tower in New York, Donald Trump entered his private locker room from the sauna, his big belly heaving over the skimpy towel. He began to sniff eagerly, like a hound dog seeking out a treed raccoon.

"Do I smell sweat socks?" he asked of Putin, just pulling up his girdle.

"Not mine, you don't" Vlad said, giving a delicate sniff of his own. "Must be Howard Stern's.

Howard sauntered over, hair all disheveled and breathing heavily. "I think it's my pits Donald. Here." He held up a hairy armpit, which caused Donald to draw back just the slightest bit.

"Pussy!" accused Howard, while Putin sniggered.

"Who you calling pussy, you dickhead!" Donald retorted, his orange face turning beet red.

"Don't give yourself a coronary," Vlad said, examining his pecs in the locker room mirror. "We need someone to wipe down these mirrors. They're all steamed up."

"Get Kelly Ann," said Trump, opening his own locker, where his climate controlled stem proof mirror hung from the door. He proceeded to pull out various sprays, lotions and potions, and applying them liberally to his hair.

"What is that anyway?" Howard Stern said, coming up behind Donald. "A dead wombat?"

"Why you Kike bastard!" Are you stalking me?"

"Calm down," Vlad implored the two men. "It's just locker room banter Donald. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"You know I can bomb the pants right offa you anytime I want Vlad, so cool your jets. My bombs are the best, by the by the way. So good." He sniffed heavily again. "Gym socks in here somewhere. Who's that hiding under the bench over there? Hey you with the smelly feet!"

"Sorry sir," said the meek smallish man wearing a Trump for Dictator tee shirt in day glow orange. "I'm the janitor. I can only afford one pair of socks, and the laundromat in my building is defective. I thought since you were all for the people, and helping us little guys, maybe you could spare a pair or two. My athlete's foot makes it really hard to keep the job."

"My good man," said Trump, beckoning the little fellow to him. "You may be small in stature, but you are great in political capital. And I do have a thing for stinky feet you know. So real."

"Then you'll help me?" asked the man, hardly able to believe his good fortune.

"I didn't say that. But I might be able to give you a part in my next TV ad, which I will fund myself. I'm rich, you know, so rich. And I love the little guy. No one loves the little guy as much as I do. Almost as much as the women. And not a word out of you two bozos or it's Siberia for both of you, he said, menacingly to Putin and Stern.

"What happened to your hair anyway Howard? You been wrestling alligators or something?"

"Ha! I was mobbed on the way in here by a bunch of liberal pinkos with protest signs. They assaulted me!"

"Did you call the cops?"

"Nah, they were all girl scouts, trying to sell me cookies, in between the smackdown. They are a tough bunch."

"I'd like a cookie. Did you get any?"

"Not cookies," said Howard, meaningfully."

"Hey, that's great locker room banter, don't you think Vlad and..." he turned to the diminutive janitor "What's your name, anyway? You look familiar. Do I know you"

"It's John Kasich; I used to be, you know, a Republican candidate. "But after my humiliating loss, I had to take any job I could."

"Can you clean the steam off this mirror?" Vlad gestured Kasich over.

"I guess so, but I sure could use those socks, Mr. Trump."

"When you make an ad for me, then we'll see about the socks."

"I'm not sure about that ad, Mr. Trump. I know I'm poor and deperate, but my wife would kill me."

"Your wife?!" Donald grew outrageous. "Get yourself another one. Clean socks. That will do the trick. But first the ad."

With that, he turned back to primping, his bowl full of jelly tummy bobbing along to the spritzers of hair product he kept applying as Kasich pleaded with Vlad for some clean socks in exchange for clearing the mirror. Howard Stern turned off his mic and scooted off to air the tape on his next show.