Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.

Saturday, March 18, 2017


I've been President for nearly two months. Everything is awful.

Today, I met with Angela Merkel. Not a big deal. Turns out, learning to pronounce her name is tricky--it's like teaching nerds how to say 'Gif' properly. Hard 'G', people. Hit the 'g', don't ignore it.

She smells like Fritos and sunflowers. Very odd.


Traveling to Mar-a-Lago today. Can no longer call it 'The Winter White House,' as it is almost April. Thinking of renaming it 'Camp Barron'. Melania approves.


At Mar-a-Lago. Sitting in my room, on the edge of a bed so huge Scalia could die in it and not be noticed. Time. Time is something that weighs on me--I am convinced that time should be spelled with the i and the e together. Teim. Very German--always pronounce the second vowel, and no need for the consonant interrupting the precision of the vowels. I may invade Poland tomorrow.

My god, should I have shaken Merkel's hand? She intentionally sneezed into it. I saw it.


Dinner. Melania is across from me, her skin the color of crushed ice and her eyes like a furnace. Next to me is Bannon, who keeps talking about Watergate, which is a hotel just down the block from the White House. All I ever hear from him is 'blah blah blah.' My god, Melania is beautiful. She is the handshake I should give to Angela--the hard 'g' to my soft one.


A person just came to my door. He explained himself in a way I could not by saying he was from the NSA. "Sir," he said, "there is a new breach."

"Melania just had a new kid?"


Then he continued talking. I hate being President.

Friday, March 17, 2017

White House Tour (Seamus)

You heard the lady. Maddie, thanks. Thanks. Now follow me, folks, there's still a lot to see and we're wasting time.

On your left, you'll see the Mamie Eisenhower door. Now, behind that door is where the President sleeps. Sometimes. He rarely sleeps in there, but it used to have a great effect when I'd say it. Imagine the President sleeps in there on a regular basis. Ok?

We all know he sleeps more in Florida now.

Speaking of Florida, here is the Map Room! Step in. Step... Dude, the threshold is like an inch. If you hadn't worn sandals... There. So! Ladies and gentlemen! This is the Map.

Sir. You just pick up your foot. Move it towards me. There.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Map Room! As you can see there are no maps in this room. It was so named by President Reagan because he would come into this room and ask 'Where are the maps?' To be fair, every room in the White House could be called the Map Room. Everyone kept maps away from Reagan. True story: Atlas editors were once asked to visit Reagan and pretended the entire time they were in the Map Room. Can you guess what room they were actually in?

That was a rhetorical... you're very good. I didn't expect an answer. Give her a hand, everyone. She got it right. We'll see the Presidential bathroom--or 'john,' as you said--at the end of the tour.

Now. Here's where we keep Checkers. As you see, it's an empty closet, but we put out dog biscuits jut in case....

Thursday, March 16, 2017

White House Tour

Okay. So you've all got your badges...? Okay, good. Excellent! Special badges, hold up! Perfect. Now we're at the part of the tour where we split up. Hold up the specials! Keep them up! You're coming with me. The rest of you will continue that way--Seamus, you show them where to go, I know you will, you're so good at it--and you specials come this way. Follow me! C'mon now, right this way!

All here? Okay. Good. Now, as you know, this is a very different White House, and you paid good money to see just how new it is. Let's move into the alcove here. Wave good-bye to Seamus, everyone, as he ushers away the others from us. Bye, dear!

Now. What you're about to see, you cannot discuss. See those special badges? They are sacred bonds, willing you to silence. I have been doing these kinds of tours for decades, and I assure you it is the last thing you want to do to reveal what I am about to show you. If you were to leak to a reputable news organization, I would be forced to deny knowledge of what I am about to say. Please. Don't report. Don't leak. Do not, I beg you, tell the outside world what has suddenly become a nightmare for all of us working inside the White House which, until recently, was a wonderful place to work.

To your left, you see the President's collection of trucker hats. At one time, there was a collection of gifts from world leaders. Please note the stitching on each hat, done by the finest child hands from several countries. No other hats get that much attention to detail, folks, because not many hats have such small hands doing the stitching!

And to your right, you see the collection of the President's tax returns. You'll notice it is made up entirely of empty paper. The finest paper manufactured by humanity. Until recently, that case consisted of a display of artwork sent to previous Presidents by children. You may sense a theme.

