Trump.exe

By Trevor Parrish and Quin Asselin

An article from the “Trump Presidency” side of our issue, What to Expect When You’re Electing.

I’d received a job late one Thursday night, from the League of People with No Hair but Who Really Wish They Had Some. Trump was a hairless menace giving us a bad name with that rug, and he needed to be stopped. There was only one cue-ball who could break in and put an end to President Trump’s tyrannical-mean-and-not- so-nice reign (By the way, I’m bald by choice, I choose to shave because I think it looks dashing.) That one person was me, your very glabrous thirty-ninth President of these blessèd United States of America, Jimmy Carter. Just as all ex-leaders of the free world, I can dissolve into water vapor as it passes through an Ionic Breeze Quatra (as seen on TV.) I slipped in through his sniffles in the night. I made my way to the location of a normal human’s brain and lay in wait for hours.

The door to Trump’s Head Office opened. A figure walked into the room and flicked the light switch, nearly brushing by me, your very handsome thirty-ninth president, Jimmy Carter. Just to be safe, I receded back into the wall disguising myself as a portrait of your very crafty thirty-ninth president, Jimmy “The Body” Carter. Presidential powers come in handy quite often. A large computer, lining the inside of Trump’s glistening, supple forehead whirred to life:

Booting up program: Trump.exe…
 Stamina.exe: Done!
 WaterLevels: 98.7% at 96°C

“Oh my gawd it’s like a sauna in here,” cried the little green monkey turning the crank shaft that drives Donald Trump’s brain, “they don’t pay me enough for this shit.” His voice was raspy like a little green monkey with a raspy voice. He ate the banana that Melania had supplied for him today. He was staring at the screen that was giving him instructions for his 16 hour shift. The work area in Trump’s head got especially hot during interviews. He finished turning the crank, the inner workings of the motor continued behind him.

Loading Wall.txt
 Topic: Walls
 “Wall? (Y/N)”

“Of course we should build a wall. We need to keep illegals out of our country!” he walked off from the crank and scrambled over to his desk, hidden under piles of documents. He rummaged through a mound of papers, overturning them to reveal various birth certificates, some skewed penis size graphs, and his glasses. Boing-Boing was near sighted after all.

Warning: Nostril Pressure Critical

The monkey who was both green and little scrambled to the pressure release valve. After taking a quick reading of the gauge, he solved a level 8 Sudoku puzzle which of course relieves the pressure in most traditional Meiji period architecture. You know.

Following what had to be hours of various menial tasks, the exhausted little green monkey collapsed onto the mail cart, spreading an obscenely-sized ocean of letters across the floor. For a moment, he lay there utterly still. In the next several moments, he did the same exact thing. He was out cold.

50491308_patas_monkey_fbeikk-copy
Art by Joseph Kolb

I knew the opportunity as I saw it. I’d been eyeing the TD Bank pen propped up against a little sculpture that read “Donald Trump’s Candy Crush High Score: Probably 10.” I had already stolen 7.5 pens from various pigeonholes throughout his noggin. Being rather skilled at espionage, your very… discreet thirty-ninth president, James “The Jim Jam” Carter slurmped out of the wall and dropped like a hunk of moist pasta onto the ground. Each and every one of my newly formed bones ached but there was no time for pain when you’re me, your very perseverant thirty-ninth president Jammin’ James. Like democratic lightning, I flew towards the desk and claimed my prize. But then I gazed upon the treasure of all treasures.

I was transfixed. It felt like this former Georgia governor’s eyes were finally failing him as he descended into death and had subsequently awoken in some far off paradise. Before me was a Red Carbon Delta Momo 30th Limited Edition Fountain Pen with 18Kt Fusion Nib and Black Rhodium finish. I was so preoccupied with signing my incredibly presidential name that I scarcely noticed the admittedly-smaller-than-average Screamin’ Green (76FF7A) monkey who was, of course, wearing a shirt, stirring behind me. You lose the presidential power of eyes on the back of your head when you leave office.

mcmonkey
Art by Joseph Kolb

It was at that moment I felt the distinct pain of a monkey’s wrench to the back of my skull. It was a monkey wrench to be precise. I wheeled about to see a monkey wrench himself up off the ground and rush towards the “Jimmy B Gone™ spray located beneath the toppled mail cart. Jimmy B Gone™… my only weakness. I knew if I was gonna survive I’d need to get out, and fast. I sashayed over to the door at a normal human rate and went for the handle. As I slipped through the the door I looked back. The Boingster had only just regained his footing. Just before I finished my escape I smirked and jeered, “enough of that monkey business.” Text appeared on the computer screen one last time:

Mmm... Agreeable Data!

I did not know that it spoke.

Your very frugal thirty-ninth President,
James Earl Carter, Jr.