The Canterbury Tales — Trump Style
I was traveling down to Washington
For a screening of Finding Dory.
When I fell in with some travelers,
Rather odd and quirky characters,
And encouraged them to tell me their story.
I was instantly reminded of Chaucer —
The Canterbury Tales to be precise.
A Middle Age magnum opus,
Anti-clerical in its focus,
Storytelling as literary device.
I decided to do much the same:
To capture a moment in time.
I sought out those who cheered him
And also those who jeered him,
And I wrote down their stories…in rhyme.
Twenty-four tales and multiple perspectives —
Everything from business to the state of libido.
A few were rather lewd,
Mad that they’d been screwed
By a man the same color as a Chee-to.
So be sure to come back, week after week
And follow as our tale I do teach.
Someday this will be history,
A psycho-political mystery
Of a lunatic we managed to impeach.
Of course, this is a work of fiction!
(Something a writer might redact…)
No names are ever given,
’Cause I wanna go on livin’.
Just an exercise in Alternative Fact.
But one last word before we begin:
To those who scoff at SHE RESISTED,
Let it ever be said
When we’re long gone and dead,
That nevertheless, goddamn, SHE PERSISTED.
The Third Wife’s Tale
(Technically, she lives in NYC but for the sake of high art I put her on the bus…)
There are many who wonder why
I married a man I can’t stand.
My main line of avowance
Is the size of the allowance
I pried from his too tiny hand.
The attraction was always his billions;
My parents encouraged the pursuit.
They said, “Hold your nose,
Just think of the clothes!
And his wee willy flagpole salute.”
He proposed with a rock and a pre-nup,
Falsehoods were among his concerns.
I was forbidden from cheating,
Discouraged from eating,
And told never to share tax returns.
I was worried about visas and waivers,
But his money helped me sail on by.
Although technically incorrect,
I said, “I’m an architect”,
And he swore no one would catch the lie.
I moved into his hideous gold mansion
And took on the decorating and such.
A massive painting of himself,
Not a single book upon the shelf,
The motif bore a decided Midas touch.
You ask if we were happy.
How to answer that and still be kind?
I loved all the Dior,
And the Chanel even more.
I put the rest of it firmly out of mind.
Look, the truth is I never really cared
About all the other women he’d nab:
The waitress in Annapolis,
The pole dancer from Indianapolis —
All that extra-curricular pussy he’d grab.
I was in it strictly for the dough,
The commercial connections, the fancy cars.
I craved everything I could get
Like a modern Marie Antoinette
And I hoped to be on Dancing with the Stars.
It all might have trundled on forever,
Two lives in distinctly separate beds.
But on some so-called golf vacation,
He found “leadership inspiration”.
I blame the hair stimulant meds.
The next thing I knew he was on the road
Lobbying for a job as top dude.
People thought he was adorable;
They were unremittingly deplorable.
And, oh, the rhetoric he spewed.
I should have spoken out.
Should have stopped the Lie-o-Rama.
But I’m not a public speaker,
My written skills are even weaker.
And that’s why I rely on Michele Obama.
Anyway, those idiots believed his lies
They held faith in his charlatan plan
For him they were a-rootin’
(Well, for him and Vladimir Putin)
They went ding-dong for that You-Know-Who Ban.
Am I embarrassed? Should I regret it?
Or wear a cap of pink upon my head?
Will I ever “see the light”?
Flip the bird at the alt-right?
Nah, too much cash to rake in, instead.
So I’ll stick by his side at least for now.
I’ll let him call me “Pussy” or “Honey”.
In the tower I will remain
It’s my tactic for staying sane
All paid for by taxpayer money!
It’s okay to be opportunistic
If you’re beautiful and thin, you know.
I will leverage these two things,
And hock a line of cocktail rings.
In my Louboutins and my smart pussy bow.
Thanks for listening to my story.
There is plenty more I might reveal.
But I’m a very smart lass,
I know how to save my ass;
It’s all just part of the art of the deal.
