The Russian & Donald

I stared into the mirror, my orange skin glistening, hints of skin color showing under my wrinkles. Using a bottle of chloroform I subdued the Guinea pig on my head to keep it from escaping. After putting my things away with my tiny baby hands, I walked into the middle of my penthouse. My third wife, Malaria or someone was there along with my totally fuckable daughter. I was ready for a fresh day as the president of (most of) the United States.

I was in the oblong office, or whatever, attempting to teach myself how to read. I was using those reading railroad books about the apples when my phone buzzed. It wasn't my twitter so I turned it on in confusion.

There, on the screen was the name PUTIN. I screamed like a democrat reading the news and answered it excitedly. My one true love had noticed me!

"Is the Donald here?"

"Of course your supreme beauty."

"I am in the states for an undisclosed reason. Would you like to get a drink?"

Was Putin asking me out? I couldn't pass this up. "Of course."

"Meet me at The Bar at nine." He said in his sexy old man voice, making my Viagra dependent seventy year old peen give a confused twitch

"Of cour-" He hung up before I could answer. How would I carry out my duties as the president with my impending date? I wouldn't, I decided, and would instead have a makeover.

I walked to my bathroom, pouring my cheeseballs into the bathtub and climbing into the crunchy mess, staining my skin a beautiful tangerine. I got in-between my  wrinkles and everything. I climbed out of the tub and did my makeup. A bright red foundation with pink highlight. I pursed my lips and squinted before injecting the Botox.

Crooked Hillary had nothing on me!

I was ready for my date, I thought as I pulled on my favorite suit, that hugged my saggy man ass, and sat down, ready to be a president.