- The Metamorphosis
Donald J Trump was born in a mouse hole, raised by little mice. Mice known as Mini-mice. They shaved him, painted him white, and made him stand on his rear legs. They did this because it had never been done before.
“Why not?” said Mouse-dad.
“Sure is different,” said Mother.
“Looks stupid to me,” said Brother. “Looks like a mini-stupid-white-man.”
“Waste of space,” said Sister, adjusting her glasses while trying to concentrate on her book, The Adventures of Huck Female Mouse.
Every morning he’d shave his body, paint himself white, and stretch out his arms and legs so they’d be more “manlike”. To get his arms to grow he’d stretch and close his eyes and pray to Jesus. Dear Jesus, you’re like God but littler. Please make me grow into a real white man.
All this praying and stretching made Donald J Trump grow too big for his mouse home.
After the introductions between the people of the house were made, the wife, a stay-at-home mom named Ruth, took out her cigar splitter and asked if he would please turn around and bend over.
“Any time!” said Donald J.
With quick precision she threaded his pink tail through the cigar cutter and snip snipped, leaving a small bloody nubbin.
The man of the house grabbed the tail out of his wife’s hand and began whirling it around like a lasso.
“You can never have enough of these,” said the man of the house.
After back slaps and handshakes, they sent Donald J Trump on his way outfitted in a white coat and green sneakers. They offered him corduroy pants with leather belt, but he told them they were unnecessary. And then, without further ado, walked out into the real world, bare-assed.
- The Hamburglar
Thus Donald J Trump went forth getting burned by the sun, scratching the scabbed-over nub where his tail had been, looking at hot babes with their babies in strollers. Sometimes calling out, Hamburglar! The women with their babies didn’t know what that meant but were slightly pleased to have something to talk about with their husbands when they got home. Yes, that’s right, the white-mousey-man looked at me and screamed, Hamburglar!
The more he said it the more hungry he got. For he, Donald J Trump, had a hankering for the Burg.
“Have you seen him?” he asked a girl with pigtails.
“Seen who?” asked the girl with pigtails.
“Hang a right at Ace and it’ll be on the corner three blocks down.”
Soon after, our man D J Trump was in the McDonalds shaking hands, as if he was making a deal, with the Hamburglar.
After small talk (stink bugs, buttons, atoms, popcorn, grains of sand, dust mites, eyelashes, etc.) they went about walking the streets not knowing where their destination would be or if they’d truly arrive to the place that would satisfy.
Little did they know there was a sniper hiding in the old bell tower. Her name was Mercury. She was a broad-shouldered blonde who dressed like Heidi: German-Swiss-Alpine style with a stuffed- goat wedged in cleavage. When she spotted Trump and the Hamburglar through her scope, she sighted, exhaled, ready to kill, but instead of pulling the trigger, gazed into his eyes: small, dark, mouse-like. Right then, and dare say, suddenly, she remembered who she once was: a little girl who loved gross things. Even rodents, but especially little mice. She liked mice best that dressed up and wore spectacles and read books by fireside, waxing poetry, puffing on a pipe.
Immediately she set down her firearm and bounded down the spiraling stairs of the bell tower, eventually meeting the man who was really a painted mouse.
“So sexy!” she cried, hugging him, squishing her chest (breasts) into the chest (man-mouse-teats) of Donald J Trump.
“Happy happy!” cried Trump.
“It’s you,” she said. “There’s just no one like you.”
And then she picked him up – right hand on pasty thigh, left on mid-back – and skipped her way to the nearest Walmart to outfit him in corduroy slacks, black turtleneck, tweed jacket, pipe (a pink one that blew bubbles), green reading glasses, and penny loafers (no socks).
- Losing It
When Heidi got home she plopped him, Donald J Trump, in a beanbag chair, handed him a Berenstain Bears book (Berenstain Bears and Too Much TV), and sat across gazing longingly, doing what she could to hold back her lust.
But a girl can only restrain herself for so long. The clothes came off, soared like McDonalds wrappers in the wind, and soon Trump found himself a virgin no more. The experience was aggressive but pleasant, with only a few bumps and bruises, no further damage done to the nubbin.
In the following months they made love on the beanbag chair, on the pinball machine, on the playground slide (slide down, climb up, slide down), in the chimney, in the freezer box, in the ’76 Pinto’s trunk, the attic, the crawlspace, the tub. She liked it best if he blew pipe-bubbles while romping. He liked it best in the trunk.