The Security Advisor’s Tale
In which a highly decorated 3-star general is dismissed from his position in the new administration after just 24 days.
Not sure I can shed much light
On how things are gonna go.
I was in and out in a hurry,
The whole thing was rather blurry,
But I’ll tell you a bit of what I know.
For me, it started with the Convention,
Where I aimed for a heavyweight K-O.
The line-up was really weak,
Giuliani is a freak!
And, who the fuckity FUCK is Scott Baio?
I never really wanted the limelight;
I preferred the “out of sight” role.
But once I got on stage,
I could barely contain my rage.
Crushing Hillary was my only goal.
I started up that call and response,
I yelled it out to the furious crowd.
LOCK HER UP! I wailed
LOCK HER UP, they railed.
It got really ugly, really loud.
Apparently that impressed the Boss,
’Cause the job offer came in real quick.
I’d be the NSA guy,
Tell him who to bomb and why,
And double as White House apparatchik.
I was truly flushed with excitement,
Even though I wasn’t in office yet.
I texted Comrade Kislyak,
Said, “Sergey, baby, call me back.
“Big news on sanctions you AIN’T gonna get.”
Turns out I shouldn’t have done that
The impropriety really miffed ‘em.
Obama was lame duck
Who thought he’d give a fuck?
All I said was, “Yeah, we’re gonna lift ‘em”.
They all knew what they were getting,
They knew my background and my work.
I’ve cosied up to Pooty,
I considered it my duty.
Shit, I even defended that lunatic Turk.
So, I figured it was hunky dory
And I’d never actually get caught.
I prepared with big-time fervor,
Got my home-based email server,
Never gave the Russian shit another thought.
Coupla days later Mike Pence stops by
Asking questions ‘bout my telephone calls.
I denied every bit,
Used the “Fake News” bullshit.
I showed him my three-star general’s balls.
Problem was, it just wouldn’t stop.
The FBI kept coming around.
“Did you speak to the Russians?
“Are you aware of repercussions?
“Have a listen to this tape that we just found.”
I did what any smart guy would do
And fabricated to beat the band.
The boss knew all along,
He never said that I’d done wrong,
And he bragged he had Jim Comey in his hand.
The worst was that freaky blond chick —
Bleating how Boss-man had my back.
She caused quite the stir,
When she dressed like Aaron Burr,
Bigly clue she is totally whack.
Anyway, you probably know the rest —
I got fired or resigned or whatever.
I’m not allowed to speak,
Or to talk about the leak.
But I will not remain silent forever.
I’m glad you asked me to participate,
Happy to add my story to this canon;
Let me give you some advice,
I will not say this twice.
Save America and rid it of Steve Bannon.
The Nordstrom Buyer’s Tale:
Where a retail buyer for Nordstrom shares the skinny on what went down with that brand and why.
This is the third tale in the ongoing series, The Canterbury Tales (a modern version). To read the Prologue and the other tales in the series, click here.
In a New York accent. Where “forever” is “forevuh”.
My name is Adrianna, friends call me Ade.
I’m a buy-uh for mid-range at Nordstrom.
I have no int-e-rest in drama,
I voted for Obama,
And found myself at the centuh of a shit storm.
My story is simple and mattuh of fact;
I do sales projections for retail space.
We carried Ivanka’s label —
We marketed that whole fable —
And in the end, we chose to repeal and replace.
As a buyuh, my goal is very clear:
I exploit the latest fad and the trend.
I do my uttuh best
To keep us all well dressed,
And entice the consumuh to spend.
I don’t us-u-al-ly concern myself
With the private life of the designuh.
Means nothin’ to me
If he’s a he but now a she,
Or if e-ver-y item was “handmade” in China.
I’m strictly ’bout movin’ in-ven-tory
I’d sell skorts if they came inta fashion.
It’s all about the dosh,
Made from lookin’ posh,
And, ul-ti-mately, bringin’ all that cash in.