Now! We're all here, right? Hold up your badges again! One.. two...three... f...five--sixseveneightnine. Great. Just making sure. We need to keep a close count on you all.

So behind this door, donated by Queen Victoria and carved by the great wood-working artist Corbet II, you'll find one of the President's more treasured new additions to the White House. It is a woman, held naked against her will and denied human touch except in times of cleaning and feeding. No one knows her name. Note how she is perfectly clean, perfectly fed, and will not respond to you no matter how many times you ask if she needs assistance. None of us here at the White House knows why the President requires her to be here, in this small closet... We just know he never comes down here.

Now--isn't this exciting?--we move on from this to another new installation in this White House. Here is Ben. As you see, he's a small child chained to a pole. The chain, which was forged by Andrew Jackson during his time as a Tennessee Supreme Court justice, is exactly two feet long. The President has decreed that anything happening in that two-foot stretch is the boy's domain. If you wander into it--watch out!--he is well within his rights to murder you, eat your flesh, and desecrate your corpse. But he is not allowed beyond that two feet stretch. Everyone say hi to Ben!

Miss, I really suggest you step back. Just... thank you.

Now. Special badges up, everyone! Let me see them! Onetwothreefourfive... yes, nine. All here still. Good!

So. To your right, you will see an elderly woman tied with velvet rope to a young maiden. See them? Note how the old crone is forced to stare at her younger self, and the young woman is forced to stare at the elderly crone?

Well, that's part of our President's genius! The elderly woman is only 20 years old! That's right! And her younger counterpart is nearly 90! In his devious wisdom, and for reasons we here at White House tours have not worked out, the President had a young woman prematurely aged, and an old woman restored to her youth, all by the magic of plastic surgery. So the old woman looks to the past, and the young woman looks to her future--and it's hilarious because they are both looking at their present! Each sees the other as exactly how they are, as if looking in a mirror.

Now, may I direct you to this door, beyond which is the most horrifying thing you will ever see. For this, I must ask you to hand in your badges and an additional 25 cents. Right this way, everyone. You won't see the secrets of the government without an additional fee. Thank you... thanks... Watch your step now....

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Snow Day

Trump moved from room to room--from Rose to Blue--without purpose.

"I'm bored!" he announced to no one, and no one responded. From a window, he saw the snow falling faintly, and faintly falling.

And he, like the snow, finally settled on an inert surface. He collapsed onto the Irma Truman bed, buried his head into his crossed arms, and sighed. The sigh shook no one, was heard by no one, yet a few snowflakes beyond the walls of the residence heard it and failed to alter their course. The snowflakes heard the great sigh and hesitated briefly, then delicately fell into a pile of snow against a shrub, and rested.

"Bored!" Trump shouted again.

No one answered him.

No sounds in the house except the sounds of snowflakes brushing against the panes of the windows.

"I can call a drone strike right now!" Trump announced, to no one.

The snow muffled his cries.

Joyce reference. Get it? Too obvs. Oh look at the snow.
"Nuke Iceland!" he demanded. And in Iceland, a young boy shivered for the first time, sneezed into his mitten, and purchased the milk he'd been sent by his mother to buy.

"Am I President or not?" Trump asked the Mamie Clinton bed. The Dolly Clinton bed had no answer--it stared back at Trump, its sheets as blank and as white as the snow outside. The snow, which continued to fall like pieces of shredded tax documents.

"Well, yes, you're President."

Trump caught his breath, which always tried to escape him. He peered up from his crossed arms and... no.

"Must be snow-blindness," he whispered to himself. "Surely must be a morsel of mushroom from brunch."

Standing in the center--or not quite center but more center right--of the room was Ronald Reagan. Hair sculpted in a way that even masons could not imagine. The swoop of the hair. The sweep and scope. The dense thicket of hair. Trump was speechless.

"You," Reagan said, even though Trump knew he could not be there, and therefore could not say this, "are President. It's true. The snow falling outside is real, and you, Donald J. Trump, are President."

Reagan moved towards the Jacky-K bed. He put one hand on the mattress Martha Nixon had personally stitched, and Trump felt the mattress sink a bit. Trump leaned into the Reagan pressure.

And silence, except for the snow, faintly falling and falling faintly, against all of the windows of the White House.

