President Donald Trump, muscles rippling like coiled snakes beneath an immaculately tailored suit as a divine wind blew his and only his luxuriously natural hair, bound six vertical feet onto the White House briefing room stage to address a nation united in praising the greatest single man to ever tread upon the Earth, may He rule for ever and ever under God’s divine protection, Amen.
“Good morning, everyone!” cried Trump from behind the podium, awing the reporters in attendance into reverential silence by his radiant, also completely natural complexion. “Let’s talk boners!”
Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the Secretary of Health and Human Services and an actual Komodo dragon in a suit, hefted his massive, saggy bulk onto the stage next to the president as toxic saliva dribbled from his toothy maw and onto the wooden platform, where it slowly burnt holes into the floor.
“Boners!” repeated the leader of the most powerful country on the planet, waving his arms as if playing an invisible accordion. “They’re great! They make babies! They’re what make men, men and make women shut up!”
The roomful of alt-right influencers and media personalities dutifully guffawed at the best, most insightful joke ever told in recorded history.
“But we’ve got a problem with the boners!” continued Trump, now swatting a horde of invisible flies. “Men in this country aren’t getting enough of them! They just can’t seem to get it up—except for me, of course!”
The entire room exploded into a standing ovation.
“I’ve got one right now!” exclaimed Trump, stepping from behind the podium and pointing both hands at his crotch. “You wanna see it?!”
TV cameras zoomed and a chant of “Show us! Show us! Show us!” rose in unison from the crowd.
“You want me to show you?” yelled Trump, reaching for his zipper.
“Yeah!” came the rapturous response. People fell to their knees and wept. Others rolled across the floor and spoke in tongues. RFK Jr. took advantage of the chaos to swallow a Daily Stormer correspondent whole.
“Nah, you’re not ready for that,” Trump waved them off and stepped back behind the podium. His hard-right congregation slowly, self-consciously, returned to their seats.
“But anyway, yeah, boners, impotence is what the experts call it, is ravishing our nation. And, you know, we found a clear culprit because in Cuba—Cuba!—I’m told they don’t have, what’s it called? Give me a second…”
Trump fumbled through his suit jacket and pulled Marco Rubio from a pocket, holding the back of his collar between a thumb and index finger.
“It’s called ‘cafecito,’ Mr. President,” squeaked the Secretary of State.
“Thanks, little guy,” said Trump, placing the Lilliputian Cuban American back in his coat.
“Coffee Cheetos!” he continued. “They don’t have steak, or French fries, or hotdogs, or pizza, or nachos, or anything in Cuba, and they definitely don’t have coffee Cheetos, and all the Cuban men, I’m told, walk around with rock-hard pieces in their trousers, literally the entire day. So, effective immediately, I’m banning all coffee Cheetos in the country. If you have any questions,” Trump pointed at RFK Jr. “Please feel free to ask this cold-blooded monster.”
Trump raised a fist and jumped straight through the ceiling while the Secretary of Health and Human Services launched himself into the crowd to devour as many victims as he could.
Down in Miami, a dozen men around a ventanita all violently denied any issues with impotence until confronted with the president’s latest unilateral declaration, at which point the sheer force of unbridled cognitive dissonance made them collapse into frothing comas.
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