Trumped

one // you sly democrat

You Sly Democrat

I gasp in frustration as I wipe my desk clean of any paperwork and office materials. I screech in fury and kick down the decorative plants lining my office. I disgustedly pour my coffee on the floor in rage. This is the worst moment in American history. It physically pains me to even think about what has happened. I would go as far as to say it's comparable to war. This monstrosity committed against my perfect soul should be considered a criminal act.

My secretary, Lindana, forgot to put sugar in my coffee! I want to tear her hair out, but I settle on firing her.

I watch in humor as Lindana cries and whispers, "How will I support my family of seven as a jobless, single parent?"

I smirk and laugh at her pain. These types of situations never fail to crack me up.

Lindana slowly gathers her materials and shamefully exits as I file my fingernails nonchalantly. You gotta look good for the paparazzi, never know when they might show up.

Coincidentally, the paparazzi are here now, taking photos of my impeccable face. They admire my flawless skin in awe. One of the photographers tries to reach out and touch it but I slap his hand away and hiss.

"Don't touch me, I'm beautiful," I say, glamorously, absorbing the attention.

One of them faints, clearly my greatness is far too much for them to handle.

I laugh at his unmoving body, collapsed on my floor in an awkward, probably impossible, position.

I am just about to call Lindana, but I remember that I fired her a few minutes ago for being a horrible person. So I decide to hire a new secretary. I pick a short man named Geoffrey.

Geoffrey arrives to my office instantly; I can already tell he's going to be a good employee. I command him to take the unconscious photographer to a hospital.

As they zoom away for medical attention, I strike poses for the cameras. Unlike everyone else, the camera loves me. I am the only one who looks good on camera. Luckily, since I am better looking than the average Joe, whenever I appear on magazine covers, I am far more appealing to the public eye.

I constantly am shocked whenever I look into the mirror. My reaction is always "Who is this perfect man? Oh, wait. It's me." And then I chuckle fabulously to myself.

I snap my fingers importantly, summoning Geoffrey. He is at my service immediately.

"Yes, Mr. Trump—"

I shake my head. "You will address me as Your Highness. None of this Trump nonsense. Anyways," I say,  dismissing his mistake, "I give you permission to continue."

He nods, obviously being in my presence was an exciting experience for him. "Yes, Your Highness," he says, correctly this time. "What do you desire?"

"I wish for you to rid my office of these filthy photographers. They're bringing a bad aura that I can't have tarnishing my good suits."

He nods. "Of course, Your Highness."

Geoffrey reaches into his pocket and takes out a whistle labeled Paparazzi. He blows into it three times and instantaneously, the paparazzi scuttle out of the room.

I smile, but then my stomach rumbles furiously. I opt to order some food. I call 911 and exclaim, "This is @RealDonaldTrump and this is an emergency!"

"What's going on, Mr. Trump?" the dispatcher says in a monotonous tone, obviously worried for my health and safety.

I feel tears run down my face, but then I remember I don't have emotions so they disappear. "I'm hungry," I cry sadly—although emotionless.

The dispatcher probably panics, then hangs up.