Head office says the story is officially this:
That sales were trendin’ downward over time.
That the merch didn’t move,
That the style had no groove,
That the brand had skedaddled past its prime.
But the real story is decidedly diff-e-rent.
(And remembuh, you didn’t hear it here.)
The entire brand was culled
‘Cuz it reeked of the Don-ald,
And shoppuhs made their hatred crystal clear.
We couldn’t sell a handbag for nothin’,
Not even discounted down to a tennuh.
Her name was her undoin’
For the contract not renewin’,
She’s detested even more than Caitlyn Jennuh.
We couldn’t take that kind of chance,
Bein’ linked to a poisonous name.
We jettisoned the line,
And sales picked up just fine.
Even Marshall’s and T.J.’s did the same.
Then came that ridiculous tweet,
Where Agent Orange called us trash.
I wish he’d shut his gob.
And do his friggin’ job!
Jesus! That family has a thing for cash!
The senior advisuh hocked the label —
Inadvertent endorsement, so she said.
She pushed the skirt and sweatuh,
(Melissa McCarthy did it bettuh.)
That chick is a dead ringuh for Mr. Ed.
I’m movin’ on to future seasons,
Buyin’ coats we’ll show a year from now.
We’ll see great stuff on the page
The color puce will be the rage,
And we’ll put it all behind us somehow.
Good luck with your project, hun,
If you need more, just give Ade a call.
These are not normal times,
And maybe your little rhymes
Will reverse this disgraceful downfall.
The Campaign Manager’s Tale
That Hamilton Woman!
I am the Jersey girl who made it big
By being craftier and so much quicker.
I grew up really poor,
Set my sights on having more.
And showed promise as a blueberry picker.
Yes! As New Jersey Blueberry Princess,
I showed I was up to the test.
Not afraid of treachery.
Not appalled by lechery.
And I’m not above showing off my chest…
I got to DC as a lawyer and pollster,
Threw in my lot with Teddy Cruz.
(I was not a big fan
Of the Tiny Handed Man),
But jumped ship when I clocked we would lose.
I’d had my issues with Orange in the past,
Especially his use of eminent domain.
But when we cuddled in the Tower,
And he promised unchecked power,
I just agreed to take over his campaign.
I always believed we’d prevail in the end,
We’d convince ’em that our love was deep.
I don’t wanna gloat,
But we totally stole the vote.
It’s so easy with 62 million sheep!
Inauguration Day was a chance to shine.
I considered Chanel and then Jill Sander.
But they weren’t patriotic,
I wanted something more erotic.
Then found inspiration in Lin-Manuel Miranda.
I took myself to the designer outlets,
Seeking a frock of anti-sedition.
“The 1776 way,
“With that feline applique!
“And kit me out for my Hamilton audition!”
The crowds went wild for my red, white and blue
At least a million and a half on the Mall!
Twitter was unanimous,
Even Melania was magnanimous :)
I was the Jersey Girl Belle of the Ball.
The nominations came hard and fast
“Find the least qualified” was the dictate.
The list included Mitt,
So I smeared him in some shit,
And made sure Exxon got the nod for State.
Now, okay, the Alt Facts thing got crazy
But, ultimately, it’s just about the winnin’.
Yes, I lie for my man,
President Spray Tan,
And say, “Hey, grow up, Kate McKinnon”.
I am the ultimate team player,
(Though people claim the reverse is true.)
I happily violated the rules
Hocking Ivanka’s jewels,
Then got spanked for it, boo hoo.
The Mike Flynn thing was embarrassing,
I believed the chief would give full support.
Flynn pimped for the Turks?
The press are such jerks!
And now it may all end up in court.
Sometimes I get my terrorism wrong,
It’s out of patriotic duty, you see.
Like that stuff with Bowling Green,
Oh, the carnage on that scene
It was an alt fact Muslim massa-cree.
Now, about that Oval Office photo…
The one with me looking comfy as you please.
I was not assuming the position,
To show my patriotism.
