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By Coral Howe


Donald Trump woke up next to his wife. Caressing her back, he then caressed the photo taped to her back of his daughter. As soon as he exited his bed, it was immediately made by a Hispanic woman. He bumbled into the bathroom, and whipped out his flaccid penis he nicknamed “Crooked Hillary”. With careful attention to detail, he tidied the comb over on his balls. Looking down at them, he spoke:

“Today’s gonna be a big day.. A great day. The greatest day you’ve ever seen. My wife wants me to make a taco bowl for Cinco de Mayo. She’s botched it for too long. She’s too old. We’re going to make it great again.”

He slowly got dressed in his blue-collar billionaire fit, consisting  entirely of denim and white cotton. This was  accentuated with a cowboy hat and gold watch. Before leaving the bathroom he made a note to rewind the sex tapes he’d  been watching late into the night.

Donald peered outside of his Manhattan penthouse to see a sea of people wearing red caps, gesticulating wildly and rubbing against each other sexually. A few were  punching and kicking each other. The security guard standing outside the doors of the huge mansion spoke into a walkie-talkie. A sheet of pink powder quickly fell from an unknown location onto the entirety of the property. The supporters began to grind and punch harder, and some drooled and began to pinch their own nipples towards the house. The combined movement appeared, from Trump’s eyes, like boiling water in a pot.
The mere thought made Trump hungry.

He hurriedly rushed to the fridge while flapping his left hand against his wrist, and threw butter onto an already hot pan. There was always a defrosted Trump Steak, exclusively bought from the Sharper Image, in one of the four marble kitchen sinks. He quickly fried it up while manically biting into some jerky he had freshly dehydrated the night before.

His chewing intensified as he heard banging on the door. Worried a protester had jumped the gate, he grabbed the dirty steak knife he was licking and opened the door slowly, with bated breath. It was just his pal Ted Cruz ready to pick him up in his Prius.

“Woah! Buddy!” Ted threw his hands back. “What’s with the  bloody knife?” Trump, his face slightly damp with sweat, forced out a fake chuckle. After a moment of silence, they both burst out laughing. His cheeks red with delight, Ted slapped Trump on the back and laughed, “Leave that psycho killer stuff to me!”  Trump loudly fake-laughed. “Ah, but yeah.. I killed a lot of people. Let’s go.”
Trump and Ted hopped into the Prius and quietly sped away.

“So, how’s your  family?”

Ted Cruz sighed, “My daughter didn’t kiss me goodbye today.”

Trump shook his head. “I feel your pain. I truly feel your pain. I feel a great deal of pain, a lot of pain, probably the most pain anyone’s ever seen.”

Ted scoffed out the side of his mouth  "I’m not wearing my argument boots today.” It got awkward in the car again. Trump whipped out his iPhone and quickly dashed out a tweet.

“Be careful Lyin’ Ted, or I’ll spill the beans on your wife!”

Ted pulled into Whole Foods as his phone vibrated. Trump whipped out of the car and whirled around. “Ted, I love you, you’re a great guy. You smell like sweet cream and hard boiled eggs. Your Prius is very quiet. You’re very conscientious of the environment. I need you to go in there and get me everything on this list. Trust me, I’m a bright person. Putin thinks I’m a bright person. We’re gonna have a great Cinco de Mayo.”

Trump filibustered Ted out of his Prius. Ted took a few steps and turned around, suddenly consumed with feelings of giving a Harvard style shout-lecture to his frienemy in light of being bullied and emasculated. Trump threw on a burned CD containing music he was legally forced to stop playing at his rallies and let the car purr. He gave Ted the “OK” hand sign through the tinted windows and pointed to his gold watch while making a sad face, sympathetically telling his friend to hurry up. Ted turned around, flustered, and rushed into the grocery store.

