He’s seen the comments in those liberal men’s magazines, he knows. Dems magazines, they should call them. The same ones who three years ago said it was somewhat slimming to wear your tie slightly long.
Still, he would tell her to tie it shorter, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s clear she’s enamored by him, thinks he’s 10 feet tall. She often wears heels just to be closer to him when she looks him in the eye. When she smiles, he can almost smell her pussy. Whew!
One of these days, he’ll have to throw a fuck into her!
Every morning, she’s up before him, his can of diet soda waiting at his desk, his jacket and tie – typically red, but he’s not afraid of throwing blue ones a bone to keep them guessing – knotted and waiting for him on the mannequin torso in his dressing suite. His pants are draped neatly over the chair. All he has to do is put on his shirt and pants, throw the tie around his neck, and knot it. Jacket, then go.
His pants. Man, he wish she’d help him with those. Whew, boy!
It’s not that the President can’t tie a tie… No, he could if he wanted to. No, it’s just he never had to. So why start now? He’s the most powerful man in the free world. Putin probably has to tie his own tie, the chump. Later, he’d get him on the line and ask him. They had business to talk anyhow.
This morning, though, he feels a little off though as he pulls the knot tight against his neck. It seems he can hardly get it tight enough without making it hard to breathe. Why is it so difficult to breathe? Maybe it was the Russia business, and that damn Putin telling him not to call there anymore.
Or maybe it’s the media. He can just imagine the headlines if they found out he didn’t tie his own tie. They’d bring up his hand size again.
Fake news!
The fakest news. Seriously, is that all those people have to talk about? How many countries do we have to bomb before they could care less who’s hands are small and who’s fucking who. Everyone’s fucking everyone, it’s the fucking way the fucking world works. Fuck or Be fucked.
Now, that’s the fucking question.
He finally decides to leave it a little loose, the tie. He can always tighten it. He looks at his right hand, regards it, then looks into the mirror, winks, and gives it a shot from the right gun. A magnum, if he does say so himself.
As he walks out into the office, she’s there, bent over, skirt rising just above the knee, straightening his stack of morning papers, set alongside his can of diet soda. The television is turned to cable news. She stands straight, turns, smiles.
Morning, Mr. President, she says.
Gushes, really.
That it is, he says, lifts his hand – his magnum – thumb raised, forefinger aimed at those high cheekbones. He winks, gives her the gun.
She blushes.
Or maybe she’s wearing a little too much blush. Either way, he knows it’s for him.
He heads for the door, where the secret service agents wait. He has an intelligence briefing this morning.
Mr. President, she says.
He looks, she’s pointing at him now, he can tell without looking it’s where the tip of his tie hangs. He smiles, nods. One of these days soon, he thinks. I’ll throw a fuck into her.
Forgetting something? She winks at him.
We’ll save it for later, he says, winks back – though it admittedly feels weird to do it a second time.
But later, after the briefing, after receiving the Meridian Mississippi Girl Scout Group in the Oval Office, and after the press conference, all those fake Newsies talk about in the media is how his fly was down.
Is that all those fucking people have to fucking talk about?