I was merely demonstrating flexible knees.
So I imagine you’ll hear lots of bitching:
Like I’m a witch from a DC coven,
That we’ve hired Russian trolls,
That the WH is full of moles,
And that wiretaps lurk in your toaster oven.
How this turns out I’ve no idea;
I’ll never quit, resign, et cetera.
The hell with Morning Joe,
Bigly loser, as you know
Appearing on TV is not my raison d’etre .
It is true the shows don’t want me on,
Though I try to self-book every Sunday.
I channel a powerful lass
Ann Coulter — now THERE’S class –
And face a new disaster every single Monday.
We’ll have the last laugh, you wait and see.
And make history for all that we dream and dare.
We’ll pollute the rivers shitty,
Shoot the wildlife ’til we’re giddy,
And murder the middle class with Trump Care!
So here’s the final thing you should know:
Our presidency is a well-oiled machine.
No fightin’, no fussin’,
We’re all learning Russian!
It’s the best American screwing ever seen.
The Press Secretary’s Tale
This is the fifth tale in the ongoing series, The Canterbury Tales — Trump Style. To read the Prologue and the other tales in the series, click here.
“Settle down! Settle down! Settle down!”
Thus begins my daily press dance.
I gaze out from the podium,
Thank god for my Imodium,
And pray Jesus I do not shit my pants.
As Press Secretary my job is this:
To brief the nation’s journos every morn.
I face that frothing mob,
Like Donnie’s Baghdad Bob,
And display my displeasure and my scorn.
I had done similar work in my past,
And had support from the Potomac Flacks.
Priebus was my fan.
He said “Spicey is our man!”
“He can handle those lyin’ snowflake hacks!”
When I stepped into this position,
I let the press corps know my views.
I scolded CNN,
Would not call on them again,
And made it clear I would favor Breitbart “News”.
Those libtards are obsessed with facts;
Bannon warned this would be the case.
He recommended a position:
“Fuckin’ slay the opposition.
And do so while keeping a straight face.”
Take the inaugural crowd estimates.
Talk about liberal media skew!
Fox counted millions,
Trump counted billions.
The failing NYT? Three hundred forty-two.
It’s true, you know, that stuff about my clothes.
I was coached through my sartorial gaffe.
“Get a smaller size
Buy some Chinese ties,
And cut the lapel width by at least one-half.”
A big part of the problem, you should know,
Is something for which I was unprepar-ed:
I work with losers,
F Troop and boozers,
And live in dread fear “he’ll go to Jared”.
For example, the wire tapping stuff
And all those tweets where the boss did rave.
Kellyanne trotted along,
Got the whole thing wrong,
And placed Obama in the microwave.
Who can work in conditions such as these?
Why, it’s the biggest shit show I’ve ever seen.
A bunch of back stabbers
And a few pussy grabbers.
And Trump claims this is a well-oiled machine!
The latest flap may prove my undoing:
Where I went for a compassionate façade.
I tried to slam Syria,
And therein foment hysteria;
But unfortunately, mispronounced the name “Assad”.
That was only the beginning, however,
And things went waaay downhill after that.
I talked about the sarin,
Did the Hitler/Ashar comparin’
And ended up looking quite the ignorant twat.
All this happened on Passover, no less,
And the Jews are calling for termination.
Streisand’s in the mix
(She should stick to making pics)
Twitter’s trending #ZyklonB and #extermination.
Will I still have a job this time next week?
Well, we will just have to wait and see.
Is the Holocaust Center hiring?
You know, in case there is a firing?
And will Conn College demand I give back my degree?
Don’t count old Spicey out just yet.
Don’t throw my bloodied corpse to the mob.
’Cause if they fire my ass
Here’s what comes to pass:
There’s not a soul out there who’d take this fuckin’ job.
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Stay tuned. More fellow traveler tales to come. The Press Secretary, The White Supremacist, The Beloved Daughter, The Ghastly Sons, The Forgotten Man, and more.