- The Crime
In the meantime, the Hamburglar dropped his rubber gun (happy meal prize) in the nearest gutter, accidently hitting a hobo in the head.
“What’s it all about?” asked the hobo.
“I need real guns,” said the Hamburglar, not in the mood for small talk.
He set about searching for a real gun with real bullets. Eventually he sniffed out Heidi’s stash high in the bell tower. How did he know where to find what he was looking for? Training. McDonald’s is known for its rigorous methods, and finally it paid off.
Paid off for the Hamburglar, that is, but not for the Super Duper Foods that was maliciously ripped off a couple minutes later. No one was hurt, but there were a few children who witnessed one of their great heroes stealing money from an old lady (she wore those dainty lanyard things that attached to her wicked old bifocals). The lady pulled out the money from the register and began counting the bills one by one before placing them in a shopping bag.
“Mam, you don’t have to count the change,” said the Hamburglar.
“Well,” she said. “If you don’t know how much you stole then what do you know?”
“I was planning on counting it later.”
“But I can count it for you now so you won’t have to count it later.”
“Okay,” he said, defeated and for some strange reason stuck in the nostalgic, missing his own grandmother who was known for hard candies and Black Velvet.
After the heist, he got into his ’76 Pinto and headed west. However, to his displeasure, only a mile out of town, heard strange rumblings in his trunk. He pulled over at Liberty Gas Plus at the state line to see what was up.
- Best Friends Unite
“Wazzup?” he asked, opening his trunk, surprised indeed to find his old friends, D J Trump and Heidi, naked, intertwined passionately, and taking up more trunk space than he believed he had.
“You can put all kinds of things into this trunk,” they said.
“Two bodies, not just one!”
After DJ and Heidi put their clothes back on, the three friends had a good laugh and drove toward the sunset, drinking Busch Light and chewing Twizzlers. When they laughed, red sticky saliva streamed down their cheeks and stained their shirts.
Around this time Donald J Trump stopped shaving and painting himself white. Maybe it had something to do with Heidi’s love of mice, real mice, not just mice trying to be men. You could say he wanted to please Heidi, after all he loved her.
“Please may I please you?” he asked.
“You do, but I wouldn’t mind being pleased some more.”
“Happy ho ho!”
In no time flat – fur, whiskers, walking on all fours.
Donald J Trump was relieved to be a mouse like the old days. Felt natural, felt right. But still, a pretty huge mouse, more like a rat.
And everyone knows rats of this magnitude belong in one place and one place only: Battery Park, New York, New York.
- The City
As much as Heidi was totally into Donald as a mouse man, she started to understand, some months later, that maybe she wasn’t that into dating an actual rat. His breath no good from all the sewer munchies, petting his greasy rodent fur, always looking down, and creepy S-E-X.
One winter day the three friends were sitting in their apartment’s living room. Hamburglar on the rocker. Heidi on the couch. Donald J Trump under the coffee table.
“Movie time?” asked D J Trump, peeking his head out to see her. “Moonlight playing at AMC. I do love moons!”
“Not tonight,” said Heidi. She was wearing the Hamburglar’s robber’s mask.
“Hammy?” asked Trump.
“Think I’ll sleep with Heidi tonight,” he said, and gave Heidi a wink.
Heidi winked back at the Hamburglar confirming the sleeping situation.
“Me too! I sleep with you guys?” asked D J.
“Rats love dark and cold alleys,” said Heidi. “There are dumpsters, rotten food, and other rats to mate with.”
“I like you,” he said.
Heidi and Hammy had a good laugh.
“Awwww, look at the little rat boy with those puppy dog eyes,” she said.
“So cute,” said Hammy. “Like a real man in a rat costume.”
They laughed louder as they pushed Donald J Trump out the back door and into the dark alley. True, the dark alley was quite comfortable with its cold asphalt, green dumpster, and smell of decay. But even in this cozy place he was still all alone. And when a rat is alone it cries, just like men cry.
For the following weeks the only interaction he had with his friends was when one of them brought him a dog bowl filled with water.
- Glad Bag
After six long months of city life, late June, Heidi stuffed his rat-ass into the nearest heavy duty Glad bag.
“This garbage bag will keep you out of the rain,” she said. “Me and Hammy are leaving you for good. Just FYI.”
“Don’t leave me,” he said, rat tears in the whiskers. He didn’t want to be lonely and also didn’t want to be stuck in a plastic bag for life: the condensation, claustrophobia, etc.