"I'm so bored," Trump whimpered again, and again, "...bored," as Reagan moved into him.

"Call me Mommy," Reagan whispered.

"Anything. I'll call you anything," Trump said, feeling the Betty Jackson mattress sink with Reagan's weight. "Just... I won't call this TrumpCare."

At that moment, Bannon knocked. Trump, for the first time in a long time, heard another voice. It shook the room, and shook the ghost of Reagan, and Trump was, again, alone with his thoughts and the snow scraping against his panes.

"Mr. President," Bannon shouted through the Roosevelt door. "We've managed to--"

"Am I going to Florida?!" Trump trumpeted.

"Of course! Sir, we'll manage. You've had a difficult four minutes. We'll take it from here."

Sunday, March 12, 2017


Q: Let's just get this out of the way: You're his, uh, his hair stylist, yes?

A: Yes. I do his hair. If you want to call me a hair stylist, that's your choice [laughs]. It's not so much a styling, is it, as damage control.

Q: How did you get the job?

A: Ah, there's a tale, isn't it? [Pauses.]

Q [After a few minutes]: So. There's a tale. Where is the tale?

A: What tail? My goodness, he has no tail. I couldn't style that.

Q: Tale. Story. You said--

A: Of course. Dear, I'm so exhausted I don't know my tails from my tales. What was the que--oh. My goodness. How did I become his hair, as you put it, stylist. Funny thing about that. I was working in a shop downtown, and one day he just walks in. I was doing some girl's hair, and we were chatting it up like we were friends from years back, and in he walks. Stands in the doorway with a bewildered look on his face like he'd just seen Marley on the doorknob. I says to the girl, I says "There's a man who ain't never seen the light of day"--on account of his pallor, you know-- "there's a man ain't never seen the light of day." And she said back, "Watch the scissors, love. You've got them in my ear."

Q: He was pallid?

A: Then? Yes. It was the early '80s, you know. Everyone was pallid. It was fashionable then to look like you were diseased. Then of course, you were diseased, and it was suddenly fashionable to look healthy, which meant tanning and rouge and the like. He didn't like rouge, so we went with a shellac coating. But that was later.

Q: So he came in...?

A: Yes. He stood in the door. I remember it like it was two days ago. He was confused, and almost apologetic as he stood there. It was a windy spring day it was, and he had on a coat much too thick for the day but the coat billowed around him and I says to the girl in my chair, "I'm sorry dear. I'll get you a tissue." Because she was bleeding from the ear I'd poked the scissors into. And she says back, "Pah. It's nothing, love, don't worry about it. Get a load of the guy standing in the door with that thick coat on." And so we laughed a bit. Because of the coat.

Q: All you noticed about him was his coat?

A: Coat? Who thinks about such things when you see a man who has hair like a stripped wheat field?

Physics fail

A: The wind was blowing his lack of hair around like it hated him. I says to the girl, "That coat ought to protect him from--"

Q: About his hair...?

A: Ai, never seen anything like it. It was a single strand, wrapped around his skull. Coiled like a snake, it was, but in the wind it came loose. It shot out from his head like a narwhal's tusk.

Q: So it was rigid?

A: It was just windy. A feather would've been a bullet in the wind that day.

Q: Did he say anything to you? I mean, he's standing in the door. You've made a customer deaf in one ear with your scissors. Was it just silence, or after all this bluster, did he say something like, "My hair needs repair"?

A: Ah, I see what you're getting at. I'm the hair stylist to the President, ain't I, and you want to know how I came to be just that.

Q: Well. I mean. That is the reason I'm here.

A: Under advisement, I've been told I'm not to answer any questions.

Q: But you agreed to speak to--

A: I never touched Boris Yeltsin's head.

Q: I didn't ask--

A: Kellyanne Conway is a lovely woman, delightful. Great head of hair on her, that one.

Q: So he's standing in the door--

A: And there we'll leave him. Pish off, dear.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Non-Speculative Trump Post

Alois Schicklgruber, DDS
"I'm in a documentary mood," I said earlier to my groaning husband who had just endured a documentary about the real murderer of the Lindbergh kidnapping. "I know. I know."

