Trump gets ready for bed in the "White House."

Illustration by Joe Gallina

Donald Trump had just stepped into the White House when he noticed a wrinkle in the carpet underneath the doorman’s foot.

“You’re fired,” the president shouted abruptly, taking a moment to smile and admire the sound of his own voice reverberating through the halls. He’d been watching re-runs of “The Apprentice” all week, and it seemed like the right thing to do. Plus, after spending the last six weeks saying, “you’re hired” to everyone he knew, the return to his token catchphrase was soothing.

The doorman nervously removed his hat, revealing his deep-sunk eyes and a childlike gloom that reminded him of a young Cub Scout he had encountered weeks back. The president was on his way to McDonald’s to pick up his favorite midnight snack (two Big Macs and an order of large fries, extra golden), when the 10-year-old stopped him to ask to join his cabinet. He had the credentials to earn a rightful place, the boy explained, yanking at his sash full of golden medals and sewn-on patches.

“I know you want smart people. Ben Carson was, like, a brain doctor,” the young boy said, gazing up at the president’s plump belly. But I can build a fire without a lighter and put up a tent in under three minutes. I even learned how to scare off a bear last week. Ask my troop leader!”


Donald Trump had taken a moment to think. Perhaps he was the right fit for Secretary of Defense? We need someone swift and well equipped to handle foreign invasions, he told himself. The young boy was ready to deal with bear attacks and how different, really, were nuclear attacks? He’d let the idea dwell for a moment before deciding that he would have to decline. Ten was just too young.

The president snapped back out of it. He’d have to let the doorman go. How soft he would look if he gave him a second chance. What would Vladimir think?

Besides, today there were more important things on his mind, like making sure that he hit his new record: 14 tweets in one hour, and decorating his new home.

The bedroom was first and most important. It was where he did most of his TV watching and late night Tweeting. A 90-inch television screen was mounted above his bed so he could lie back and admire himself in his full glory, especially his hands, which looked huuuuuge.

The liberal media was so biased, but seeing his name in the headlines, even if it was beside words like “liar” and “corrupt,” on the big screen — it was mesmerizing.

“They really love to talk about me,” he’d whisper over to Melania. She never responded, but he imagined she was smiling and agreeing from Trump Tower.

Trump took a step back and looked at the mirrors that now plastered every inch of the room. He gave his reflections a thumbs up, remembering his new idea: Trump Town. He had heard about Obama having a playground set up for his children, and suggested they erect a Trump theme park for him. It would be like Coney Island, he told the decorator, but bigger, better, and more regal.

The decorator took notes, and followed Trump around, adorned in his lavish bathrobe as he snapped orders. He wanted the library demolished and replaced with a movie theater. Next door, the president showed him the outline for an in-house tanning salon. There was also the minutia: Trump towels, toilet paper, and for new guests, a pre-signed stack of autographs at every entrance.

But the main idea was clear: “I want it to look gold and grand," he told the decorator. "Cover up all the cracks, fold over the wrinkles and sand over any bumps.”

"And get rid of the colors in these first floor rooms. Let's make it white again.”

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