A weekly political cartoon dissecting the thoughts of Trump and his admininstration.
It had been a rough day. And a windy one. No amount of double-sided tape and the most fantastic adhesive that money could buy had been effective in keeping his hair in place. Every time he turned on the news, the dishonest, fake media channels were showing photos of his coiff flapping all over the place.
He knew what would cheer him. Ever since Cohn and McMaster had left the West Wing, he'd resolved to do things his way. And if there was one thing he loved, it was madlibs. He scribbled out whatever came to him immediately. This would be the roadmap for the week. "Take that Crooked Hillary" he muttered under his breath as he clutched the remote and let out a relieved sigh as he finally switched to Fox News.
Increasingly, Sean felt himself hiding from the press pool. He darted around corners whenever he saw a reporter in the hall. He pretended he was on the phone whenever anyone made eye contact. He had even eaten his lunch in the bathroom the other day, which is a really hard thing to do without getting mustard on your tie. It'd been a few days since he had insisted that "covfefe" was an intentional word and it was much too late for him to take it back. As he lay awake in the middle of the night, he had decided it was up to him alone to turn it into a real word. He'd start using it in normal conversation. He'd casually pepper it into his press briefings. Every word seems weird at first, when you think about it! So he'd make it not weird. He'd make it covfefe. He crawled out from under his desk, poured his daily bottle of Pepto into his new custom mug, and strode out of his office with his head held high. #covfefe
The dummies in the mainstream media had been reporting that Donald was yelling at TVs around the White House about the Russia investigation. What a load of fake news! It wasn't just TVs he was declaring his innocence to -- it was everything! He careened around the West Wing with a half-open chenille robe and house slippers and yelled at a footstool, a painting of George Washington, Churchill's bust, and a random tour of schoolchildren on a field trip. He almost punched a coat rack. He found himself in the dining room and picked up one of the ornate, gold plated salt shakers he had brought from Trump Tower. "WITCH HUNT!" he roared at the shaker as he held it with his small orange fingers. He threw it at the head of a nearby cowering staffer and pulled out his phone to craft the most magnificent tweet.
He closed his eyes and softly whispered it over and over. President Pence. President Pence. He wondered if Angela Merkel would let his wife Karen sit in on their meetings. He wondered how long it would take Mueller to find out how much he knew about Russia (much too much). These were the things that kept him up at night. But more pressing, he wondered if it was too late to start going by Michael.
Melania could sit very still for hours. This skill has served her quite well as a model and had become super useful in avoiding Donald at Trump Tower. She and Barron had been in the White House for three days and had only run into him once. She hoped she could stretch out the sightings to once a week. She pulled out the hand drawn map of the White House from her bra and marked a small magenta lipstick "x" on the Lincoln Bedroom. An hour ago, Donald had peeked his head into the room while she sat in the dark. Instinctively, she let out a ghost-like moan. He had quickly scurried down the hall and she knew he would not return anytime soon.
Trump nervously stood in front of the guestbook at Yad Vashem, Israel's Holocaust museum. He knew he needed to write something eloquent, but his mind was blank. The press pool snapped pictures as his small, sweaty fingers gripped the pen. How about "Those Nazis were dumb losers! Sincerely Donald"...? No. Maybe just "Cheers, Your friend Donald"? No. Didn't people always used the phrase "Never Forget" when they talked about the Holocaust? Maybe he could use that. Yes, that would be tremendous.
Ivanka used to gently tease Jared that he had Resting Worried Face. He had found that pretty funny, even if his face said the opposite. Now that his attempt to establish a backchannel with the Russians was out in the open, it should be pretty clear why he'd looked so terrified lately. The betrayal by Russian ambassador Kislyak really hurt. When he was a child, Jared's father had opted for bedtime stories that dispensed serious business advice instead of childish fairytales. He had told him that a Russian would never betray you if you never got them wet or fed them after midnight. Or was he mixing that up with something else?