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First pages


“Everything under heaven is in utter chaos; the situation is excellent.”


― Mao Tse-tung




He looked out the window seeing nothing.


Smoke precluded visibility although occasionally, the murk was broken by the red and blue lights of emergency forces. More ghost than substance, the flashing lights oscillated through the many broken fire hydrant geysers in a not unpleasant fashion.


Unconsciously, he leaned forward. His progress was halted when his meticulously groomed, intricately woven, sprayed, and shellacked hair helmet gently tapped against the glass. He hung there, propped up by a follicle golf tee.


His beady eyes misted as he sighed and thought to himself, It could have been great. It could have been so great. It could have been the greatest inauguration in the history of inaugurations. People would be comparing all future inaugurations to my inauguration. The greatest inauguration by far.


“Mr. President,” said Chief of Staff Lice Pervious. “While the glass is bulletproof, you are backlighted and, therefore, visible. Perhaps you should not stand so close to the window.”


The President’s melancholy mood instantly dissolved into rage.


He roared, “I believe, Lice, that it was me who was elected to be President of the United States. Not you. Me.”


Lice mumbled, “Yes, sir.”


“And I will stand wherever I damn well please, Lice.”


“Yes, sir.”


“And YOU will stand wherever I damn well please, Lice.”


“Yes, sir.”


“And I want you to stand somewhere that is not in my sight. Get out.”


President Conall J. Mugwump settled into the Presidential Chair behind the Presidential Desk in the Presidential Oval Office.


The American Presidents who have lead the country through trying times and those who have been fortunate enough to be in office when circumstances beyond one’s control have been favorable, leave office knowing three things they had not understood before taking the oath.


-The responsibilities of the job were arduous, oppressive, and heartbreaking.


-The options available to solve problems were extremely limited.


-If they heard “Hail to the Chief” one more time they were going to openly weep.


Those who have been given leadership positions do not always do well. Those who do tend to be intelligent, charismatic, and, if truth be told, lucky.


What is most essential, however, is imagination. A successful leader requires the ability to imagine outcomes based on actions. Various options must be considered for both the worst and best of scenarios.


In 1891 it was first described by Anton Delbrueck as pseudologia phantastica but never before had an American President been such a textbook case. Combined with his complete and utter inability to conceive of failure, Conall J. Mugwump’s Alternative White House posed a unique peril to the great experiment of American Democracy.


Mugwump’s persistent lying about the obvious could at times be amusing. However, there were many who found themselves decidedly rattled.


Was the President of the United States of America delusional? Unable to recognize reality? Living completely outside of his mind?


Mugwump saw it as thinking positive.


His circular reasoning was he knew he was a successful, intelligent, astute business man, therefore, anything he did was, by definition, a successful, intelligent, astute thing to do.


Therefore, if the results were negative, it must be the fault of another. The rules of cause and effect, call and response, action and reaction, did not apply to President Conall J. Mugwump and the Alternative White House.


He saw his election as proof of his superiority. If the actual number of votes casted in his favor were less than his opponent’s, it must be due to the votes being miscounted, some of the votes, millions of the votes, were fraudulent, and/or the media was lying.


But, look at me now.


He had more money, better wives, and now, more power than his constantly disapproving father could ever had imagined.


His father’s ghost lingered but he was able to ignore him most of the time.


When others had suggested he run for the highest office in the land, he had instantly rejected the idea.


He may have been delusional in some respects but anyone could see being President of the United States of America was a supremely difficult job. Hard labor was an anathema to Mugwump. It was something other people did because they were not as smart as he was.


Money equals intelligence. If you have more money, you must be more smart. Stands to reason. What other standard could there be?


Still, when the negotiations with NBC soured and they took away his television show, he had the best (read: catastrophic) idea. What better way to show them how wrong they were than to run for President?


Of course, he would not win. He would not even be the nominee. More than likely.


But Conall J. Mugwump had a singular goal in life. Being rich was good, but, above all other wishes, Mugwump lusted for relevancy.


Being relevant meant you were Someone.


The Someones of the world were admired, respected, recognized, and were never, ever alone.


Little Connie never had friends. Real friends. His mother insisted his father make his employees force their children over for playdates. The progeny were given strict orders to use good manners, constantly praise the Prince, and above all else, never, ever allow Conall J. Mugwump to lose.


