(This event occurred more than three months into the presidency, less than four months, but weeks after the first administrative scandal and twelve trips to the golf course)


With a look of indifference President Trap huffed, “Sooo, what’s your point?”

“We all agreed on what to say to the press,” Ranch Postbus, the president’s Chief-of-Staff grumbled.

“And like we agreed, I held a press conference the next morning,” added Vaughn Spikey, the president’s press secretary, “And, Vice President Tuppence gave a statement to the press saying the investigation had nothing to do with firing Director Tallman like we all agreed.”

“And those reporters, the vultures, they brought up the investigation.  I saw it that morning on Wolf News.  ‘Did the president fire Director Tallman because he was heading the investigation into his campaign?’ and ‘Did President Trap ask for his allegiance?’  I saw and heard the questions they asked.  My memory is superly good.  Genius in fact.  Wolf News showed how the other networks kept digging and I didn’t like it one bit.”

“You’re right.  None of us liked it, but we all stuck to the script.  The investigation had nothing to do with you firing Director Jay Tallman. That’s what we all told the press.”

“And, you all did good,” President Trap commended them, “Jumboly great job.”

Ranch Postbus and Vaughn Spikey looked befuddled.  There was a heavy pause until Vaughn Spikey, the Press Secretary, was brave enough to break the silence.

“Well, we did do a good job, but you’re missing the point we’re trying to make,” he carefully treaded, “We want you to see how important this is.”

“Maybe I will, if you ever get to the point,” President Trap scoffed.

The Press Secretary dropped his head but lifted it to reveal a peculiar looking smile.

“When you decided to give a televised news interview, you didn’t say what the rest of us said.  You decided to say the investigation was on your mind, when you fired Director Tallman.  It made the rest of us look like liars,” Spikey explained, “That’s why we all promised to stick to one story.”

“Did we really?” the president slouched down in his preferred winged back chair and folded his arms across his chest, “I don’t remember making any promises.  I don’t remember the word ‘promise’ being used.”

Both Ranch Postbus and Vaughn Spikey slumped back in their seats.

Suddenly Spikey, the Press Secretary, perked up and with a clap of the hands he moved to the edge of his seat.

“We shook hands.  A man’s handshake is a promise,” he spurted.

“That’s right,” Chief of Staff Postbus cheerfully agreed, “We all agreed on what to say and then shook hands.”

“Oh, come on.  A handshake?  Really?  Since becoming president, I’ve shaken hands with thousands of people and possibly hundreds,” the president professed. “I’ve shaken hands with people from all over the country, all over the world…and babies even.  And you two want me to remember something because of a handshake?”

The Press Secretary, Vaughn Spikey, looked at the Chief of Staff, Ranch Postbus, and shook his head in defeat.

“You’ve got any ideas?” Spikey groaned to Postbus.

“No.  This is turning out to be harder than I thought”.

“That’s what she said!” President Trap laughed and slapped his knee.

“Sir, this is serious,” Spikey implored.

“Okay.  Okay.  I was just kidding.  Lighten up you two.  I have the perfect answer to the problem in my superly smart brain,” the president assured them.

“Really?  What can we do to make sure we stay on the same page?” Postbus questioned.

President Trap leaned forward in his seat.

“Pinky swear,” he declared and folded his arms across his chest, again.

Postbus and Spikey slumped back in their seats, as they absorbed the pinky swear solution.

“Problem solved…I guess,” Postbus surmised.

“So, if we pinky swear,” Spikey addressed the president, “we don’t have to worry about you…anyone going off track in the future, right?”

“It’s superly possible,” President Trap asserted.



(This event occurred more than a month in office, though less than two months, and just days after the first resignation of a cabinet member.  To put it bluntly, pretty damn early in the presidency.)

President Connald A. Trap, along with a few members of his staff, were seated in the Presidential Oblong Office. To the right end of the room sat matching couches facing each other with a coffee table between them.  On one end of the couches are two armchairs.  Together they form a u-shape around the coffee table.

The president was seated comfortably in one of the armchairs.  With a glint of youthful curiosity in his eyes, he glanced around the room. His eyes stopped at the bust on the side table against the wall to his right.

“He must have fought for the North?  Did he die in battle?” President Connald Trap grunted, “Do you know, Bansputin?”

