🕊Always Loyal🕊

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🌊🌊🌊#Trump #VoteBlueToSaveAmerica 🌊

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Welcome to another wacky edition of #TrumpTales! In this one our dim-witted leader find himself alone in a dirty old bunker, having been stupid enough to launch nukes while away from any protective, and active, military bases. Will he survive on his own? Can he change his own diaper? Does he even have any baby wipes??? *********************** Donald Trump sat on the floor of the bunker because the only chair had a button on it and he was pretty sure buttons were how the last problem started. “Tremendous bunker,” he told the concrete. “The best bunker. People are saying it’s the most secure bunker in the history of bunkers, which is a long history, very long, longer than you’d think. China wishes they had this bunker.” He had been down there six hours. The launch codes were still in his pocket, next to a half-eaten Filet-O-Fish he’d smuggled past the Secret Service eight hours ago by calling it “a very legal, very cool sandwich.” The lights were on a timer. When they dimmed, he stood up and clapped at them. “Lights! Lights, come on. You’re fired. No, wait—you’re hired. Strong lights. The strongest.” The lights did not respond, which he took as disloyalty. Hunger arrived around hour nine. There was a shelf of MREs labeled in a font he found suspicious. He picked one up, turned it over, and announced, “This is a hoax. Look at the letters. Too many of them. Obama letters.” He tried to open it with his teeth, then with a golf tee he found in his jacket, then by explaining to the packet that he had the best openers, everyone said so. The packet remained closed. He ate the rest of the Filet-O-Fish and declared victory. By hour fourteen the toilet had become a geopolitical crisis. “Nobody told me about the flush,” he said to the handle. “This is a disgrace. In my buildings, the toilets flush themselves. Big, beautiful flushes. This one’s weak. Sad flush. I’m going to build a wall around it so nobody has to look at it.” He draped his tie over the tank and stepped back, satisfied. The smell remained unpersuaded. He tried the radio. Static. He negotiated with it. “You’re doing a great job, static. Really great. But I need Fox. Or a phone. I have a phone, it’s right here—” He held up the receiver of a landline that had been disconnected in 1997. “Hello? Jared? Ivanka? Anybody? Tell them I launched the rockets. The big ones. It was perfect. No mistakes. The other side started it, everybody knows that. Also I need ketchup. And a mirror. A big mirror, the biggest.” There was no mirror. He checked his hair in the dark screen of a dead monitor and spent twenty minutes persuading a cowlick to lie down using only confidence and saliva. It rose again. He called it fake news. Sleep was worse. The cot squeaked. He rolled onto his side and addressed the squeak directly. “You’re the enemy of the people. Stop that. I know more about sleeping than anybody. I sleep four hours, sometimes three, and I wake up and I solve things. Right now I’m solving you.” The cot squeaked. He sat up. “Fine. You’re fired. I’m sleeping on the floor like a very successful man who chooses to sleep on the floor.” At 3 a.m. he found the emergency chocolate. He ate all of it, then tried to re-wrap the wrappers so it would look like he hadn’t. One wrapper stuck to his palm. He shook it. It stayed. He introduced it to the room as his new chief of staff. “This is Greg,” he said. “Greg’s doing an incredible job. Greg doesn’t leak. Greg doesn’t write books. Greg just sticks with me, which is what I like in a person, or a wrapper.” He paced. The bunker was thirty feet by twenty. After the fourth lap he announced he had personally inspected the entire southern border of the facility and found it secure, except for a vent that was “letting in the wrong kind of air.” He blocked the vent with his suit jacket. The temperature rose. He took off his shoes, then put them back on because “a president doesn’t go barefoot, that’s what they want.” Continued.......

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