Then I hit play on 'Meet the Hitlers,' a documentary about people sharing the name 'Hitler.' Produced by Morgan Spurlock. Not a bad documentary at all. The doc introduces audiences to a young, blonde high school girl in St. Louis, a sardonic old man named Gene Douglas Hitler who was born so early in the actual Hitler's rise to power his parents almost named him Adolf (Gene Douglas apparently prefers to be called 'G. D. Hitler' for reasons I'm not sure he understands), a man in Germany who was brought up by his parents to believe his was Actual Hitler's nephew and has, accordingly, lived a celibate life with few--if any--personal attachments in hopes of assuring the Hitler name dies with him, and a journalist in search of Actual Hitler's Actual remaining ancestors: three brothers descended from Actual Hitler's half-brother Alois, jr.

Alois, sr., was Actual Hitler's dad, of course. Alois, jr., was Actual Hitler's half-brother. In the 'Meet the Hitlers' documentary, a journalist traces Alois, jr., to 1940s United States, where young Alois makes a point of renouncing his more famous brother, becoming a US citizen, then changing his name to something--anything--other than Hitler. Alois sires children, and those children--three boys--pledge to never splooge out heirs. If the documentary is to be believed, those three boys are now living in a weird Long Island compound together.

Like one does.

Now. The thing about this documentary about people named Hitler--even when they aren't named Hitler any longer--is that it made me curious. While forcing my husband to watch it, I ended up tuning half of it out as I searched the internet for Hitler's dad.

Hitler's dad, it turns out, was not named Hitler. Actual Hitler's dad--and therefore Hitler himself--was named Alois Schicklgruber.

What's more, when he did eventually change his surname--he was nearly 40 before he did that--he wanted to be called 'Alois Hiedler.' In a stunning act of inefficient German governance, however, a clerk noted the name-change as 'Hitler,' and that's how a Schicklgruber eventually became one of the worst mass-murdering assholes of modern times.

Perhaps if Actual Hitler had been Actual Schicklgruber, most if not all of the 1930s and '40s would've been more pleasant. Who knows.

Anyway. So my husband and I finished that documentary, and I was still in the mood for something--anything--to watch. I settled on--after a groan from the husband--'My Friend Rockefeller,' which I am still watching. Or will soon be watching, as the husband fucked off to take a long shower 20 minutes into the Rock-doc, and I decided to stop the doc for a moment to write.

Like one does.

"My Friend Rockefeller" is about a man who created himself virtually out of nothing. He got into the best parties, circled around the best circles. Failed, as it were, upward by convincing people he was someone he was not, and worthy of being included in a social class he wasn't a part of.
Plot relevant

Ten minutes into Rock-doc, I announced to my husband, "I think I see a pattern."

"Mmmm?" my husband grunted. He was playing a game on his computer.

"We started off with a documentary about the Lindbergh baby, where they suggest Charles Lindbergh himself may have had a hand in his son's kidnapping and death. Eugenics and all that. Then we go to a documentary about people named Hitler which never once mentions the fact that even Hitler wasn't named Hitler. Hitler was also, by the way, either a vegetarian or not a vegetarian--there are conflicting reports about that--so we don't even really know what Hitler was made of. And we don't know all that much about the actual man. We know his persona, sure, and we know he wanted to be an artist and he hated Jews and was Jewish even though he had a false story created to cover up his Jewishness, and whatever."


"Well, yes. I think I'm subconsciously--although now consciously, since I'm saying it--trying to work out what the fuck we're doing with a fake businessman in the White House."

"Whose family is all about eugenics," the husband added.

"Who believes in eugenics."

There was a beat of silence, during which we could hear the dog licking his own asshole as if it were a Tootsie-Pop.

"I'm going to take a bath," the husband announced.

"I mean, can you imagine a President Drumpf?"

"A long bath," the husband amended.

"So who is this man? As with Hitler, we get glimpses of a personal life, but they aren't true insights into the man. Like Hitler, he's spent decades building a facade. Not even an image, really, like with actors or whatever. An actual facade, using words built on nothing very substantial."

"Maybe a bubble-bath."


And so here we are: me in the middle of a masochistic, existential documentary binge; my husband taking a bubble-bath. And a dog still giving his asshole the attention it deserves.

A  Faux Schicklgruber running the country.

Blog Archive

About Me

My photo
New York, NY, United States

Search Blogness