Donald Trump began insidiously developing certain tracts of land in Hell. He had his usual b.s. eminent domain arguments pre-loaded for litigation. He had a number of contacts (eternally damned friends and business associates) already on the inside, and they had greased the palms of some of the lesser demons with baksheesh. You’d be shocked at the sorts of things they crave down there, copies of Dancing with the Stars and Pepperoni Bites, crap like that. Pretty much the same stuff as North Korea, really.
But the Devil eventually found out that someone was building on his property. He only uncovered this when he found paperwork from the Infernal Zoning Board (DING!: there is no “Infernal Zoning Board”) purporting to approve the Don’s latest monstrosity. This was a sprawling titanium-facaded hotel designed to resemble his coif, or rather anti-coif. It was designed by Frank Gehry, no less. It looks like a giant Trump toupee sitting there amid the countless grease fires of hell. It does feel weirdly appropriate. Except it’s shiny and it lights up like a merry-go-round at night. And it’s very, very large. Because the suites inside are also very large, designed to pull in celebrity demons and their so-called families, the rates are astronomical. Working class demons simply can’t afford this putrid pile of putatively-pedigreed poshness.
And what does this hotel have to offer amidst the (admittedly boring reruns of) eternal torment of human wrongdoers?
Donald Trump has the answer: “Fresh hell!”
Yes, he’s many other things, so why wouldn’t he be a plagiarist too? It’s emblazoned on the towels, and even embroidered in minuscule flowing script of black thread on the heavy Le Jacquard Français napkins: “What Fresh Hell is This?” And the bastard even had the nerve to add a little TM there at the end. It’s also used in the commercials for the resort, you know the ones with the dancing she-devils really letting down their cat-o-nine-tails and exploring their sensuous side. It’s typical sexist Trump fare. The she-devils were plied with alcohol and fake telephone numbers of demon celebrity bad boys to make sure they really let loose in those ad spots. Even in hell, the bad taste goes on, coeternal with the Trump name.
Soon thereafter, the Devil showed up at Trump Tower with his Dream Team, a cadre of the some of the best, fast-talking, long-dead attorneys ever to walk the planet and end up in perdition. The cease and desist’s were duly delivered. And then a few thousand pages of impending litigation were dumped on the desk of T., who was, of course, too busy watching reruns of The Apprentice (fast-forwarding always to his lines) to give a shit.
The Devil spun Trump around in his chair without touching him or the chair.
“The Trump Do? Seriously? That’s the name you give that piece of shit-welded-to-gimcrack you call a hotel that you’ve placed on poached ground in my demesne?”
“That name tested very well in several rounds of live trials. The info-metrics are good on that. See, people like my hair, it’s part of my brand, unlike whatever that shit is you’ve got scribbled up there on your red noggin. What is that? Brillo?”
(Here Trump’s lackeys, and aren’t they all, pretended to enjoy the enjoined laughter that must follow what palely passes for wit around those parts.)
“Mr. Trump, you do realize we have a future assignation in my nation, where the only Red State is eternal fire for slippery pollywogs of evil such as yourself. We both know your pro forma, external piety is not fooling the Old Guy Upstairs. I heard he’s actually thinking about adding a few new commandments based on your tenure as presidency alone.”
“What a lovely piece of work he is, up there. He created tarsiers. Tarsiers! Have you ever seen those goddamn things? Who in their right mind would create a tarsier? What a lovely piece of work you are, too. You’re a Nasty Worm, Man. You two both mismanaged your affairs. If I was running Heaven, there never would have been a Fall from Grace. And if I was running Hell, the Guy Upstairs would find himself in the same place I put Merv Griffin.”
“Merv is in Hell,” the Devil said, shocked at Trump’s effrontery.
“Exactly!” Trump said and laughed. Of course, all his lackeys did the mandatory chuckle. A woman brazenly fake-snorted.
