On the morning of March 14, 2019, President Donald J. Trump also awoke to the smell of his breakfast.
However, Trump was much more excited about his meal— steak (well done, with catsup and eggs)— than Barack Obama had been.
Upon waking, Trump made several short, infantile sounds, a habit he’d been hanging onto for decades and had no intention of breaking, nor any justification for developing.
He sat up in bed and held his hands to his face, eager to inspect the status of his spray tan. But where he expected to see fingers and palms, he saw nothing.
At the end of his arms were two perfectly round, seamless stumps. Trump rushed to the next room, where he knew Melania was doing her morning yoga.
“Melania!” he cried, waving his stumps in the air. “Melania, my hands are gone!”
Without looking up from her downward dog, (Trump felt a deep sorrow when he realized he had no hands with which to grab that pussy) Melania said, “A man paints with his brains,
and not with his hands. I made that up.”
“No, Melania! Listen, I’m missing my hands!”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Melania replied, shifting into cobra pose. “I made that up.”
“Melania, please help me!” Donald sobbed.
“Help me if you can, I'm feeling down, and I do appreciate you being 'round,” Melania sang from child’s pose. “I wrote that song.”
Donald was quickly becoming frustrated with his wife. He decided he must take matters into his own hands— or lack thereof. He called for an aide to help him into his clothes.
Then he left the White House, intent on conducting a search for his hands.
Now seems like it would be a good opportunity for me to tell you the kind of President Donald J. Trump was.
There is a marked difference between Presidents who earn their office through hard, honest work and the confidence of the people,
and those who come into power through Russian trickery and the bribing of the electorate. Donald J. Trump was of the latter category.
(Though checking his Twitter will reveal that he believes he’d won 100% of the popular vote.
) Trump, therefore, maintained his control and executed his policies primarily through the use of executive orders, culminating, of course, in the next day’s signing of Executive Order 100,000.
Without my hands, how will I be able to sign the order? Trump wondered. He called his driver to him. “Take me to the Department of Justice, now! I need to talk to Jeff.”
“Sir, Mr. Sessions won’t be in for another few hours, at least.”
“Of course he’ll be there, you idiot! All my staff are where they need to be all the time! Now go, before I have you fired!”
The driver sighed wearily and started up the car. They drove past a swarm of protestors at the White House gates. Leading the protests were Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton.
Except, when Trump looked closely at them, he noticed that their shapes and hues looked rather peculiar.
“Those are my hands!” Trump shouted, banging at the window with one of his stumps. “My hands! What are they doing with my hands?”
Both hands turned to look at Trump’s car. They flipped him off. The crowd before them erupted into thunderous applause.
“Drive over there,” Trump told the chauffeur. “I need those hands!”
“Sir, I can’t drive through. I’ll hit the protesters.”
“Screw those fat, sad uggos. I need my hands!”
But when Trump glanced back out the window, he saw that his hands had disappeared.
“Fine. Whatever,” Trump pouted.
Upon arriving at the Department of Justice, Trump was dismayed to learn that Attorney General Sessions would not be arriving for another half hour, at the least.
“It’s not like we have much to do around here, anyway. We’re the Department of Justice,” remarked the receptionist.
While he waited, Trump decided to compose a Tweet.
This proved to be much more difficult without thumbs, but Trump found that if he held his phone between his two stumps and used his nose to press the buttons,
he could write decently legible Tweets, so long as he periodically wiped off the orange film that would gather on his screen. The Tweet read:
“@WashingtonPost Im sure you did this.. A shameful trick. Sad. Bringg them back now.”
A reply came soon after:
“@realDonaldTrump ??? We have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this that ‘fake news’ you keep talking about?”
They don’t know, Trump concluded. He drafted a new Tweet.
“@CNN @nytimes one of you then,.”
CNN did not reply, but the New York Times wrote:
“@realDonaldTrump What happened? Did we make you cry?”
Trump wrote back:
“@nytimes Ive never cried 1ce in my life! I want my handss back!”
“@realDonaldTrump Why would we have your hands? Also, why would anyone have your hands?”
It was at this point that the notifications came pouring in:
“Apparently @realDonaldTrump lost his hands?? How did he know tho??”
“i’ll legit give $500 to anyone who finds & destroys @realDonaldTrump’s hands”
“guess a pussy really did grab back lmao @realDonaldTrump”
Though Trump scoured these Tweets, none of them held any information about the whereabouts of his hands.
Finally, the door opened, and Attorney General Jeff Sessions arrived, sporting a Russian flag and a large fur hat.
“Jeff! You gotta help me find my hands!”
“You mean your staff?” Sessions asked. “Sir, I don’t think that’s part of my job.”
“No! My hands! Look!” Trump held up his arms, showing Sessions his stumps.
“Oh, dear. I know this isn’t my job either, sir, but that coat is much too long for you. The sleeves completely cover your hands!”
“My hands aren’t covered! They’re missing!”
“Have you looked in your sleeves?”
“They’re not in my sleeves, Jeff! They’re gone! I saw them earlier— they were leading a protest!”
“How could your hands lead a protest? They’re much too small for that.”
“My hands aren’t small! They’re huge! Bigger than yours, you pathetic loser!”
“Well, if you keep up with the name calling, I may just stop helping you.”
“I swear to God, Jeff, I will have Russian spies shit on your car.”
At that moment, Betsy DeVos entered the room, grinning serenely and setting her briefcase on Sessions’ desk.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said.
“Betsy, what are you doing here?” asked Sessions.
“I work here,” replied Betsy. “I’m the Attorney General.”
“No, Betsy,” Donald corrected. “You’re the Secretary of Education.”
“Oh, hey, Mr. President! I think I may have found something of yours.” Betsy opened her briefcase and produced two wrinkly, orange hands.
“My God! Where did you find them?”
Betsy shrugged. “I forget.”
Donald took the hands in his stumps. He realized he was now faced with a new problem: he had no way of getting the hands back on.
“Jeff, Betsy, help me out, here,” he ordered. Sessions took the hands first, touching the wrists with the end of Trump’s stumps. Nothing happened.
Then Sessions took some Scotch tape from his desk and tried to reattach Trump’s hand that way. The tape refused to stick for very long, and Trump’s hand fell to the floor.
“I can do this,” Betsy announced, picking up the hand. “I am the Surgeon General, after all.”
“Maybe we could call Ben,” Sessions suggested, snatching the hand back from Betsy.
“That may be the best idea you’ve had all morning, Jeff.”
They quickly telephoned Ben Carson and explained the situation.
“Did you try Scotch tape?” Carson asked.
“Yep,” said Sessions. “Didn’t work.”
“Well, then I’m afraid there’s nothing else to be done.”
“Nothing?!” cried Trump. “There must be some way to get my hands back!”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, but an operation on such… delicate body parts would be too difficult for even the best surgeon. I suggest you accept it and learn to live your life without your hands.”
Trump hung his head. “I see. I’m going home now.”
“I’m sorry,” said Carson, hanging up the phone.
“That’s real rough,” said Sessions.
“I’m horribly unqualified for my position,” said Betsy.
Trump took his hands, bade his staff farewell, and retired to the White House.