Stan Bansputin, chief strategist, lowered the newspaper he was reading to his lap, “Who?”

“That guy,” the president wagged a finger at the bust. “Remember how crazy the enemy reporters were after my speech?  ‘He’s not alive,’ they said.  ‘He died over a hundred years ago,’ they said.  Oh, those crooked reporters loved it.  The losers.”

Bansputin looked over at the bust, “Oh. No, that’s not him. You were alive when this one died.  You’re looking at the one that fought for civil rights.  The one with the holiday.”

“Really?  That’s him?”  the president gasped, as he scrutinized the bust of the civil rights icon. “Well, they all look alike to me.  Besides, I was reading a speech Millarky wrote.  I wasn’t wrong, he was.”

President Trap pursed his lips, furrowed his brows, and narrowed his eyes to slits, as he directed his wrath at the young man seated next to Stan Bansputin on the couch, Stanley Millarky.  He is the youngest of several senior advisors to the president.  Feeling a bit under pressure, tiny beads of sweat formed along Millarky’s receding hairline.

“Stanley, look this guy up and see what you can find,” President Trap snarled pointing at the bust.

Stanley Millarky perked up, “Got it, sir.”

Bansputin returned to his newspaper.  The president kept a steady eye on Millarky, as the young man typed in his query.  With emphasis Millarky pressed the enter key.  He scanned the results, then raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, this may be something,” he announced, “In fact, two things jump out immediately.”

“What? What’s wrong with him?” President Trap pressed.

“To begin with, four search results list him as a reverend.  I didn’t know…”

“Reverend! Called it!” President Trap shouted with a loud clap.

Bansputin’s arms shook and rumpled the paper in his hands.  Next to him, Stanley Millarky jumped with a high-pitched screech and nearly toppled his laptop, before saving it at his knees.  Across the coffee table from the other couch came a barely audible gasp.

“I knew he was a preacher without even knowing he was a preacher.  My mind is blown just like yours,” President Trap exclaimed, “I said the man was preachy and he really was a reverend. Like wow. How did I sense that? How did my brain come up with that?”

“Remarkable, sir,” Millarky cheered, “Did you ever meet him?”

“Nope. I never met the man.  Back then, I was a young man looking to the future. I had a vision to build big.  I was making connections and doing business.  Things were going good for me.  I had no complaints.  I wasn’t into speeches and marches.  And, I have bad feet, you know.  So, we didn’t cross paths,” the president explained, “What else you find, Millarky?”

“Okay. Three out of ten of the search results list him as doctor. Is that even possible?” Millarky snorted.

President Trap grunted, then spurted out with a laugh, “More like Dr. Dolittle!”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Stan Bansputin chuckled.

“Calling yourself doctor doesn’t make it true.  I mean, if you’re running around in marches, giving speeches, blah, blah, blah, when do you have time to heal the sick?  If he was a real doctor, he wasn’t a good one.  Where was his loyalty to the hippocratamus oath to take care of sick people? Am I right?” the president barked.

“Completely right. That’s an extremely valid point, sir,” senior advisor Millarky chimed in, “Your never-ending wisdom is astounding, Mr. President.”

Nourished by the praise, a radiant smile illuminated the president’s face. Embolden, he gazed at the bust with indignation.

“Even some of the rappers use doctor in their names.  And, that ball player…Dr. A or whatever.  Hey, Bansputin?” the President yelped still peering at the likeness of the civil rights icon, “Does he look like a doctor to you? I mean, I can go along with a reverend, but a doctor? I know a lot of doctors and he doesn’t look like any I know. Believe me.”

Bansputin gave the bust a sideways glance.

“No,” Stan Bansputin exhaled, “If I had to guess, doctor wouldn’t even be my last guess.”

“Believe me. In his dreams he was a doctor. Just like the dream he had about being a mountain climbing instructor for kids,” President Trap pointed out.

Stan Bansputin looked from the bust to the president. Stanley Millarky followed suit.

In chorus they chimed, “He did?”

President Trap cherishes moments like this. He enjoys having attentive eyes focused on him. The uniformed anticipation for his spoken words always fills him with an overwhelming sense of importance.

