Exclusive Story by Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, Girl Reportress
“All the news that gives you fits, in print!”™
May 8th, 2017
WASHINGTON / NEW YORK—
The world is heaving a sigh and chortling itself sick
as it absorbs the events of the past few days, during which it was accidentally revealed that the whole “Trump thing” was exactly as most people had suspected—an elaborate joke of vast proportions.
As the scope of the scampy subterfuge unfolds, it’s apparent that absolutely everyone was in on it, starting of course, with Trump himself. It was The Donald, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal, who burst the bubble with one of his quasi-adorable slips.
Speaking to Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull, Trump opined:
Right now, Obamacare is failing. I shouldn’t say this to our great gentleman and my friend from Australia, because you have better health care than we do —
Oopsies!!! And this only moments after the Republican-controlled House voted to dismantle Obamacare, the better-than-nothing sorta-healthcare kinda-system which had brought almost-affordable though short-of-satisfactory protection to millions of America’s uninsured, or so those scallywags had convinced themselves.
The cat was out of the bag, the ball was rolling and who knew if the fun would ever stop as Trump, clearly unable to contain his delight, began—to use a theatrical term—”corpsing”, or breaking down with nervous, uncontrollable laughter: a weirdly appropriate term considering the circumstances.
This quickly triggered his Australian counterpart, who seemed to appreciate the delicious irony—heck, let’s give the man his due—the lunacy to rival the Marx Brothers’ best, of Trump praising single-payer, tax-funded health care. Pull the other one, it’s got bells on!
” ‘Course it’s all a big joke!” Donald admitted when we called him after his Turnbull photo-op for an explanation. “Oh, my ribs and death panels! Are you guys retarded or what? Lemme – oh god – lemme catch my breath here…!”
He continued, “It’s a joke, just as sure as I’m a Ph.D. Magna Cum Laude in Mediaeval English Literature! And I am! Princeton, Class of ’82! Would you care to read my ground-breaking dissertation on the uses of proto-feminist iconography in Chaucer?
“The Times Literary Supplement called it a page-turner that not only rivals Moby Dick—it surpasses it on every page in scope and ambition! Not bad for a poor farm kid from Nebraska, right, Vlad?”
“Da! Da, baby!” Even by phone it was unmistakably Vlad Putin, but—mellow ?
“Listen,” Putin continued, “Cuddles now going, yes? I makink fresh blinis and any minute Liza’s comink over, she is then teaching me Fosse neck, jazzing hands and something pikantnye with a chair. This Leessa! She is introducing me always charming homosexuals whom I love every day more!”
Putin a sultry romantic with a newly-awakened taste for well-aged trouser snake and the occasional gay icon? That bad boy routine was all a big blustering charade after all!
Intrigued as all get-out, we turned next to the redoubtable* Bernie Sanders. We’d already experienced our beloved Nutty Professor on CNN as he turned his signature beet-red and threatened Trump with “holding him” to his comments on healthcare. What did our trouble-haired also-ran have to say for himself? Did he realize the scope of the deception?
Sanders confessed, “Yep, it’s true—Hillary, Cuddles and I—oh, Cuddles? That’s what we call Donald—yep, we’ve been planning this little escapade since 1980! We never thought you’d buy that I was presidential material!
“C’mon dudes! Socks with sandals, dandruff on my corduroy jacket lapels and that vague but persistent urine-y old-guy smell—Seriously? And talk about age! Christ Almighty, never mind the nuclear codes, I’m lucky if I make it to next Tuesday!!
“I’m just sorry we didn’t get to do that prank—you know, when I kit up in a Mao suit, address the General Assembly of the United Nations and then halfway through I unwrap a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich because ‘my blood sugar is low’, then lecture them on five-year planning! Man, I wish I coulda taken a run at that one, just to have seen their faces!”
Wiping the tears of hilarity from his cheeks, he added, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a refund for these Birkenstocks? The fuckers are killing my feet! No wonder the Krauts won World War II!”
Our final port of call in our exposé of Washington wacky dust was the Clintons’ palatial estate in upstate New York, where it appeared that an enormous “come bare as you dare party” was winding down.
“Y’all come on in to the Yellow Drawing Room”, said Hillary in her characteristic Arkansas drawl as she opened the front door. The former Miss World and college-drop-out-made-good, her hair damp and slicked back, her voluptuous curves barely masked by a Martha Stewart bath sheet, waved us in with a welcoming gesture.
