Undercover Trump Adventures
"I see," said psychiatrist Ermann Esse, listening carefully to a Virginia campaign headquarters volunteer talk about how important it was for Donald Trump to win the Presidency.
"He stands up for the little people who have been ignored by Washington!" he said.
"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.
"He supports the troops!"
"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.
"He exposes all the liars and hypocrites!"
"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.
"Why do you keep saying that?!"
"I am affirming what you have perceived," said the shrink.
The campaign volunteer looked at Dr. Esse, puzzled. "Are you going to volunteer, or what?"
"Immediately," said the shrink, slowly tilting his head from left to right to see if the volunteer would follow the light reflecting off his eyeglass lenses. "Please relax: I am here to help."
"Please relax," said the Thai masseuse, several miles away in Dupont Circle. She pressed her knees into Congressman Paul Ryan's tense buttocks, and he let out his customary grunt. She dug her thumbs into his lower back, which had actually gotten tighter since she started working on him months ago. "Deep breath."
"How am I supposed to know the Saudi Arabia 9/11 litigation bill might cause retaliatory litigation against our troops overseas? GA!"
"How?" parroted the masseuse, pressing her thumbs into his adrenal glands.
"I'm not a lawyer! The lawyers didn't warn me that the White House lawyers warned them! OOF!"
"Lawyers," parroted the masseuse, digging in under his shoulder blades.
"And what about Senator McConnell? He has more experienced, higher-paid lawyers, doesn't he? AARGH!"
"Higher pay," parroted the masseuse, holding his spine down with her right heel as she pulled both his arms backwards, away from their sockets.
The Speaker of the House cried with relief that her knees had finally come out of his buttocks. "And now the people complaining about another Continuing Resolution say I'm incapable of delivering a real budget!" he sobbed. "MAN ALIVE!"
"Budget," parroted the masseuse, who had roughly rolled him over onto his back and was pressing his legs up against his chest.
"How can anything change when the wealthiest people in the country avoid paying taxes? What am I supposed to do? How can I explain to people why Donald Trump won't release his tax returns?! CRIKEY!"
"Tell him Trump work for CIA," she said, trying to be helpful while she forcibly lifted him into a yoga pose which put his body weight on the vertebrae between his shoulder blades.
"CIA?" parroted the Speaker of the House, growing pale in spite of the blood rushing to his head.
A couple miles to the south, Angela de la Paz was taking advantage of the sunshine to sit on the deck of Dulles Samuelson's houseboat, Singapore Surprise. "How's FBI training going?" she asked.
"I can't talk about it!" he smiled.
"Right, right," she said, smiling back. "I have ways of making your talk!"
"I know you do!" he laughed. "Shooting guns, learning about terrorism, that sort of thing."
"Do they still do other stuff? Mafia? Bank fraud?"
"Oh, sure! We covered all the other stuff the first week."
"They do realize that terrorists aren't the only ones killing innocent people?"
"Uh, some of them do. Honestly, I think they just give us more training on terrorism because they still don't know what really works--so we need to learn how to use every single tool in the toolbox."
"Weapon in the weapon box," she retorted.
"It's not all about weapons," he smiled. "And, hey, some of us don't have mojo like you do!" (She smiled sadly, uncomfortable talking about her supernatural ability to kill telekinetically.) "Speaking of which, I have to admire your restraint not going after Donald Trump. I mean, there's a new reason almost daily."
"Hijole," she said softly. "Charles was trying to convince me that Trump might, in fact, be evil enough to warrant the special treatment."
"You could check it out, couldn't you?"
Angela looked out on the Potomac River from their Southwest mooring. "I finally decided to look for him in the Dreamtime," she said. "I told Charles I thought Trump was just a reprehensible human being, not a demon or anything." She hesitated.
"Well?" asked Dulles impatiently.
"I couldn't find him in the Dreamtime," she said.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. I think it might mean he has no soul." They were both silent for a minute. "I've been praying about it."
"But if he has no soul, then you can--"
"I'm not sure," she said uneasily. "I just don't understand why I haven't been given a vision about him. I tried to ask abuela and other people in the Dreamtime, but nobody had an answer to give me. Then last night I had a dream that Trump was Judas. I woke up really freaked out. Because nobody was supposed to stop Judas, right? Because he had a purpose?"
Dulles stared at her for a moment. "God help us."
Back at Trump's Virginia campaign headquarters, psychiatrist Ermann Esse was trying to hypnotize his way to the top. So far he had ended one man's cigarette addiction, convinced one woman to end her affair with a married GOP pollster, and convinced a slightly plump teenager that The Wall was really about keeping Alicia Machado and other chubby Latinas out of the country. Unfortunately, none of this was helping him hypnotize his way to the top, per CIA orders.
"How can I help you?" asked a volunteer, as the shrink approached a different table, holding a "Make America Great" baseball cap in his hand. (Dr. Esse had rejected the National Rifle Association t-shirt provided by his CIA handler.)
"No, sir!" said Esse, sitting down, "I'm here to help you!" Esse didn't bother with any conversation beyond that, quickly jumping right to the hypnotic effect of tilting his head back and forth. He saw the man immediately start watching the swaying light reflected off Esse's eyeglasses. "I need you to gather all your friends at my hotel room this evening," he began, and was gratified to see the volunteer nod his head yes. "You're going to tell them that you have a tape of Trump admitting he's a child molester."
"Everybody knows that," said the volunteer flatly. "But Hillary has molested more."
Dr. Esse took a deep breath. Maybe I should just hypnotize them into not voting? he thought to himself.
Ten feet below him, the real estate demons inhabiting the basement of Trump's Virginia headquarters frowned in displeasure.