“Believe me, he did. He made speeches about it. He said he dreamed about climbing up to some mountain top with kids holding hands. He made a point about the kids holding hands,” the president explained with a nod.

Stan Bansputin and Stanley Millarky allowed the information to marinate.

“I suppose, he wanted the children to form a chain link for safety reasons,” Stanley Millarky observed.

“I guess, that makes sense,” Bansputin agreed with a nod.

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a doctor. Does it?” President Trap grumbled.

“Sir, once again your profound instincts have uncovered the truth,” Stanley Millarky squawked, “So, I just searched for what field he practiced in and there are no results.”

“He played baseball?” said a skeptical President Trap.

Stanley Millarky had clearly stepped right into one of the Three M’s.  The Three M’s are perilous pitfalls one is more than likely to step into, when conversing with President Trap. They are statements that are misunderstood, misinterpreted, or misjudged by the president.  Pointing out such a mistake could prove to be disadvantageous.  Millarky was careful in choosing his response.  Millarky carefully chose his next words.

“Baseball. Yet, another supreme thought, sir.  But, I was referring to field of medicine he practiced like pediatrician or family doctor, sir. Maybe he wasn’t a doctor, after all,” Millarky clarified and then chimed, “For you to figure that out is remarkable indeed, sir.”

The flattery took immediate effect. The relaxed posture of the president was inflated to a stern upright position. A proud grin illuminated his face.

“I have the best instincts ever. Always have. Believe me,” President Trap declared, “Millarky, just to be sure to search what college…no, make that what medical school he attended.”

“Good one, sir,” Millarky tapped, then scanned the page with his eyes, “No results for medical schools.”

“Where’s my phone,” President Trap searched his pockets, “I’m putting this on Chirper. People should know the truth. We can’t have people out there thinking this man was a doctor, when he wasn’t. This is worth a chirp.”

“Um. Don’t be too hasty,” Bansputin warned, “We’re still dealing with your accusations about the previous president placing you under surveillance.  And, I think…”

“I didn’t say that,” the President interrupted, “I just repeated it.  I read it somewhere.  That’s not the same thing.”

“Okay, okay.  I stand corrected,” Bansputin yielded, “We’re still dealing with the, not your, accusations about the previous president.”

“Not my words…originally,” President Trap grumbled, as he kept his eyes on his phone, “Not my fault.”

“Everyone knows it wasn’t your fault, sir,” Millarky assured, “You’re the President. You’re the most important person in the world, sir.”

“Well said, Millarky,” President Trap confirmed, as he began typing his chirp on Chirper, “He wasn’t a F-e-s…delete that.  F-a-s…No, wait.  That’s wrong.  He wasn’t a P-h-a-s-i…Oh, screw it.  He wasn’t a doctor.”

Finally, the president’s son-in-law, another senior advisor, made his presence known.

“Wait a minute. Maybe he wasn’t a medical doctor,” Jerald Husher spoke above a whisper, while typing in a search on his laptop.

“I just figured that out,” the President scoffed throwing up his hands, “And I just sent a chirp to give people real news, not fake phony news.  And, when did you come in?”

“I walked in when…”

“I can’t hear you,” President Trap impatiently snapped, lost interest, turned his attention to the phone in his hand and his son-in-law gratefully returned to his laptop.

Actually, like a taylor-made suit and tie wearing ninja Jerald Husher slipped into the room precisely at the “Well, they all look alike to me,” comment. Noiselessly, he made his way to the middle of the empty couch directly across the coffee table from Millarky.  Until now, his presence went unnoticed.

“Here it is,” Husher raised his voice, “He wasn’t a medical doctor, but he did have a PhD.  He had a doctorate in systematic theology.”

Jerald Husher looked up to three blank faces.

“He had a doctorate in religion,” he simplified.

“Oh,” they all responded in unison.

“Say.  What about your post?” Bansputin remarked to the president.

President Trap looked at his phone.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, “I’ve already got fifty likes. It’s a keeper.”



(This event occurred more than two but less than three weeks after the inauguration)

 “Believe me.  It was the best chant ever in campaign history,” President Connald Trap spoke into the cellphone he held, “Trust me. The world has never seen anything like it. The crowds at my rallies love the chant.  Worked like a charm.  She never had a chance.  What a sore loser.”

