“You look tired today.”
“I didn’t sleep well. I had an intense, almost-waking dream where I found a magic crab on the seashore, and she granted me three wishes. So my first wish was that Trump would shit his pants every time he spoke. I debated, at first, whether to have him shit his pants every time he lied, which is about the same thing, but really, I don’t ever want to hear him talk again, and he would never grasp the concept of ironic punishment anyway. So I went with the straight speak/shit relationship. He’s halfway there already. I made the wish and then he spoke and he shitted. And again. And again. He kept talking. He wouldn’t STOP talking, and he kept shitting and shitting, and all the shit ballooned out below him, and his pants stretched to the size of the Las Vegas Sphere, and this big ball of Trump shit spread out all over Manhattan and then New York and the East Coast, and I think you can see where this is going.”
“The whole world was covered in shit.”
“You got it.”
“Did you have to use your next wish to wash it away?”
“No. I had already used those for a billion dollars and Jack Kirby’s autograph. But by then they were covered in shit.”
“Mmm. There’s a lesson in there somewhere. Under all that shit.”
