Trimmy: Kimmy and Trump - The Bomb of Fate

The Golf Tragedy

Donald POV:

I apply my cheetos dust to my face to give my skin that signature orange glow, and I file my dirty nails with a knife, stained with the blood of immigrants. I play my favorite song, "Boyfriend" by Justin Bieber. I wish I had a boyfriend. My wife is cool and all and my daughter is smoking hot (can I bang her, too?), but, at the end of the day, I long for the touch of a man.

It's 8:00, which means it's time to light the candles around my shrine to myself. I begin singing an ancient voodoo song as I dance naked around close up pictures of my chin. After several hours of this, I go to the mirror and whisper some positive affirmations to myself. "You are rich and white af," I say. "Every woman is in love with you, whether they know it or not. Because women obviously exist only to validate you." After doing this, I always feel inspired to do something creative. When I am inspired, I like to avoid distraction, so I tie up my family and lock them in the basement with no food or water and a rabid dog. As I listen to the soothing sounds of their skin being ripped off in shreds, I order my servant, sexual partner, and daughter to gather some cornsilk for me to glue to my head. I have her wear a hamburger costume whenever she visits me, because the only thing I love other than myself is classic American fast food. Then, I sit down and go on my website. My golf courses are my passion and my fetish. I love the sweet smell of cancer inducing chemicals. All I need now is a sexy model to display my golf gear. I have all the playboy models on speed dial like a true christian, but it's too predictable. Who is beautiful enough for this job? I can't model my own products!!! I'll seem self centered!!! Distraught, I sink into my favorite chair, made with the skin of democrats, and turn on my TV. It flickers on to reveal the daily news reporter, a blonde woman who is probably obsessed with me because that's how women are. She's standing in front of a crowd of screaming protesters and speaking calmly into a microphone. My primitive mind races to come to a conclusion. After thinking as hard as I can, I realize there has been a bombing. A map pops up in the top right corner of the screen, with North Korea highlighted.

"This," she says, "is the work of Kim Jong- Un".

An HD photo of Kim standing in front of a concentration camp with a thumbs up and eating ice cream covers the screen, and I fall out my chair at his beauty. His glowing skin! His luxurious rolls of fat. And, oh my, his man boobs! They're bigger than Kim Kardashian's butt. Immediately, I know that Kim is an angel sent from God himself to model my golf clubs. I sink to my knees, only pausing to whistle in appreciation at my own reflection in the glass of my window from the dollar store. I really am the best person I have ever met.

That night, I have a titillating dream. Kimmy and I are alone in a candlelit room, having adult interactions. I unzip Kimmy's pants, and I scream. There's nothing there. Nothing but two legs. No butthole.

"How do you make wee wee and poopy pies?" I murmer.

"I don't," he whispers seductively.

"Don't worry Kim," I say. "I'll make your butthole region great again."

I awake next to my daughter and smile. I have a strange feeling that this is more than a dream; it's a prophecy.