As an adult, his closest associates, at times, his only associates, were members of his family. Yes, money could deliver paid supporters. His campaign announcement and early rallies benefited from compensated actors.


But who knew there were so many nuts out there? The first campaign promise was to ban Muslims and that should have ended it then and there. The ratings would be through the roof, a renegotiated contract would follow, and I’d be back on tv. The show would be 4Q in no time.


Four-quadrant audience television viewership meant all sections of the populace watched the program. To be 4Q was to be a definite Someone.


Sometimes 4Q Someones get their own television stations.


Oh, could he see it now.


The Mugwump Channel. Starring Conall J. Mugwump. And his family and a cast of other people who really didn’t count but could be used to demonstrate the superiority of Conall J. Mugwump.


His closest advisor who was not related to him, Guy Agogh, made the suggestion about politics. Although, Mugwump would remember it later as an idea he, himself, had thought of.


Just, wouldn’t it be funny if?


That’s all. Because he was not going to win. Winning was not the goal.


The goal was to be back on television. Prime time.


His original plan was after he was“forced” out of the race, he would do the great reveal! Ha, ha! Isn’t that Mugwump clever? Someone that clever must be on television nonstop.


However, after a while, it became apparent Conall J. Mugwump might very well get the nomination.


Huh. Well, okay, then.


He knew there was no way he could beat Deja Shrew. She would be the first woman American President. She would also be the most prepared and Capable-on-Day-One President the country had ever had.


He had no choice but to accept the nomination. Easily. Bigly. Why not? It would only increase the ratings for Mugwump Television.


People liked him. They really liked him.


As much as he wanted revenge on the current President for ridiculing him at The White House Correspondents dinner, he truly did not want the actual job.


But Guy Agogh had other plans.


So a little whisper of “How great would it be if we could find Shrew’s missing emails?” was simply too good a story arc to ignore.


Mugwump made sure to be several steps removed from the actual computer hack.


Mainly because he still though a hack was someone who was bad at their job and/or a taxi driver.


But, also, plausible denial could prove useful.


The first emails released were mundane, routine, and showed some political manipulations by some in the Shrew campaign that were embarrassing, but not illegal.


The next batch were far more salacious.


Funny how adding or subtracting a few words could really change the meaning of the message. Even punctuation could change the intent.


So, the emails looked legitimate. And who could prove the originals had not been adjusted after the hack?


The third dump contained emails that were simply made up, completely false, utter lies, totally ridiculous, as in: who could possibly believe these were real emails? But, by then, the public had already been conditioned to believe anything claiming to be hacked from the Shrew campaign was hacked from the Shrew campaign.


While Mugwump had heard his two sons talking with Guy Agogh about their next meeting with a representative of the Russian leader, Massacre Rewtintuten, he quickly moved out of hearing range.


Mugwump was sure once Shrew was elected, everything campaign-related would be water under the bridge. No one ever cared if the loser of any contest had questionable ties or shady procedures.


Cheaters who do not cheat well enough to win are not seen as threats.


There is no impetuous to investigate unsuccessful conspiracies.


Some of Mugwump’s covert operatives, of course, had different goals. While they were of the opinion Deja Shrew would be the American President, they wanted her reign to be as difficult as possible.

There would be doubts.

False accusations.

Constant disinformation and frivolous scandals and actions by her husband would all help to discredit her Administration.


Not to mention, while she had proven herself in her public service career, she had never made the slightest effort to kiss the behind of those who were assisting Mugwump.


Fox News was also happily anticipating Shrew’s victory. They would never run out of material. They just had to change the target from a black man to an old woman. Nothing more difficult than Mad Libs.


The establishment Republicans were reluctant to embrace their new party leader. Anyone could see his campaign would go down in flames any moment now.


Only, it did not.


The voter restriction laws they had maneuvered into place in various states ensured they would all be re-elected. The GOP was counting on the new Democratic President Shrew being just as impotent as her predecessor, Prozac Diorama.


The election advertisements would write themselves and donations would flood the coffers of Republican candidates.


Guy Agogh had seen the alt-right website he managed needed a new target. Coming up with racial conspiracy theories for eight years had been draining. The

misogynists were rested and ready for action.


He, too, knew Mugwump would never be elected President but the attention the campaign was getting sent Agogh’s website views to astronomical heights.


No one, not Agogh, the campaign, the covert supporters, Fox news, Conall J. Mugwump, and certainly Deja Shrew could imagine Mugwump actually winning the election.


