What's a Little Espionage Among Friends?

 (By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American)

Donald Trump is the bravest man I ever met!" I shouted as I shoved a homeless man into 5th Avenue rush hour traffic. I'd just come back from Bedminster, where the president is ready to decamp and head back to Palm Beach to wage a Quixotic court battle against the completely out of control Justice Department.

     "Quixotic court battle?", some of you liberal fat heads may say with incipient amusement. "Surely, Trump will be protected by some of the most shockingly brilliant legal minds this side of Better Call Saul." Oh, there you would be wrong, my factually-challenged, patchouli oil-smelling friends. Trump is actually representing himself pro se. 

     (Not really but he might as well be since they do anything he tells them to do, like telling Christina Bobb to sign a document last June to the DOJ swearing that they got all the classified documents. Never put your name to anything when anything is in a gray area and my friend Donald lives in more gray areas than a Thomas Ince silent movie).

     Anyway, Donald and I had an illuminating conversation while he packed up to go back to Palm Beach, a process that involved him trying unsuccessfully to read files marked Top Secret in bright red ink and involving lots of trips to the bathroom and much toilet flushing.

     "You know, Cyril, it's amazing how much the fucking government thinks they own, like this invoice from Putin for payment for services rendered... Shit, better do something about this. You know they'd make a shit load of hay over that..." and then the president made yet another trip to the bathroom.

     So, hell yes the 45th president's playing it smart and stashing these documents that are sort of his in many of his properties including Bedminster, Trump Doral and even his place in Turnberry, Scotland, where Donnie has another 11 boxes of documents in open-topped boxes that say, "Who But W.B. Mason?" on them.

     "I stuck them in a bathroom then had my people there put a sign on the door that says, Hoots, man, ye don't wanna go in there! Pee yew! Let's see the DOJ go in there!" Then he pointed to his double-woven head and said with a great degree of pride, "Always thinking. Always thinking!"

     I sat on the president's bed eating a bowl of McDonald's chicken Mcnuggets that he thoughtfully provides all his guests in crystal bowls all over the resort. During the packing up process, which involved flunkies carrying boxes with "Totally not top seecret files!" scrawled in black Sharpie to a broom closet in the basement, I told the president a story from my own family's history, which I now shall relate to you.

 

 

   By now you may remember the legendary story of how my baby brother Cecil founded www.cecilsprays.com, the internet's first sex chat room. All was going swimmingly and the money flowed in until an ungrateful Eastern Eurotrash college student sawed off his own foot to escape what he'd uncharitably referred to as "sexual human bondage". 

    (Ironically, one of those who hadn't sawed off his own foot happened to be one of Melania's kid brothers in what would be known as the Czech Republic. "You don't know definition of sexual human bondage," she'd once sneered at me, "until you are married to Donald Trump," she concluded, leaving a space of about a quarter inch between her thumb and forefinger.)

     Anyway, two days later, the prudish, liberal killjoys of the FBI burst into Cecil's SoHo loft as he was in mid ejaculation and not only arrested him but confiscated several boxes of documents in his bedroom and from our palatial brownstone on the Upper West Side.

 

     Or rather, the FBI SWAT team did only after a fierce, and losing, fist fight with my delicate little girl, Bertha that sent eight of them to the Emergency Room at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. She claimed afterwards she was only looking out for her blubbery little uncle Cecil but I think she was actually pissed at being interrupted while listening to her kd lang CDs.

     Bertha really loves music.

    Anyway, we got a copy of the affidavit that got the search warrant after my baby brother was charged with human sex trafficking across international lines. Years later, when he reluctantly left Rikers Island despite its horrific reputation for prison shower rape, Cecil did the same thing my friend Donald is doing now- He demanded the return of the documents, claiming they were his.

    Cecil's problem was, even though they'd long been used as evidence against him, many of the documents and files involved boys (Let's call them "young men") that could've and should've been a little older before consenting to pose for Cecil, many of them personally handpicked by Roy Cohn toward the end of his life in the mid 80s.

   Anyway, the government flat out refused to turn over the documents, not the least reason of which was because they were incinerated in a special facility that the city earmarks for so-called "pornography". 

    "Cyril, why the fuck are you telling me this?" Donald had asked, holding a sheaf of papers with "Gold Codes" and "Top Secret" written on them. Then he made another trip to the bathroom followed by the sound of running water. My old friend came running out, his feet soaking wet.

     "I gotta call a plumber!" he cried. "I think I should call that plumber that was referred to me by Putin."