In barely one week’s time – as Donald Trump lingers within the Capitol Building fixing his hair while Steve Bannon and Stephen Miller add the final moribund flourishes to his inauguration speech – the moving-in trucks will be busily descending upon the White House. The iconic structure will be preparing to welcome the 45th President of the United States. But unbeknownst to its hallowed halls and hand-painted ceilings, it will soon be defiled, by the sort of scurrilous behaviour not seen since the days of Nixon and Watergate or blow jobs and Bill Clinton.
This time however, far from untoward microphones, plumbing problems, or an excess of saliva and semen, the White House will find itself overwhelmed by an overabundance of urinary excretion. In the sort of layman’s terms which came to define last year’s election, there will be piss everywhere.
There are 132 rooms and 35 bathrooms inside the White House, and while historic assemblages like the Yellow Oval Room and Lincoln Bedroom will remain firmly off-limits, much of the second and third floors will be susceptible to the whims and tastes of Trump and his family.
The moving process will commence from noon on inauguration day. The coming weeks and months – in the time-honoured tradition of sexism – will afford the First Lady more than a little opportunity for some home decorating. Alterations typically have to be agreed with the White House Curator and Chief Usher. And the first task to which the trio usually turn their hands concerns the makeup of the master bedroom.
It is standard practise for the old president’s sheets and mattresses to be replaced by new fare, both firmer and whiter. Yet on this occasion – a fact hidden from all but his closest aides and advisers – Donald Trump has opted to retain the bedding which for eight long years has belonged to Barack Obama.
So as Donald Trump swears on the Bible and heads off to enjoy a stately luncheon, the truck which is meant to unload a bed and fresh linen will trundle down the Executive Drive and screech to a halt bearing more dubious contents. For locked inside instead will be a few plastic sheets and the dregs of copious drunken beverages, along with ladies-in-waiting, so to speak, which in this case is a euphemism for a boatload of hookers.
Trump’s dastardly plan is to ‘inaugurate’ his spell in the White House by means of his favourite pastime: being wee-weed upon by an assortment of prostitutes. The race and creed of said prostitutes matters not: all that counts is that they have full bladders.
Perhaps some would conceive this as a perverse cleansing ceremony, or simply enjoy the splash and paddle. But for Trump, a golden shower on their old bed is a surefire way to get one over on the Obamas, while simultaneously asserting his manhood, which left to its own devices tends to malfunction, skewed and impotent and dribbling down the inner thigh of his trousers.
