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!
“What is it about the commute that appeals to you, Starla?”