******************************************************************
COMING UP:
The Ardua-Aryan baby at Trump National Golf Club!
"He stands up for the little people who have been ignored by Washington!" he said.
"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.
"He supports the troops!"
"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.
"He exposes all the liars and hypocrites!"
"So he says," replied Dr. Esse.
"Why do you keep saying that?!"
"I am affirming what you have perceived," said the shrink.
The campaign volunteer looked at Dr. Esse, puzzled. "Are you going to volunteer, or what?"
"Immediately," said the shrink, slowly tilting his head from left to right to see if the volunteer would follow the light reflecting off his eyeglass lenses. "Please relax: I am here to help."
"Please relax," said the Thai masseuse, several miles away in Dupont Circle. She pressed her knees into Congressman Paul Ryan's tense buttocks, and he let out his customary grunt. She dug her thumbs into his lower back, which had actually gotten tighter since she started working on him months ago. "Deep breath."
"How am I supposed to know the Saudi Arabia 9/11 litigation bill might cause retaliatory litigation against our troops overseas? GA!"
"How?" parroted the masseuse, pressing her thumbs into his adrenal glands.
"I'm not a lawyer! The lawyers didn't warn me that the White House lawyers warned them! OOF!"
"Lawyers," parroted the masseuse, digging in under his shoulder blades.
"And what about Senator McConnell? He has more experienced, higher-paid lawyers, doesn't he? AARGH!"
"Higher pay," parroted the masseuse, holding his spine down with her right heel as she pulled both his arms backwards, away from their sockets.
The Speaker of the House cried with relief that her knees had finally come out of his buttocks. "And now the people complaining about another Continuing Resolution say I'm incapable of delivering a real budget!" he sobbed. "MAN ALIVE!"
"Budget," parroted the masseuse, who had roughly rolled him over onto his back and was pressing his legs up against his chest.
"How can anything change when the wealthiest people in the country avoid paying taxes? What am I supposed to do? How can I explain to people why Donald Trump won't release his tax returns?! CRIKEY!"
"Tell him Trump work for CIA," she said, trying to be helpful while she forcibly lifted him into a yoga pose which put his body weight on the vertebrae between his shoulder blades.
"CIA?" parroted the Speaker of the House, growing pale in spite of the blood rushing to his head.
A couple miles to the south, Angela de la Paz was taking advantage of the sunshine to sit on the deck of Dulles Samuelson's houseboat, Singapore Surprise. "How's FBI training going?" she asked.
"I can't talk about it!" he smiled.
"Right, right," she said, smiling back. "I have ways of making your talk!"
"I know you do!" he laughed. "Shooting guns, learning about terrorism, that sort of thing."
"Do they still do other stuff? Mafia? Bank fraud?"
"Oh, sure! We covered all the other stuff the first week."
"They do realize that terrorists aren't the only ones killing innocent people?"
"Uh, some of them do. Honestly, I think they just give us more training on terrorism because they still don't know what really works--so we need to learn how to use every single tool in the toolbox."
"Weapon in the weapon box," she retorted.
"It's not all about weapons," he smiled. "And, hey, some of us don't have mojo like you do!" (She smiled sadly, uncomfortable talking about her supernatural ability to kill telekinetically.) "Speaking of which, I have to admire your restraint not going after Donald Trump. I mean, there's a new reason almost daily."
"Hijole," she said softly. "Charles was trying to convince me that Trump might, in fact, be evil enough to warrant the special treatment."
"You could check it out, couldn't you?"
Angela looked out on the Potomac River from their Southwest mooring. "I finally decided to look for him in the Dreamtime," she said. "I told Charles I thought Trump was just a reprehensible human being, not a demon or anything." She hesitated.
"Well?" asked Dulles impatiently.
"I couldn't find him in the Dreamtime," she said.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. I think it might mean he has no soul." They were both silent for a minute. "I've been praying about it."
"But if he has no soul, then you can--"
"I'm not sure," she said uneasily. "I just don't understand why I haven't been given a vision about him. I tried to ask abuela and other people in the Dreamtime, but nobody had an answer to give me. Then last night I had a dream that Trump was Judas. I woke up really freaked out. Because nobody was supposed to stop Judas, right? Because he had a purpose?"
Dulles stared at her for a moment. "God help us."
Back at Trump's Virginia campaign headquarters, psychiatrist Ermann Esse was trying to hypnotize his way to the top. So far he had ended one man's cigarette addiction, convinced one woman to end her affair with a married GOP pollster, and convinced a slightly plump teenager that The Wall was really about keeping Alicia Machado and other chubby Latinas out of the country. Unfortunately, none of this was helping him hypnotize his way to the top, per CIA orders.
"How can I help you?" asked a volunteer, as the shrink approached a different table, holding a "Make America Great" baseball cap in his hand. (Dr. Esse had rejected the National Rifle Association t-shirt provided by his CIA handler.)
"No, sir!" said Esse, sitting down, "I'm here to help you!" Esse didn't bother with any conversation beyond that, quickly jumping right to the hypnotic effect of tilting his head back and forth. He saw the man immediately start watching the swaying light reflected off Esse's eyeglasses. "I need you to gather all your friends at my hotel room this evening," he began, and was gratified to see the volunteer nod his head yes. "You're going to tell them that you have a tape of Trump admitting he's a child molester."
"Everybody knows that," said the volunteer flatly. "But Hillary has molested more."
Dr. Esse took a deep breath. Maybe I should just hypnotize them into not voting? he thought to himself.
Ten feet below him, the real estate demons inhabiting the basement of Trump's Virginia headquarters frowned in displeasure.
******************************************************************
COMING UP:
The Ardua-Aryan baby at Trump National Golf Club!
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 5:19 PM
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