Inside, the lights were very bright, presumably for the baby corns. He had worked up a sweat to accentuate the stench that lingered on his suit from standing inside a Subway for 45 minutes that morning. As he walked up to the cart section with the list in his hand, he intercepted the gaze of an older woman standing by the boxes of coconut and cocoa powder dusted almonds. She appeared, even from far away, to be trembling out of fear. Ted felt his upper lip get damp for the fourth time today. He grabbed the nearest cart and pushed it harder from him than his allegiance to God. He hid in the canned nuts section and unfolded the grocery list from his pocket.

    “LIST:
    PEPPERS”

It wasn’t finished. Ted Cruz angrily whipped a green pepper at the backside of a man mopping the floor, frustrated with the lack of politically tainted guidance. He thought of how Portia de Rossi probably eats green peppers in a variety of ways. He stood in front of a busy checkout aisle for as long as it took to finally decide on an Almond Joy. Finally, he conceived the idea that he could pay someone to do it for him. He quickly found the man he assaulted and wrote him a check that couldn’t be cashed for at least two weeks.

Within 10 minutes, everything was properly packaged and in the trunk of Ted’s car, which contained two political powerhouses that once again created an uncomfortable atmosphere. Trump ate peanuts and threw the shells all over the newly vacuumed floor, and ran the car until it had a žth tank of gas. Cruz began to feel his Harvard past surface, but Trump started loudly eating out of 2 opened bags of the same kind of tortilla chip.

“Let’s scoot now. Bye bye. No more now. Thanks my great friend.”

Trump’s tongue started hurting from all the salt, but he didn’t stop. Cruz, thrown another curve ball, passive aggressively dropped Donald off 10 feet from his mansion entrance, and squealed his tires a tiny bit at the end of the driveway. As the car wouldn’t rev loudly for dramatic affect, he just screamed until he took the next left.

Trump took his groceries and swung the heavy bags with immense force onto the kitchen counter. The marble cracked as chips and salsa  cascaded onto the floor. He stomped onto them out of pure spite towards nobody in particular. Salsa dashed across the wall. Blind with unprovoked anger, he bit down on two pounds of beef as hard as he could. It suppressed a frustrated grunt.  He paced for five minutes before checking his phone to distract himself. He felt the pull so strong now, he was impossible to ignore. He had promised his wife “never again” countless times, but he promised to throw out leftover steaks out of concern for his own mental health. Every thick, juicy bite was a rich experience provided by the Sharper Image, but Donald knew he couldn’t make the house reek of hot blood any longer without hurting the people he paid to pretend to love him. Unless he opened a window, or propped open the front door.

No, he had to brown the beef and add the taco seasoning mix. His thoughts were interrupted by a sizzling noise. He’d cooked the steak subconsciously, and as he further observed, perfectly. Before he could turn off the burner, he began gagging hot steak down his pumpkin colored throat, feeling the blood burn his lower lip, neck and chest. As he cried out in excitement and genuine pain, he heard his wife call his name. “Donald? I smell those steaks!” Suppressing a smaller, quieter scream, Donald stumbled into the closest bathroom and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Donald! I thought we were going to have taco bowls!” his wife said however she said it, whatever, she’s just his wife, she’s not that important. His daughter, though. Donald gritted his teeth as he thought of his daughter and also burning his entire mouth. He decided to sleep until everything went away. Nestled against the toilet with the now-cold steak resting under his head, Donald logged into his Twitter account.

He had a long day today. Instead of live tweeting another Miss Universe’s recorded sex acts and pinning a pillow to the bed frame with his crotch, Donald, for once, had absolutely nothing to say. It was a good day. He woke up, made the bed, bought groceries and made food for his wife. He cleaned Ted’s car and enjoyed spending time with him shopping at Whole Foods. He had a few steaks, no big deal, a lot of people in politics  respect him for it. And all he had to be was himself. Realizing this, he sighed, content, and finally able to drown out the furious pounding on the bathroom door. He turned out the lights and rolled over, discreetly nibbling on part of the steak pillow as he turned his head. With the help of Ted Cruz and other loyal party candidates, Trump felt confident that he had a good day and was a good person. This was just one day in the life of Donald Trump.
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