“The Burg will have to do,” she said. “We’ll be criminals on the run. Although I might miss your whiskers.”
“Need a nightlight,” he said. “Need people like you.”
- The Search
After plucking a whisker off his cheek and placing it in her pocket, Heidi left Donald J Trump for good. She walked down streets, through alleyways, past trash cans and hobos, junkies, until she reached the endless storefronts. She was heading to Broadway to catch the 1 train but got distracted by all the fashion shops and coffee shops and shoe shops and shops with chocolates in the window.
There were cafés and vegan bakeries and real bakeries.
No time flat she got the bug. The shopping bug.
She found herself on the lookout for affordable sniper rifles. Some real straight shooters. One for her and one for the Hamburglar. She asked around.
“Have you seen a good rifle?” she asked. “Have you seen a good gun?”
Two dudes wedged into one coat gave her the goods. They opened their trench coat revealing rows of sawed off shotguns and six shooters.
“We want to shoot rats,” they said, pointing at the endless number of windows on the tall buildings. “We hope to kill them with militant force! Here, have two.” They gave her one of each.
“Thank you!” she cried. “These look useful!”
“Welcome!” they said and then skipped away, in sync, as if they were not two, but one.
Heidi looked up and, once her eyes adjusted, found every window darkened by a rat in a business suit. Some were looking through binoculars, others holding martinis or bottles of red wine.
- The Tower
Meanwhile Donald J Trump lifted his oversized rat head out of the Glad bag to see the city.
“Look at them sights!” he said. Although, everything appeared distorted and horrific, most likely because of the tears still in his eyes.
“So scary for me,” he said and then shut his eyes until the tears were no more.
Once the tears were no more he walked along the shore, feet in the water, claws in the sand, and watched the sun lower itself until it was gone.
“Bye, bye,” he said to the sun. “See you tomorrow.”
Then the great lights of New York turned bright and everything wasn’t dark, again.
“Lights over there. More lights over there,” he said, pointing in this direction and in that direction.
He raised his long nose and sniffed the humid air. Everything smelled delicious, like a happy meal.
Without thoughts in particular, he scurried from the water, heading west, mindless and happy. Along the way he ate out of dumpsters. His favorites were Ramen, cheese, and maggots. After eating his fill he lumbered longingly toward a golden tower shining in the sky like the stars, like the moon, like a fake sun.
“So shiny,” he said. “So pretty.”
He also thought the tower looked a lot like Heidi holding a sniper rifle above her head, straight up, like one long antenna. With no time to lose he found himself quick on the move. His little rat feet hustled to the tower. Most rats are pretty intelligent, but this one had nothing on its mind but winning her back.
- Pickup Lines
During the journey he practiced his pickup lines:
“Heidi, how bout them streets and bricks?”
“How bout them cats and trunks?”
“How bout them lips and trunks?”
“How bout them cats and bricks?”
A few rats stuck their heads out from dumpsters. They began to follow him. Maybe it had something to do with his nubby tail? Maybe it had something to do with his catchy phrasing?
“How bout them cats up the walls?” said D J. “How bout them happy rats up the walls?”
Rats are known to join the crowd. If a rat jumps off a bridge the other rats will follow. The numbers grew. Soon there were fifty rats following Donald J Trump. One-hundred rats following Donald J Trump. Five hundred rats. Three thousand rats. Ten thousand rats.
One hundred thousand rats following Donald J Trump.
They took over the streets in the night. A parade of rats rambling over taxi cabs and people’s shoes. Some shots rang out, but the guns weren’t loaded correctly, or maybe the city shops only sold blanks?
Deep in the night, no more gunfire. Only the pitter patter of rat feet on concrete.
But DJ wasn’t paying attention, he was stuck in his lonely rat-mind. There was a new pickup line to master. Something to win her over.
“Heidi wanna Burg? Wanna Burg with me?”
“You Burg for me? I Burg for you?”
And then he found it, the pickup line he was looking for all this time:
“You Burg me, I Burg you.”
“You Burg me! I Burg you!”
He repeated these words all the while imagining a reunion in the old ’76 Pinto trunk.
“You Burg me, I Burg you.”
In time the other rats (the masses) chanted along. Even the business-suit-rats in the highrises opened their windows and joined in. By the time DJ arrived at the front door of the tower, everyone for miles had been well acquainted with the words:
You Burg me, I Burg you.