Pissoir d’Amore


January 6, 2017

What follows are notes I typed in the vehicle immediately upon exiting Trump Tower.

I said the Russians allegedly had tapes involving him and prostitutes at the Presidential Suite at the Ritz Carlton in Moscow from about 2013. He interjected, “there were no prostitutes, there were never prostitutes.” He then said something about him being the kind of guy who didn’t need to “go there” and laughed (which I understand to be communicating that he didn’t need to pay for sex).

January 28, 2017

I had dinner with President Trump in the Green Room at the White House last night. I explained that he could count on me to always tell him the truth. I said I don’t do sneaky things. I don’t leak. I don’t do weasel moves. I imagined that Russian hookers likely have expertise in both departments, but I did not raise this point in conversation.

At about this point, he turned to what he called the “golden showers thing” and recounted much of what he said previously on that topic, adding that he had known supermodels who craved the opportunity to “polish his brass” (which I took to refer to massaging his testicles and/or penis), and that he had never paid for intimacy, although the aftermath was occasionally expensive.

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  • String him up by his nuts.
  • Imax Pee Tape.
  • Soylent Orange.

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Just when everybody thought things couldn’t get any worse, Donald Trump peed on the Oval Office rug.

Nobody saw it coming. Trump hadn’t consulted with advisers before deciding to take a leak on the rug in the White House. He didn’t really decide, for that matter. He just felt like it.

And then he took a picture of it. And posted it to Twitter.

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One of the great shames of our unfortunate era is that amidst the horror, the suffering, the mendacity, the sheer chaos of it all, we have not found the time to appreciate perhaps the greatest political sex scandal ever to grace Our Exceptional Republic.

Let us now rectify that.

Longtime prisoners of this audience may recall our contemporary fascination with Stormy Daniels, a spunky dame who took on David Vitter in Louisiana, and whose c.v. was heavy on the v. It was a tribute to our robust democracy that a strong-willed woman, with nothing but the clothes off her backside, could aspire to one of the highest offices in the land.

And there we left her, forever emblazoned upon our fertile memory, until a week ago, when she returned for a curtain call in the national spotlight. For her service to America was not finished, her page in history not yet complete.

Stormy Daniels had fucked Donald Trump, and a universe was born.

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We’ve always been drawn to satire. From Mad to SNL to Spy and beyond, satire has been the refreshment for our soul. We drink it in, savor it, remember it for decades.

Satire makes sense of the world. It brings order to chaos, the rational mastering the irrational. Satire gets at the truth, by revealing the lies. Like jazz, the genius of satire is in what remains unsaid.

We have practiced satire whenever possible. We wrote a satire column in college. We helped produce a tabloid with a satirical undertone. We launched a blog whose dominant theme is satire.

And yet we have produced little satire for a long time.

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Surf’s up!

Let’s begin with the fun part. Let’s imagine it’s true.

And now that we’ve spoiled your upcoming meal, ask yourself this:

How hard was it to imagine?

If you’re like us — God help you — the answer is clear:

Not very.

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