“Listen, I got a little deal I want to discuss with you. You pay those demons decently down there and then they go and spend their money on the most ridiculous, cheap-ass, 7–11 type stuff. You ever step inside the homes of that peonage? I have. It’s unbelievable. They have these animals they call pets. They give up a significant share of their capital to a creature that’s lunch over in Asia. And your low-class demons are like that. You could be turning all their salaries right back into Hell to build the infrastructure. What do the wives of demons want? They want to have a story they can tell their neighbors, the other wives who they hate. Give them a little visit to a Trump resort and they have all the ammunition they need. Walk with me a little bit and let me explain. “
So, after waving a quick personal hi to Kellyanne, one of Satan’s favorites, the leader of Hell went with Trump for a stroll and a summit, tailed by Secret Service bodyguards who were all collectively considering leaving T’s employs to become a team of male strippers known as the “D.C. Acey-Deuces.” Don’t ask, it’s complicated.
Hours later, the Contract was inked and the Bearer of Light put down the oldest existing signature in the universe right next to Trump’s scrawled signature, which, appropriately enough, resembles the jagged lightning of electrocardiograph paper indicating a heart attack.
The Devil went back down to Hell (didn’t even stop off in Georgia for nostalgia’s sake, as he had planned) and the further he descended, the more he realized he had just been shafted by a man whose only raison d’etre is shafting, and his tail began to slink between his legs. Tears fell on his cloven hooves.
When he got back to his offices, his Unholy of Unholies, he noticed the way all the other demons looked at him now. They had that knowing look of scorn dipped in the au jus of ridicule. Everyone knew he had been taken and that the Glass Ceiling in Hell had just been shattered for humans by something very closely resembling a human.
When Trump got back into the Oval Office, he had to tell Kellyanne to get out of his chair and take her shoes off his desk. but she did that thing she always does to him with her killer clown eyes, stared him down, unmoving, and he decided he would go and eat an egg salad and pepperoni sandwich instead. He would see if Melania felt sorry enough for him to go and lie and tell Kellyanne that Putin wanted to continue that game of “Truth or Dare” they had been playing on Snapchat which almost resulted in the nuclear annihilation of Montenegro, just for shits and giggles, last week. Because then he could get his chair back without losing face. And that was sort of important.
But the Devil eventually found out that someone was building on his property. He only uncovered this when he found paperwork from the Infernal Zoning Board (DING!: there is no “Infernal Zoning Board”) purporting to approve the Don’s latest monstrosity. This was a sprawling titanium-facaded hotel designed to resemble his coif, or rather anti-coif. It was designed by Frank Gehry, no less. It looks like a giant Trump toupee sitting there amid the countless grease fires of hell. It does feel weirdly appropriate. Except it’s shiny and it lights up like a merry-go-round at night. And it’s very, very large. Because the suites inside are also very large, designed to pull in celebrity demons and their so-called families, the rates are astronomical. Working class demons simply can’t afford this putrid pile of putatively-pedigreed poshness.
And what does this hotel have to offer amidst the (admittedly boring reruns of) eternal torment of human wrongdoers?
Donald Trump has the answer: “Fresh hell!”
Yes, he’s many other things, so why wouldn’t he be a plagiarist too? It’s emblazoned on the towels, and even embroidered in minuscule flowing script of black thread on the heavy Le Jacquard Français napkins: “What Fresh Hell is This?” And the bastard even had the nerve to add a little TM there at the end. It’s also used in the commercials for the resort, you know the ones with the dancing she-devils really letting down their cat-o-nine-tails and exploring their sensuous side. It’s typical sexist Trump fare. The she-devils were plied with alcohol and fake telephone numbers of demon celebrity bad boys to make sure they really let loose in those ad spots. Even in hell, the bad taste goes on, coeternal with the Trump name.
Soon thereafter, the Devil showed up at Trump Tower with his Dream Team, a cadre of the some of the best, fast-talking, long-dead attorneys ever to walk the planet and end up in perdition. The cease and desist’s were duly delivered. And then a few thousand pages of impending litigation were dumped on the desk of T., who was, of course, too busy watching reruns of The Apprentice (fast-forwarding always to his lines) to give a shit.
