Ah, It's Good To Be Home!

 (By Cyril Blubberpuss, conservative-American)

Well, all good things must come to an end, like Matlock, Billy Beer and our three and a half weeks at my good friend Donald Trump's Mar a Lago. It was kind of a mixed blessing. It was good to see old friends and get my hands dirty again.

     Yes. Cecil and I are both back at the old brownstone on 5th Avenue with empty pockets but full hearts. As hard as I tried, I couldn't get the Treasury Secretary nod, although I would've been the greatest since Alexander Hamilton (He had a musical made about him, after all, largely based on his dividing the national debt into domestic and foreign debt, which naturally lends itself to Broadway musicals).

     But, it was not to be, as the nomination went to Scott Bessent, an old running buddy of mine who's about as talented as a Temperance spinster in a whorehouse. However my friend Donald did offer me the post of Undersecretary of Coffee and Pastry Procurement, which I politely declined.

     And, while it's good to be back home, my poor kid brother Cecil is still weepy over having to leave behind Donald's handsome, supple young grandsons. It rather irked Donald when he saw Cecil trying to engage the boys in impromptu wrestling matches, underwear optional. The only way Donald could get hm to leave his grandsons alone was to tender a fake offer of making him the head of the President's Council on Physical Fitness, which the president himself jokes about behind closed doors.

     "Can you see me doing jumping jacks, Cyril?" he once sneered while eating the first of three consecutive Big Macs. Mudslides in the Philippines immediately came to my mind.

     Meanwhile, my baby girl Bertha has been picking my brains about what Lauras Loomer and Trump are like and even asking me if either woman seemed to be what she called "open-minded", although about what she didn't articulate. But when she isn't questioning Cecil and me about what our time in Palm Beach was like, she's mooning over the picture below that she found on the internet.

     She printed it up on her printer and has taken to walking around with it tightly clasped to her ample bosom and ceaselessly crying, "Why, O why couldn't Elon had been born a woman, O cruel fate?!"

 

     So, yes, there were some disappointments but those pale in comparison to the tonic of being around Donald's potent power. I left just after Kash Patel, who always looks as if he was caught by his mother jerking off in his sister's underwear drawer, was nominated as the next FBI Director after several failed interviews with his first 12 or so picks.

     The first to get flown down was MO AG Andrew Bailey, who "looked the part" but didn't have the TV screen presence Donald was looking for. Then he interviewed another 11, ending with Ted Nugent, who brought  a crossbow to the interview and offered to kill and catch dinner for the kitchen staff.

     Finally, Donald pinched his nose and looked at Kash, who was still hiding behind a potted plant and he asked him. "Hey, Kash, you wanna be the next FBI Director?" to which he said, "Oh, yes, oh yes! Now I can get out of that sweatshop phone bank and pretending I work for Microsoft! 'Hello, I am Christian from the Windows...' Fuck you, no more!"

     That was on Thanksgiving and just before Cecil and I hopped on my private jet back to New York, Donald served us a dinner that couldn't be beat. That's my delicious Thanksgiving dinner at Mar a Lago, if you'll pardon the food porn. Let me tell you, this puts Fyrefest to shame, featuring the world's best flash-frozen vegetables and you won't get cornbread like that anywhere in New York, not even at Elaine's or Sardi's, no sirree.