With his free hand the president leaned over and plucked the golf ball out of the seventh hole and slipped it into his pants pocket. President Trap listened to the person on the other end of the phone, as he walked to his custom-made golf cart and slid behind the wheel.

“Now stop it. Really, there’s no need to thank me.  Hey, I’m just the one smart enough to take the advice of a man that’s been president of his country for as long as you have.  Besides, she had it coming. Gave her a good ol’ taste of her own medicine.  Hey, now she knows what it feels like to have someone saying she should be locked up, right?” the president snickered.

The caller burst into a fit of laughter, before he could form a response.

“‘And, throw away the key!’ Oh, I like that, my friend. That’s another good one,” the president roared, “I don’t know how you come up with this stuff.  You know, I have to say that my all-time favorite is how your interpreter doesn’t know you speak English.  He doesn’t have a clue.  The world doesn’t have a clue.  Now, that’s jumboly genius, my friend!”

President Trap turned on the ignition and gripped the steering wheel with his free hand.

“Hey, we never had this conversation, right? It never happened!” he hooted, “I superly love these burner phones.  What I don’t love is how the fake reporters keep writing and talking about how much time I spend on the golf course.”

The president lightly pressed his foot down on the gas pedal.  Sluggishly, the cart moved.

“Oh, so you’ve read about that.  It’s unbelievable.  The fake reporters want to know how and where I spend my weekends. What for?  I go to my own properties.  It’s not costing anyone anything.  I don’t see the problem.  Hey, I’m the president and I can do what I want.  It’s jumboly crazy.  It’s the phony news making something out of nothing.  A superly jumbo enemy.”

Without hesitation the president drove his cart onto the next green and stopped approximately thirty yards from the eighth whole.  While listening to the caller, the president hopped out of his cart.  He surveyed the immediate area to confirm there was no one around.  President Trap reached into his pocket, pulled out his golf ball and tee. He bent down, pushed the tee into the ground and placed the ball on top.

“Oh, I have three or four boxes of them. It’s like 24 in a box. I only use them once…Yep. That’s it. One call and another burner phone bites the dust.  Never to be seen again.  And, it won’t even make it back to the club house with me,” the president crowed, as he glanced at small pond in the distance to his right and then over to a sand trap further up ahead to his left, “Hey, this conversation never happened! What happens at my golf clubs, stays at my golf clubs!”

Again, laughter filled the president’s ear as he went back to his golf cart. With his free hand, the president slid out a lob wedge from his golf bag and moved back to the ball on the tee.

“Say, how’s the new portrait going? Are you wearing a shirt this time?” President Trap kidded, before adding, “Do you think your guy could do my portrait? Wait. Hold that thought,” he implored and slipped the phone into his pants pocket.

The president lined up the ball and swung.  The ball came to a rest just under two yards of the eighth hole.  Satisfied, the president returned the phone to his ear and walked to his cart.

“Okay.  I’m back. Anyway, love how he did the horse.  You look great on the horse, but I want to do something superly different.  It can’t be a horse, or even close to it.  We don’t want the fact twisting media to make comparisons or claiming it’s proof of some connection between us.  And, believe me they would.  The best thing is to make my portrait superly different. Jumboly different, even.”

The president switched his lob wedge for his putter and strolled over to his ball on the green.

“Sure. Having a lion seated next to me would be different. And, it’s nothing like your horse, but it’s still not jumboly different. I like to go jumboly. Hold on just a second,” President requested and returned the phone to his pocket.

Standing over the ball with a huge grin, the president swung. The ball rolled but stopped on the very edge of the hole. President Trap grumbled, walked up to the ball, looked around then tapped the ball in with his foot. The president yelped victoriously. He plucked the ball out of the hole, pulled the cell phone out of his pocket, and journeyed back to his cart.

“So, like I was saying, I want my portrait to be jumboly different.  Just after I knocked the ball in the hole from at least 100 yards away, it came to me.  Just like that.  I know how I want my portrait done.”

The president slid the club in the bag and climbed into his golf cart.

“This idea is superly different.  I’m telling you it’s so good.  I should get a copyright or something. I mean it.  It’s that good.  I know your artist will love it,” the president boasted, “Get this.  Instead of a horse, I want him to paint me seated on a unicorn standing on a surf board riding a 30-foot wave.”