Tuesday, October 11, 2016

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.

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Trump and Putin: the Dream Ticket

A little borrowed levity from Michael Lerner, written by another Rabbi with a good sense of humor and outrage. Enjoy:
[A bit of humor in light of the latest revelations about a presidential candidate whose disgusting attitude toward women is no laughing matter! This is a selection from a fuller piece written by my Jewish Renewal rabbinic colleague Elliot Ginsburg who teaches Jewish Studies at the U. of Michigan, Ann Arbor-- Warm regards to all. Rabbi Michael Lerner rabbilerner.tikkun@gmail.com]
 Trump Exes Pence and taps Putin as new Veepster
(unedited transcript)
Breaking News:  And here to deliver the news is our undercover reporter, known gnomically as Trump L’ie. (Or do you say, Trump L’Oy?)...His voice has been digitally altered lest he be publicly fingered and outed…and force-fed with well-meaning gluten.
Thanks Pritchard. I’m here streaming undercover at the Tsibl Tower, deep in the heart of Gruzya and have we got a hot scoop for you. 
[Full voice, stentorian]: As we all know, pressure has been mounting over the past 36 hours for Donald J. Trump to withdraw from the Presidential race in the wake of the Excess Hollywood tape scandal. We have it on reliable source that Trump is planning his counter-offensive, preemptively removing Mike Pence from the ticket for his “half-baked, on-the-fence support” and “his longish fingers which make me look bad.” And here’s the gobsmacker: The Donald’s allegedly replacing “Weak-Mike Pence” with “a strong leader” with downright stubby digits, Vladimir Putin—who would simultaneously retain his position as pre-eminent Russian leader.

This unprecedented decision came about in a hush-hush confab in the Alaska compound of travel-show host Sarah “Litwack” Palin (or do you say, Poiln?). Palin has been serving as Trump’s unofficial advisor on World Affairs and Birth Control. (In that order. First the Affairs and then the Birth Control.) Campaign Insiders Newt Gingrinch and Chris Crispie (code-name Creme)—Trump’s Weight-Watcher sponsors—were also in tow. Looking through Sarah’s famous window, Trump reportedly grew agitated before growing glassy eyed and waxing prophetic:
“I see London, I see France, I see no future under Pence….In fact, I see the future and it is Rootin’ Tootin’ Vladimir Fuckin-Putin rearing his head (and heading u-know-who’s pantsuited rear) as my Veep. If Crooked Hillary launches a Putin Riot, we boink the protesters, and make America really great again. Vladimir Putin, initials Vee-Pee, will be my sidekick and hobnobber, my bouncer- in-chief. We give half-baked Pence the heave-ho, the hobnailed boot, and bring on Putin-Boots. Or as I call him, Vlad the Impaler. Did you see the size of that man’s hands? Smaller than mine.
Newt interrupts (gassy): Er, one problem, Donald. He’s not exactly American or even Murican. That’s against the Second Amendment—even if Scalia were still alive and kicking—as I’ve noted in my learned books.
Trump: No problem. We give Putin special status as native-born, like the rigged system did for John McCain who was born in Panama, or that Mexican, Mitt Romney. Where was the damn wall when we fuckin’ needed it?
Crispie: No Donald. You can’t make Putin American until after you assume rule and expand the Second Amendment by executive fiat.
Trump: Unless. Unless...I've been pullin' your legs, guys. Damn it, Sarah, you tell ‘em:
Sarah: You betcha. And aren’t we all looking swell in our sensiband expando-slacks?! So, I got this doohickey from Breitbart this morning….
Trump (interrupting). Wrong. It was technically last night, Alaska time, in the wee hours my time, while I was tooting up a storm or maybe tweeting. It’s Vladimir Fuckingovich Putin’s secret goddam birth-certificate. The long-form. Says right here, he’s really from... get this, that swing state, Florida.
Crispie: no shit

Gingrinch: you sure it’s real…
Trump: it’s a real hack...really real. Could have been the Russians, or maybe Jina or maybe it’s from my 400 pound twin brother sitting on a bed somewhere. But it’s real...I can smell, and taste, and rub its yuge reality. See, born in Florida. St. Petersberg, to be exact.

Gingrich: shit...
Trump: Yup, da man’s from St. Petersburg. Right here, in black and white. Fucking St Pete. I love Florida. I own half of Florida. I have many buildings there. We could make Del-a-Mar the new White House! Build a dacha for Putin behind. So, in with Putin, out with Fencey-Pence. We got this baby in the Gucci bag. A round of Trump Steaks for the house! (Pauses to spray hair) Liar liar yo’ Pence be fired!
Sarah (martial in tone): Newt and Chris, you take care of Reince and Ryan. I’ll neutralize Pence with some fractured syntax. We’ll all need new hats: Maybe “Make America-n-Russia great again.” Something with faux fur ear-flaps. And maybe some sexy caribou antlers for huntin’ season.
Gingrinch: Yeah, but what’s in it for Putin?

Trump: He keeps his Russian post. And we give him an American beach-head: West Palm Beach, Miami Beach and Boynton Beach. And a sexy byatch, the one from Days of our Lives. Did you see her legs? And maybe if he pushes back real hard, Brighton Beach.
Crispie: And remember, I have a bridge I could sell him real cheap. He’s got the dough. As they say, Crimea pays.
Trump: Fellows, fellows...leave it to the Donald to close the deal. I tell you. Vlad’s got the hots for me. Believe me. No one has greater hots for me than him. I’m one star he can’t resist. For starters, we can go horseback riding. He without his shirt and me without my Pence. I’ll dismount. I’ll remount. We’ll rub noses. I’ll suck his toots, get him all hot and buttered, and, the piece de no-resistance, grab him by his Putin.
Trump for the Win!
Chris and Newt: Yessss! Score one for the Donald.
Trump: Sarah, pack my extra-long tie and my rack of tic-tacs...
[ Now, he has something to say in tonight's debate!]