Trump, even attired that way, commanded the subway like a stern and punctual marshall at a luxury golf course, and people knew not to mess with him.
Normally he would never think to take the subway, as it is a filthy and vulgar mode of transportation, but today he wanted filthy and vulgar. His legs spread out expansively, taking up at least two seats, he looked down at his most recent text from Melania and smiled:
“I am to poo you,” it read.
Melania’s English wasn’t very good, but Donald knew exactly what she meant.
It was their beautiful night together.
Every year on the anniversary on their first sex, Donald bought a fast food restaurant in the New York area, fired everybody, and then made Melania work the counter. This year, it was a Dairy Queen, and Donald, disguised as the Burger King, was going to come in and order Melania off the menu and then make her his fast food sex slave for the night.
It was a great tradition, and they both loved it very much.
As Donald sat there on the subway thinking about whether he should purchase and then and torture some of the homeless and desperate as part of fast food sex slave night, a woman approached him.
“The Burger King?” she said.
“You look low rent,” the Burger Trump retorted, “and let me tell you,” he continued, “I would rather be a king than some low rent subway hen.”
The low rent woman had full lips.
“Subway hen?”
Donald ignored her, Tweeting a threat to France.
The low rent woman looked closely at his fingers, as if figuring something out.
Suddenly, the subway came to a screeching halt. Everything went dark and Donald fell to the floor, his Burger King head spilling off and his phone skittering out of his pocket! When he looked up, he and the subway hen, also on the floor, were facing one another, their lips just inches apart– something unspoken burning between them now.
“You’re Donald Trump,” she whispered, “I knew I recognized those tiny, orange fingers!”
The stranger’s breasts heaved upon the filthy, seductive floor of the subway. He stared at the woman and she stared back, their breath hot and real.
Trump inched toward her and she inched toward him.
At that moment Donald’s phone began to ring, picking up an audible message from Melania, “Donald, it is your Queen Dairy, I have customer, and child wants me to make curl with ice cream that I cannot make. Tell her we close? Give her money? I stand by you, my man, even if ice cream disgusting. I still poo you, my king.”
Donald swept the phone away with certainty, like a Commander-In-Chief. And then the lights came on and the subway started up again. The low rent woman got up and dusted herself off and walked away, shivering, “This is the weirdest, fucking grossest day of my life,” she muttered to herself.
“Rosebud, “Donald Trump mouthed, “Rosebud.”
Game of Thrones
Littlefinger never trusted Rob Ford, but then again, he never trusted anybody.
“Tell me, where have you hidden it?” He hissed at the stout, bastard Stark warrior.
“I’m not answering your dumb face questions.”
“Always the wily fellow, you are quite the adversary, Mister Ford, quite the adversary.”
Littlefinger, his hands pressed together in contemplation turned his back to the great man. “Perhaps these ladies will help to stir your memory?” He clapped his hands together and two of the most stunning women Rob Ford had even seen in his life walked so softly, so beautifully into the room as to be practically levitating. “Jesus,” Ford stammered, “are they models or cheerleaders or something?” Littlefinger snorted, “They are from the land of Seks Guzellik, home to the most breath-taking women the world has ever seen, trained in the arts of love from, oh, a very tender age. They are yours, Rob Ford, yours, all you have to do is tell me where it’s hidden.”
A look of uncertainty came across Ford’s porcine features, “Frig,” he said, “frig.”
Homeland
It was completely quiet. That was the first thing Carrie noticed, the complete noiselessness that enveloped her, enveloped them. It was awkward. She felt that he was maybe giving her the silent treatment, which was odd, because Rob Ford had invited her into his Escalade. It was also eerie—a sense of foreboding seemed to loom.
She was always thinking of him. She thought of him when she woke in the morning, when she took her pills after she showered, as she picked out her clothes, as she passed through the security gates at Langley, as she came home in the evening, as she lay in bed trying to sleep. RobRobRob. She could not remember the last time she wasn’t thinking about him, and in that way she believed that she knew him intimately. They had been driving for ten minutes—although it seemed more to Carrie—before he said something, “You need to meet my brother, Doug.”
Crepúsculo (Twilight)
Etobicoke es un lugar hermoso, aunque algunos lo ven como una ciudad sangrienta. Soy Rob Ford y yo 26 y tener un corazón del tamaño de una pelota de fútbol. Tengo ojos rojos y mi sed no es agua en absoluto, sino más bien precisa sangre. Yo soy un vampiro, una manera diferente, alrededor de uno. Tengo una dieta muy baja en la sangre comparada con otros vampiros, mientras que matan cinco humanos para satisfacer su sed diaria, estoy satisfecho con la sangre de un humano y puedo vivir con eso durante dos días. Vampiro Rob Ford, tengo un montón de autocontrol y soy muy selectiva con mi presa. Yo puedo ser un vampiro, pero tengo sentimientos.
The Flintstones
Roughly, Rob Ford took Wilma by her red bun. Wilma shrieked, but nobody came to her aid. Fred and Barney were bowling. Rob Ford laughed, high-pitched and nasally, and put his hand on her breast, palming it like a football. He thrust his tongue, that golden tongue that through great oratory had so often dazzled Bedrock, into her ear. “No, Rob Ford,” Wilma whispered, and then even quieter, “no.”
