Short Story: Donald Trump Needs to do a Trump
Donald stood in a row with the other World Leaders, all of them standing straight and looking out into the crowd. A woman stood to his left and a man to his right, neither of which he remembered the names of, despite having met both of them at various Hand Shaking events. A man stood in front of them at a podium, giving introduction to the event they were gathered here for, whatever it was, and, like he had noticed happening at lots of events like this, Donald’s mind was wandering. It always drew him back to his primal urges: he took a short glance at the tits on the woman next to him, and thought for a while about the food he would order when back in the hotel room. The speaker’s words sometimes distracted Donald but he soon got back on track.
About halfway through the man’s speech, Donald felt the need to fart. Not a small one: a large one was brewing, bubbling away in the system so strong it was hard not to let it out. Donald clenched, both physically and also in the mental way you clench to disarm a fart, but the fart persisted. His fight-or-flight response kicked in and he began to feel nervous: he couldn’t fart in front of all these people, could he? There were journalists everywhere, so much that the crowd was a sea of flashing cameras, and besides, the other World Leaders would hear it, maybe even smell it. It certainly wouldn’t go down well back at the White House.
Donald felt angry at his body for having produced a fart at such a time. He had expected his body to understand that it was President of the United States and thus stop all farting. Presidents don’t fart. And even if Abraham Lincoln had let one rip midway through a speech those farts were lost to history, whereas his fart would likely be recorded and never forgotten. I bet not even Kim Jong Un would fart in front of the press, he thought. Donald then distracted himself thinking about the rumour spread to North Korean citizens that Kim Jong Un doesn’t have an asshole and thus never shits and never farts, and Donald pondered for a minute whether this was actually possible.
But the brewing fart brought Donald back to reality. The fart was now giving him a sharp shooting pain and he felt he couldn’t make it through the whole ceremony without letting it out. Then an idea came to him. His advisors were always saying that anything that took the spotlight from any serious issues at hand weren’t a bad thing. Maybe this fart could be good publicity. He could push it out confidently, maybe have a funny one liner at the ready for when all eyes turn to him. Maybe the press would like it? They’d say it “humanised” him: look, he’s just a normal dude, he farts like the rest of us! If not he could always say it was the woman next to him. His fart would probably trend on Twitter. Would the fart go down well? There was only one way to find out.
About halfway through the man’s speech, Donald felt the need to fart. Not a small one: a large one was brewing, bubbling away in the system so strong it was hard not to let it out. Donald clenched, both physically and also in the mental way you clench to disarm a fart, but the fart persisted. His fight-or-flight response kicked in and he began to feel nervous: he couldn’t fart in front of all these people, could he? There were journalists everywhere, so much that the crowd was a sea of flashing cameras, and besides, the other World Leaders would hear it, maybe even smell it. It certainly wouldn’t go down well back at the White House.
Donald felt angry at his body for having produced a fart at such a time. He had expected his body to understand that it was President of the United States and thus stop all farting. Presidents don’t fart. And even if Abraham Lincoln had let one rip midway through a speech those farts were lost to history, whereas his fart would likely be recorded and never forgotten. I bet not even Kim Jong Un would fart in front of the press, he thought. Donald then distracted himself thinking about the rumour spread to North Korean citizens that Kim Jong Un doesn’t have an asshole and thus never shits and never farts, and Donald pondered for a minute whether this was actually possible.
But the brewing fart brought Donald back to reality. The fart was now giving him a sharp shooting pain and he felt he couldn’t make it through the whole ceremony without letting it out. Then an idea came to him. His advisors were always saying that anything that took the spotlight from any serious issues at hand weren’t a bad thing. Maybe this fart could be good publicity. He could push it out confidently, maybe have a funny one liner at the ready for when all eyes turn to him. Maybe the press would like it? They’d say it “humanised” him: look, he’s just a normal dude, he farts like the rest of us! If not he could always say it was the woman next to him. His fart would probably trend on Twitter. Would the fart go down well? There was only one way to find out.
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