“This ol’ cluster-fuck’s been going on since the election”, she said with an endearing giggle as she padded bare-foot across the parquet. “Or rather, the ol’ coin-toss.
“You see”, she explained, “we decided the winner by tossing a quarter, best two-outta-three, and whaddaya know, it was Cuddles! Then it’s just a question of makin’ sure the press gets sent the right results. You get mah drift?
“Frankly, I was relieved! I gotta whole bunch of new pizza franchisees opening next week and I’m workin round the clock on product development —that’s right! It’s always been mah dream to bake! Y’all try this lil ol’ sample now—”
Clinton held out a plate piled high with various silver-dollar-sized nosh. I chose one at random—was that mozzarella?—and popped it into my mouth. “It’s delicious, what’s with the funky smell?”
“Shhhh! Top Secret! It’s the Pizza Bianca Monica—all white, but boy does it leave nasty stain on your shirt! Damn!
“Anyways, what with the tension of keeping this whole surprahz under wraps, we’ve all been a bit frazzled, y’all know how it is. So Billy and I decided to call in a few favors, if you get my drift and just – ”
We were interrupted by the appearance of James Comey and Paul Ryan, both wearing nothing but a light beading of sweat, who without so much as a by-your-leave whisked Clinton away to what they called the “Interactive Discussion Room”, apparently located somewhere in the upper floors – traditionally forbidden to the press.
“Hey!” Clinton shouted back to us as Ryan and Comey carried her up the celebrated circular staircase. “These boys tell me it’s tahm for mah double-teamin’! Woo-hoo!! Hey, y’all know how to shoot me up? We’ve got just the best crystal in from Palm Springs—and it’s makin’ me me feel sooooo—reckless —!”
Looking crazed and dishevelled, Bill Clinton and his playmate Ivanka—having finished at least the first round of discussions by the fireplace—and chortling fit to bust, scampered up the stairs behind them.
But Hillary – was it possible?- had one more surprise under her bath-sheet. Bless her ol’ cotton socks!
“You know about Billy?— Whaddaya think honey, shall I break it to them? Shall I?
“Well, y’all finally maht as well know—Billy, he’s mah cousin, right?! You betcha! Old Arkansas tradition!!” And with a final guffaw, they were gone, leaving us standing speechless in the foyer.
We nearly died.
With reporting from Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, girl journalist.
— AP / Reuters ©2017
UP NEXT: “Barry” Obama takes up smoking. That li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal.
And speaking of Helen Keller,
HAPPY MONDAY EVERYONE!
To the women everywhere–
Banish the black! burn the blue ! and bury the beige! – from now on ….
Think Pink when you shop for summer clothes –
Think Pink when you want that “quelque chose”!
The redoubtable* Kay Thompson, who oughta be inducted into the Homo Hall of Fame as an honorary gay man, was Judy Garland’s vocal coach, which tells you a lot, and, when not flailing her arms about while talking and calling it “cabaret singing”, also wrote a series of children’s books called “Eloïse”, about a little girl who lives at the Plaza Hotel in New York.
Yep, the Plaza Hotel. From these humble beginnings, Eloïse sallies forth to have Pirate Adventures, among others, though we must forever regret that Thompson shuffled off this mortal coil before updating us with “Eloïse Gets Shtupped While Unconscious At Studio 54″.
The opening musical number of Funny Face, “Think Pink”, features Ms Thompson, plus her swirly-skirted minions—who for reasons never explained speak in unison, like borg—and a virtual steam room’s worth of butch-dancin’, Bronx-talkin’ “we’re not gay, no way!!” male dancers dressed in overalls.
Please, I beg you, before watching, turn out the lights, put down your Bayeux tapestry restoration work and resolve to give this gem your full attention. For this is not just another musical number, oh no.
This is one of the supreme camp moments in cinema. It is the Sistine Chapel ceiling, it is the Cellini “Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa” of camp. Often imitated, usually by me around 3AM when I think everyone’s left, but rarely equalled—
—except by the crack-addled ad minions of the late Eatons department store who, in their desperation for another ball of hard, not to mention their jobs, churned out an eye-popping parody, “Aubergine”, a paean to the Pantone© spot color used in the soon-to-be-dead-as-a-beaver-tail Eatons branding.
And I have the dinner plates to prove it.
*redoubtable: If anyone is aware of the meaning of this word, which just kinda sounded good at the time, please contact the News Desk. —G.-J. “R.” M.