Mugwump as President was not in the spec script.


The script called for a close election. Respectable numbers. The next plot point was supposed to be the Blame Game:

The media, the illegals for fraudulent voting, the media, the Shrew campaign machine, the politically-correct elites, and the media.

The script would have had room to breathe. I could have been on television every day explaining how America could have been great, if only Mugwump had been elected!


Guaranteed ratings for at least four years! Maybe eight!


Oh, they would ask me to run again. They would beg me to make America great.


But, Conall J. Mugwump would be magnanimous. I would have said, I will leave politics to the politicians.


God, I love referring to himself in third person. I’m still undecided, though, on keeping that in the voiceovers of the new show. It will sound great in the audio of my new book.


Then, Election Night in America.


The voters chose change by re-electing every Republican seat on any ballot.


Oh, and anyone-but-Shrew for President.


Mugwump was probably the most surprised. He had been caught looking over at his wife’s ballot as she had casted her vote.


Myopia Mugwump voted for Deja Shrew. In her view, the salary for the First Lady was completely unacceptable, not to mention, the actual work expected of her.


The response among the American electorate was unanimous.


“Well, shit. Now what?”


Unfortunately for America and the world at large, in the time before Election Night and Inauguration Day, Mugwump had somehow convinced himself he was destined to be President of the United States.



Not to mention, countless ways to make money off it.


So, cue the pseudologia phantastica. I knew all along I would win. Other people did not think I would win but I knew. I knew I would be a great President. The greatest.


The proof was in the ratings.


Everyone loves a winner but Conall J. Mugwump is the winniest of them all.


It was to begin with the inauguration. His inauguration would be historic.


It would be the biggest inauguration of all time. People would say the inauguration of Conall J. Mugwump would never be topped.


He was going to stand before the crowd, his crowd, and let the cheers wash over him like rain. And then, at the exact right time, he would speak.


Just like at his rallies, they would hang on his every word and roar their approval at every pause. Pundits would repent their every criticism and would declare, he, Conall J. Mugwump, the greatest orator of all time.


And after his speech, with the multitudes before him in full swoon, he would take the hand of his current wife and escort her to the Presidential limousine.


The parade, MY parade, would go on for miles. It would be so great, you would not be able to see the end of MY parade for hours.




There would be marching bands and ticker tape. Why couldn’t they have something as basic as ticker tape in Washington? That is something that has to change. Or will move the nation’s capital in a New York minute.


New York minute! God, am I clever. I can’t speak or even think without my words becoming poetry.


And then, those Congressmen and Senators who had dared to not endorse him would be forced to watch as he and his entourage and supporters, the rich supporters, ate the most fantastic Inauguration Brunch in the history of Inauguration Brunches. Maybe there would be cake.


That evening he would be announced at the first of many, many Inauguration Balls, all of them being great, first-class, the best, and he would walk into the spotlight. The onlookers would gasp at this elegant American President, looking so great, decades younger than his real age, resplendent in tux and tails.

Men would want to be him and would lament their inability to do so.

Women would want him. And he would accommodate those who met his standards.


The First Lady, his third wife, would be stunning. Because he said so. She would be wearing the most greatest dress, the best First Lady dress ever. It would cover only the barest of minimums so everyone could see exactly what he had paid for in full.


Pussy is expensive but thank God for prenups.


The balls, parties, and celebrations would go on for days. It would have been the longest period of Presidential jubilation ever. It would have been so great.


He murmured aloud to himself, “It would have been so great. But, at least the little Kenyan is gone.”


His diatribe continued silently.


That’ll teach him to disrespect Conall J. Mugwump in public. Your Washington Correspondent’s Dinner routine isn’t so funny now, is it?


And look at me now, world. I am the 45th President of the United States! In your face!


President Conall J. Mugwump sighed again while he slouched back in his chair. He seesawed his chair back and forth and then he spun his chair.


How many times can I go around without my feet touching?


In agreement with Mugwump’s dreams of grandeur, the day had started out perfect. A great day. The greatest day.


The Presidential grandstand had been full with the right people. His people.


He took the oath. That oath was, by far, the greatest oath-taking in the history of oath-taking. You could almost hear the cries of the Democrats while I was taking the oath.


That oath-taking gave me the biggest hard-on.

