Feeling the Bern

Bernie Sanders sat down with a cup of tea and a good book, ready to settle in for one of those quiet nights that were becoming increasingly rare as his campaign continued. He took a sip, put his mug down, and sighed, pressing his fingers against his temples. The stress was something he had thought he was prepared for, but the pressure and scrutiny was so constant, so demanding. Bernie took another sip, hoping it would relax him, but he still felt anxious. Closing his book, he stood up slowly from his chair. He didn't really feel like reading anyway.

He moved over to his television and pressed the power button on the side. The presidential hopeful picked up the remote and changed it to the news station. His own face smiled back at him, approving the message. The ad ended and the station returned to its evening program, but he shut the television off again. He just wanted one night where he could completely forget about his campaign and all the stress that came along with it.

Bernie went to sit down and try to read again when, as if by fate, there was a knock on the door. He couldn't imagine who would be here this late at night. With caution, he moved towards the door. "Who is it?" he called.

There was a brief silence. "It's me, Donald," a muffled voice responded from the other side of the door. He shook his head, annoyed. People "trolling him," as the millennials would say, this late at night was just rude. Bernie walked away back towards the living room. The knocking started up again, loud and angry. He looked from his cozy chair to the door handle. With a tired sigh, he moved back towards the door and turned the lock.

Slowly, the door opened. "Finally," the person said, "I was starting to think you would never answer."

He stared at his visitor in shock. "Trump?"

"Who did you think it was? Donald Duck?"

Bernie could only stand and stare in shocked silence. Donald was draped against the doorway, the glow of the outside light evening out his orange skin and enhancing its color. He had a provocative smile that was approaching a leer. But most shocking of all was his attire. Instead of his usual crisp suit, he wore only an oversized shirt that said "DEMOCRATIC SOCIALISM" in a very seductive font, exposing the lower half of his carrot-like thighs.

"Are you going to invite me in, or leave me out here in the cold?" This snapped the stunned socialist out of his stupor, and he didn't hesitate in ushering Trump in, pretending that nothing at all was amiss in the way that only a politician can. Trump sat down on the couch as if it were his own, with a manspread that threatened his decency.

"Can I offer you some tea?" He asked him politely, playing a warm, if confused, host. As Bernie half-expected, Trump shook his head.

"Nah," he declined, "I prefer stronger stuff. Greater stuff. Because I'm going to make America great again. That's what I'm doing."

Bernie cleared his throat "Actually, Donald, I was wondering what you were doing here. And why you're wearing that, among other things."

"Oh, that's easy," Donald said with a sultry smile, "The best way to make America great again is to make our relationship great."

"I'm not quite sure what you mean," Bernie replied.

"I guess I'll have to show you, then," Donald breathed, slinking his way towards him on the couch. Bernie watched the vocal Republican move closer with confusion, a confusion that increased the more the gap between them closed. Trump stopped when they were mere inches away.

"Democratic socialism," the Donald whispered sexily in his ear. Bernie found himself suddenly, inexplicably consumed with a passion he had only before felt while on the campaign trail. He didn't protest as Donald took his hand and dragged him towards the bedroom. So overwhelming was the fire burning inside him that he didn't stop to wonder how Trump knew where his bedroom was.

----------------------------------

The slap of a hand against flesh echoed throughout the room. "Oh, Donald," Bernie breathed, his face shining with sweat, "you wild animal. You...elephant."

"Call me Mr. President," Donald growled under his breath, his hand moving downwards to spank the Democratic candidate again.

It seemed that slap was all that it took for Bernie to come completely undone. "Ooh, Donald," he moaned, "I'm feeling the Bern."