White House in Crisis: Fresh Outta Crises

Last week, on a steamy morning deep in the bowels of our nation’s capital, CNN reporters gathered in the press room prepared to hear the latest news from the White House.

After patiently waiting for several hours, the reporters grew concerned. Not because they noticed anything amiss — I mean, let’s get real, these guys wouldn’t recognize a news story if it bit them on the tuchus — but because the vending machine supply of Skittles was in danger of running out.

Suddenly, an intern burst through the door and yelled, “Hey guys! This isn’t even the press room! It’s the janitor’s closet!”

“Well, that explains the overpowering stench of bleach and vomit,” said one reporter as the others nodded in agreement.

“Besides,” said the intern, “there is no crisis today. You heard me — none! No news to report!  Go home!”

A collective gasp filled the room. The reporters were all atwitter.

No crisis?”

“Nothing bad happened?”

“I can go home? But I hate my wife!”

Yes, the impossible happened. The breaking news?

There was no breaking news.

No insane tweets. No willy-nilly firings. Not even a potent fart stealthily released on a crowded elevator.

The next day at a press conference — curiously held in the janitor’s closet for realsies — Trump attempted to explain his lack of breaking news and wind.

“Listen up, nimrods! Look, here’s the thing. It turns out I’ve already met my firing quota this week. That’s right. Yesterday, I fired 25 people by the time my nap rolled around. Melania says I’m only allowed 10 a week, tops. Sad!”

“But Mr. President,” a reporter asked, “Why do you even have a firing quo–”

“You’re fired.”

“But I…”

“But I….” Trump mocked. “But you are so fired.”

“But I’ve got 10 kids! And 3 wives!”

In response, Trump held up his itty-bitty finger and rubbed it together with his teeny thumb.

“Good one,” smirked the fired reporter. “Tiny violins?”

“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I do this whenever I have a brain fart. Calms me down. And the loser behind you with the stupid grin,” Trump pointed.

“You’re fired.”

“No, sir, I am not fired.”

“Fired.”

“No…”

“Fired.”

“This is ridic–”

“Fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired–”

An awkward silence fell over the room. President Trump’s barrage of firing and pointing, and pointing and firing this man went on for five solid minutes before someone finally screwed up enough courage to interrupt.

“Psst! Mr. President!” whispered the janitor standing in the corner holding a mop.

“What do you want now, you unbelievable jackhole?”

“Um…the person you’re firing….ahem… is your reflection in the window.”

“OK, OK, OK. Amazing stuff. Seriously, amazing. Peace out.”

And that is how Donald J. Trump, the 45th President of these United States, left office. Not due to a long agonizing process of impeachment, or a respectul resignation, or the discovery of naked photos of Putin on his cell.

He fired himself.

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Coming to prime time TV this fall:  Apprentice: The Washed-Up Celebs/Ex-Presidents Edition!

 

 

 

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I’m So Glad We Had This Talk, Mom

The following is a recent phone conversation with my 78 year old mother:

Phone rings forever, finally picks up

My mom: (long pause) Hello! HELLO!

Me: Hey–

HELLO?!

Hey, Mom. Me and the kids are gonna-

Whaddya want!

I’m heading out to pick up some pizza so-

WHAT?

I SAID THE KIDS AND I ARE GONNA GO OUT TO PICK UP SOME PIZZA, SO DID YOU WANT–

Pizza! Oh, god, no! I had some pork chops last night. Fried it up with some olive oil…no buttah, you know how I’m tryin to lose weight…a little onion…some peppers…some Mrs. Dash. Oh! GOD! It was too spicy. Too spicy. You know I can’t have spicy. Well, maybe you don’t know, you never come over or talk to me these days. I’m just here all night. All alone. I could have died last night and no one would have known for days. Maybe weeks. But here I was last night, wide awake because of that damn Mrs. Dash I had.  Stomach was all upset…

Ma…

…worst pain I’ve had in all my life…

Ma…

…bowels were all tied up in knots…

Ma!

Mrs. Dash! Oh, I dashed all right. Dashed to the bathroom all friggin night long is what I did. Oh gawd! It was terrible!

Oh, god….jeez, Mom!

It was 3 am before my stomach settled down….

Mom, look, I’m in a rush so I need to know if you–

…so I made myself a pot of coffee, cuz coffee helps me sleep ya know, I don’t care what they say…

Uh huh.

…and I watched a little TV, some of that Kenny Chesney. Oh, jeez! He’s awful. Always wearing that stupid hat. What is he trying to hide under there? But I love that other guy, the other country singer. Whats-his-face. You know the one!

Uh…

Oh, come on! You know that guy! The other guy! 

Listen, Mom, I–

Keith Urban! That’s the one! He’s a good young man. Good looking, too. Married to that gawd-awful tall and skinny actress with the big chest. Pbbstt. She is so ugly!

Yeah.

And then I watched the CNN and OH MY GOD! That Mitt Rumney is gonna be president!

Oh, no, I don’t think so. I think–

Oh, yes HE IS! People always vote for the handsome guy. The good looking guy always wins and Rumney’s very good looking. Gah! I can’t stand that man! Thank the good lord above it’s not gonna be Newt the toot! God, he’s just terrible. Horrible, horrible man. He just runs around, cheats on his wife, his wives, his floozies, whoever or whatever god-forsaken poor pathetic woman who will actually sleep with him. God!

Yeah, I’m happy he’s–

But it’s just not right! Obama is the best president we’ve had in a long time! Well, maybe not, but he’s a helluva lot better than that idiot Bush. Gawd! And they’re sayin Obama should fix the gas prices! It’s near FOUR DOLLARS A GALLON! Did you know that? Oh, you probably did. Is that why you don’t take me anywhere? I am going stir crazy here. I need to get out. I’m going crazier than a squirrel trapped in a coffee can. Can you take me to the dollar store?  Then I have to stop at the doctor’s so she can tell me this chest pain is all in my head and charge me more money! Jezum-crow! I’m just an old lady! I am broke! And she tells me she wants me to sign a living will. Yes! Well, of course I will, you moron. I want to die. Give me the damn pen, where do I sign? Can I put that in writing at the bottom? P.S. Don’t bring me back, whatever you do, doc. Just let me go! I don’t have much longer ya know, Darla. Could be days for all I know. Do you remember where my safe deposit box is?

Yeah. Look Ma, about the pizza–

And the key to it?

Uh huh.

And I don’t want any fancy-schmancy funeral. Just throw me in a box and dump me in the river down the road.

Ah, no, Mom, I don’t think they’d let me do that…

No? Hmm…

So–

So the gas is four dollars a gallon! So they blame, who else, Obama! Gawd! The poor man! He can’t fix everything for chrissake!

Ma! Did you want some piz–

…so now he’s to blame for the gas! Can I blame him for my weight gain too? Oh, I know! it’s HIS fault I ate those potato chips the other day! It’s just not right. Country is too busy pumping a giant handcart to hell. Same people always getting rich while the rest of us can’t afford a damn pot to piss in…

Uh…

…did you know what I saw on Dr. Oz the other day?

MOM!

WHAT! What do you want anyway!

I AM CALLING TO ASK YOU IF YOU WANT SOME PIZZA!

Pizza? Oh, god, no–you know I can’t have gluten.

phone clicks, dial tone