All future Presidents will try to top my oath-taking but no one would be able to come close.


Believe me.


He then turned to the assembly before him, and flashed his Mugwump smile. A great Presidential smile. A winner’s smile, no doubt about it.


They chanted his name: “Mugwump! Mugwump! Mugwump!”


The protesters had not been in his daydream. At all.


Getting rid of the right to assemble freely would have to go. Enough of that.


The weak Washington police and the small-handed inept Secret Service and even the worthless National Guard said they had a right to be there.


That’s another thing that’s gonna be changed. And changed fast.


So, with the politically-correct standing by, doing nothing, absolutely nothing, in come the dirtbags. First, it was the Black Lives Matter lowlifes marching right into the crowd.


Before they could get started with their chants, the Illegals rushed in.


“Immigration Reform now!” they had yelled.


In a great way, a Presidential way, he had issued his first Presidential edict: “Deport them, dammit!”


Then, the damn Muslims waving their little Constitution books. Like anyone even cared about them or that stupid little book. His book had outsold every other book.


Maybe not if you count actual sales of actual books but, if I say it often enough and loud enough, it will be true enough.


Regardless of the ado, he had started his speech. Once they hear what I have to say, he had thought, everything will settle down and be great. Because I only give great speeches. Believe me.


He was dumbfounded when the people did not pay attention to him. Minor fights broke out but the assemblage soon became a disorderly riot.


They tried to tell him later how many had been killed, hospitalized, arrested, but he pretended he didn’t hear them.



Finally, the mealy-mouthed Secret Service acted. But they had acted by rushing me away from the microphone. Away!


He had been so mad. His thumbs could not move fast enough to tweet just how mad he truly was.


Then, a Secret Service agent, he didn’t know which one, they all look alike, that is to say, wrong, snatched away his phone because of “security.”


Didn’t he, Conall J. Mugwump know security? Didn’t he know more than anyone about security?


But, they outnumbered him and he had soon found himself roughly shoved into the Presidential limousine where his family were waiting for him.


He had thought at the time, Now, this is more like it! He said aloud to his family, “Isn’t this great? The Presidential limousine! The Mugwump family in the Presidential limousine!”


His morale soared until he looked around the automobile and realized the awful truth.


This was a used car.


Conall J. Mugwump knew cars. He knew the best cars. And he could tell he was riding in a previously used car.


And a used car meant…germs.


The newly inaugurated President was a known germaphobe. He shook hands sparingly, obsessed over cleanliness, and compulsively used Purell.


Frantically, he had tried to get out, but the limousine took off, slamming him back into his seat.


He frantically jiggled and pulled at the door. First thing on the agenda is a new Presidential limousine. A great limousine. Not a used one. A brand new limousine, gold colored, and people would say it was the greatest Presidential limousine ever and they would not believe other Presidents weren’t smart enough to demand their own limousine. Why isn’t this damn door opening?


The driver had then maneuvered the car into the Presidential motorcade. The parade was nearing its end as there were so few participants.

Schools had had their funding cut and couldn’t afford to fly out their marching bands.

It was a moot point since they had not requested invitations.

The local schools had also not requested invitations.

It was only military units, those who were forced to perform, and a few scraggly veterans groups in the back of pickup trucks.


The new President continued to paw at the door of limo and so was not aware of the unscheduled entry into the parade.


A swarm of very large men on very large motorcycles jumped into the procession ahead of the First Family’s car.


It was the group, Bikers For Mugwump.


The spectators, believing this was part of the show, cheered on the noisy, smoky riders, in between coughing spasms.


While the crowd control forces were well trained and their courage unquestioned, no one had been prepared to deal with Bikers for Mugwump as well as the next unsanctioned parade crashers.


Bursting through barricades and ignoring requests and then, demands, to halt themselves, they had gleefully charged in ahead of the Presidential limousine and behind the Bikers for Mugwump.


This legion had been on foot, most of the time, but their prior consumption of adult beverages combined with their chosen attire proved problematic.


Previously, at their staging site, the packages of new sheet sets had been ripped open and distributed haphazardly.


Eventually, even the most intoxicated discovered the the self-evident rule of bedding material.


Bed linens, as a rule, lack eyeholes.


While those who were fortunate enough to grab the flat sheets did manage their costumes in a fashion, others struggled mightily with the fitted sheets. Some put them on as hats and others tried to use them as capes.