The Devil spun Trump around in his chair without touching him or the chair.
“The Trump Do? Seriously? That’s the name you give that piece of shit-welded-to-gimcrack you call a hotel that you’ve placed on poached ground in my demesne?”
“That name tested very well in several rounds of live trials. The info-metrics are good on that. See, people like my hair, it’s part of my brand, unlike whatever that shit is you’ve got scribbled up there on your red noggin. What is that? Brillo?”
(Here Trump’s lackeys, and aren’t they all, pretended to enjoy the enjoined laughter that must follow what palely passes for wit around those parts.)
“Mr. Trump, you do realize we have a future assignation in my nation, where the only Red State is eternal fire for slippery pollywogs of evil such as yourself. We both know your pro forma, external piety is not fooling the Old Guy Upstairs. I heard he’s actually thinking about adding a few new commandments based on your tenure as presidency alone.”
“What a lovely piece of work he is, up there. He created tarsiers. Tarsiers! Have you ever seen those goddamn things? Who in their right mind would create a tarsier? What a lovely piece of work you are, too. You’re a Nasty Worm, Man. You two both mismanaged your affairs. If I was running Heaven, there never would have been a Fall from Grace. And if I was running Hell, the Guy Upstairs would find himself in the same place I put Merv Griffin.”
“Merv is in Hell,” the Devil said, shocked at Trump’s effrontery.
“Exactly!” Trump said and laughed. Of course, all his lackeys did the mandatory chuckle. A woman brazenly fake-snorted.
“Listen, I got a little deal I want to discuss with you. You pay those demons decently down there and then they go and spend their money on the most ridiculous, cheap-ass, 7–11 type stuff. You ever step inside the homes of that peonage? I have. It’s unbelievable. They have these animals they call pets. They give up a significant share of their capital to a creature that’s lunch over in Asia. And your low-class demons are like that. You could be turning all their salaries right back into Hell to build the infrastructure. What do the wives of demons want? They want to have a story they can tell their neighbors, the other wives who they hate. Give them a little visit to a Trump resort and they have all the ammunition they need. Walk with me a little bit and let me explain. “
So, after waving a quick personal hi to Kellyanne, one of Satan’s favorites, the leader of Hell went with Trump for a stroll and a summit, tailed by Secret Service bodyguards who were all collectively considering leaving T’s employs to become a team of male strippers known as the “D.C. Acey-Deuces.” Don’t ask, it’s complicated.
Hours later, the Contract was inked and the Bearer of Light put down the oldest existing signature in the universe right next to Trump’s scrawled signature, which, appropriately enough, resembles the jagged lightning of electrocardiograph paper indicating a heart attack.
The Devil went back down to Hell (didn’t even stop off in Georgia for nostalgia’s sake, as he had planned) and the further he descended, the more he realized he had just been shafted by a man whose only raison d’etre is shafting, and his tail began to slink between his legs. Tears fell on his cloven hooves.
When he got back to his offices, his Unholy of Unholies, he noticed the way all the other demons looked at him now. They had that knowing look of scorn dipped in the au jus of ridicule. Everyone knew he had been taken and that the Glass Ceiling in Hell had just been shattered for humans by something very closely resembling a human.
When Trump got back into the Oval Office, he had to tell Kellyanne to get out of his chair and take her shoes off his desk. but she did that thing she always does to him with her killer clown eyes, stared him down, unmoving, and he decided he would go and eat an egg salad and pepperoni sandwich instead. He would see if Melania felt sorry enough for him to go and lie and tell Kellyanne that Putin wanted to continue that game of “Truth or Dare” they had been playing on Snapchat which almost resulted in the nuclear annihilation of Montenegro, just for shits and giggles, last week. Because then he could get his chair back without losing face. And that was sort of important.
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