Late arrivals were forced to scrap over pillowcases, the use of which was anything but uniform.


The mood of the besheeted remained festive, though, and the entourage was massive.


The Presidential limousine was silent as the occupants found themselves unable to speak. All but the President had their mouths agape, as they boggled at the scene in front of their vehicle.


President Mugwump’s exasperation with the door lock had continued.


The car then slowed to a stop. The President had looked up from his endeavors and had asked, “Why are we stopping?”


Gilligan Thataway replied, “Mr. President, it is customary for the First Family to walk the final blocks.”


“Blocks? As in, more than one?”


“It’s not long.”


Sitting back, smiling, President Mugwump had said, “I can’t. Can’t open the door, can’t get out, can’t walk. Let’s move on!”


The limousine door was then opened by an attending Secret Service agent. “Mr. President, it’s time.”


Cursing loudly and creatively, the President pointed his family out before him. His adult sons, Conall Jr. and Pathetic, exited ahead of their sister, Shamalama, and her husband, Herod Pusher. Gilligan Thataway became very busy with the paperwork before her and managed to remain in the vehicle.


President Conall J. Mugwump had stepped from the Presidential limousine and completely and had totally forgotten to extend a Presidential hand to the First Lady. Myopia tumbled out at gracefully as possible.


The President had said while buttoning his jacket, “Just act natural. Smile. Let’s go.”


Shamalama crossed her arms and frowned. “Daadddyy!”


“Not now, Princess. We have to be great. Walk bigly.”


“But, Daddy. Look at those idiots in front of us.”


“So they want to dress like the Pope. What do I care? You saw how much the Catholics love me.”


The President had then guided them into perfect formation.


They had presented perfect smiles on perfect faces while wearing perfect clothes and having perfect hair.


But none were more perfect than the President.


Oh, I was the perfectest.


Believe me.


The parade would have ended on that happy note but for an unexpected backfire from one of the Bikers for Mugwump’s motorcycles.


Springing into action, Secret Service agents had leapt on top of the Presidential First Family, shielding them with their bodies as other agents scanned the crowd with weapons raised.


Upon seeing the Presidential First Family forced into a Presidential First Family dogpile, the spectators had then panicked. They began to move in mob fashion. Only more disorganized. And louder.


Following their training, the Secret Service agents next jumped off the First Family and, in wedge-formation, crowd-walked them back into the limousine. The doors slammed shut and thee Presidential limousine had leapt backwards at high speed.


The First Family had been appalled into shock.


It was not pretty.


They sported soiled and ripped clothing. Their faces were marked with street debris. Mascara running and lipstick smeared, Shamalama, the first daughter, sobbed over a missing shoe. The President, first checking to see his shellacked hair remained in place had shouted to no one in particular, “Get me some Purell now, dammit!”


Next on the schedule was supposed to have been the Inauguration Brunch.


Conall J. Mugwump, the newest President of the United States of America had been tidied up after the parade fiasco and had felt rejuvenated in a new suit, new shoes, perfected hair, and copious amounts of Purell.


He had thought,This is going to be so great. So very, very, great. I cannot believe how great this is going to be. Forget the unwashed inferior masses. Now I can be with my people. Eating great food, really, really, great food in a clean room with the very great people I now command. Command. That is such a great word. I wonder if there will be chocolate cake.


“Conall,” said Myopia. “Why is there no aroma of the foods?”


“You must have a cold,” he had replied. “I think I have one, too.”


That time, he had remembered to present his arm for the First Lady and together, they had strolled into the Inauguration Brunch Room.


They had been completely unannounced, unnoticed, and largely ignored by the murmuring brunchers.


The President had cleared the Presidential throat.

The murmuring then stopped as the guests suddenly found the floor fascinating.


Mugwump had looked around the room. There had been no food, no water, no drinks of any kind, and absolutely not a single dining staff member in view.


Gilligan!” the President had roared. “Who did you put in charge of the Inauguration Brunch?”


It wasn’t just the Inauguration Brunch wait staff and chefs.


Earlier that day as the previous President, Prozac Diorama, and his family left the White House for the last time, the White House employees had stepped outside for the traditional goodbye.


Once the Diorama family were out of sight, each and every single employee, having previously prepared to do so, turned around and went home. Or shopping. Or anywhere that was not a place of their now-previous employment.


Meanwhile, outside the Inauguration Non-Brunch, the unwashed masses of Mugwump supporters had grown and spread out. If there is any way a riot can be jovial, this one did met the criteria.


Thousands swarmed the White House grounds.

Grills were fired up and many, many, many beer cans opened.


Virtually every person had been armed.


The revelers were not content to just occupy the White House lawns. The Rose Garden was the site of a pit bbq. Mrs. Diorama’s Kitchen Garden was savaged.


Beyond the fence, the Lincoln Memorial and Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorials were defiled. At the National Mall, the Reflecting Pool quickly filled with swimmers and other substances. Police cars were overturned and set on fire.


Eventually, the Reflecting Pool was set on fire.


The President’s Chief Strategist, Guy Agogh, had ordered the use of deadly force. Thankfully, he did not have the authority to do so, but, regardless, the military forces and the local police departments refused to obey.


Those in charge of the law enforcement agencies and military units could see the disparity between themselves and the anarchists in terms of fire power and weaponry.


They had then ordered the detonation of the entire supply of tear gas followed by a hasty retreat.


What a mess. And so bad. Those were bad policemen. Very, very, bad policemen. They were so weak. It is sad how weak they were. Almost as bad as the soldiers. Bad soldiers.


He had forgotten about the evening’s Presidential firework display until it began.


No one could see the fireworks due to the smoke. The enthusiastic, inebriated Mugwump supporters had still howled deliriously with each eruption. Many added to the cacophony by saluting their President with celebratory gunfire, not all of which was aimed up.


The President shook his head as he recapped the day in his mind. Finally, the nausea from spinning the Presidential chair got to him and he got up and walked toward the Presidential bedroom.


He was clear.

He was determined.

He was resolute.

He was tired.


And so it ends. So, the first day of my Presidency ends in smoke. At least it’s over.

Presidential Mugwump had never been one to dwell in the past unless it was to remember how great he had been. So, in true Mugwump fashion, he steeled himself and silently chanted the mantra he had used since Election Day:


America will be great again.


And it will all be because of President Conall J. Mugwump.


Mugwump will make America great.


So great.


People will not believe how great President Mugwump’s America will be.


Other people will talk about the great Mugwump and the country he runs. The country he is in charge of.


The country that I own. I’ve got the receipt.


It will be the best. The best ever.


Whether it wants to be or not.


Believe me.


"If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them."


—Sojourner Truth




America’s capital was facing a new day with a new administration and a new political insurgence. The Alternative White House was ill-prepared.


Conall J. Mugwump woke up ready to start to make America the greatest ever.


His assistants helped him to dress, shave, and shellac his hair into place. He brushed his teeth by himself.


He strode to the Oval Office in a very masculine way. He sat down in the chair behind the desk only to spring up bellowing for Gilligan Thataway.


“Gilligan! In here NOW!”


“Yes, Mr. President?”


“This chair. Is it a used chair? Like the limousine? I do not want to sit in a used chair. Especially if it was the Kenyan using it. I refuse to sit in any chair the Kenyan, Diorama, sat in. So, I am asking you a simple question, Gilligan. Is this a new chair?”


“Yes, Mr. President. It was delivered yesterday and I can find the plastic wrap for you if it would help.”


“No, no,” the great man said. “Just wanted to make sure.

I want to meet with my cabinet over breakfast.”


“Yes, sir. We flew in your kitchen staff from New York this morning and they brought your own food.”


“Good. I don’t want any used food. God knows what the Kenyan touched on his way out of here.”


Later, as the empty plates were pushed aside and coffee mugs refilled, President Conall J. Mugwump said to his cabinet, “When can I get my phone back?”


The Chief of Staff said, “Mr. President, we have a crisis on our hands and we have to deal with it before we even think of doing anything else.”


The President glared at Lice Pervious. “What crisis?”


The men and women sitting around the table tried their best to not make eye contact with anyone else.


“Well?” demanded the President.


Secretary Snick Hairy stammered, “Well….”


“Shut up. If I had wanted to hear from you I would have given you something important to be in charge of,” Mr. Mugwump snapped.


“Guy ,” he said, “give me the skinny.”


Guy Agogh flipped through his legal pad and without looking up said, “Mr. President, the latest polls indicate…”


“Shut up. Gilligan?”


About me

Griffin Sheffield is suffering from a severe case of PTSD that began November 8, 2016. Writing this book did not improve the condition.

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