President Poopy Pants of LaLa Land

He wants to rule forever, right?

In the dimly lit disordered master bedroom of a Floridian golf resort, an orange-hued old man was asleep in his gilded bed farting and muttering the name Nikki over and over again. The sad, saggy, literally depressed mattress beneath his heaving, swollen body was a tangible testament to a lifetime of over-indulgence. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of stale french fry grease, flatulence and diaper cream.

The sheets were streaked with bronze makeup and covered in the crumbs of fried chicken, chocolate cake and chips. Each stain, each crumb — a tiny piece of the puzzle that contributed to his distinctively disheveled, over-fed Oompa Loompian appearance.

And as the tv flashed the news in the corner, someone opened the door, waded through the remnants of half-empty mini-soda bottles and discarded fast food wrappers covering the floor, rushed towards the sleeping man, reached out a nervous hand, and shook him aggressively by the shoulder.

“Sir! Sir!!” He said. “You must wake-up sir!!!”

It was Walt, his diaper valet. The only person on the planet he truly trusted. Maybe it was because Walt was always whisking him away from reporters to wipe his ample bottom after yet another potentially embarrassing blow-out in his big-boy pull-ups, or maybe it was because Walt, a family man struggling to feed his wife and kids, had been dutifully diapering him without being compensated for years. Either way, when the old man opened his eyes and saw Walt standing above him, he cleared the pooled ketchup from his throat and muttered, “What is it??? What’s wrong? Is it the police?!? The FBI?!? Nancy Pelosi?!? IS IT PUTIN?!?!!!!”

“No sir,” Walt began, as tears welled-up in his eyes, “It’s the election sir. You’ve won again!! For the THIRD time sir!!!”

The old man’s eyes widened as if he had already snorted the morning’s mountain of Addy. “Wait, what? The election hasn’t happened yet…”

Walt pointed to the tv where the headlines running across the screen announced the victory. “Look, you see?!!”

The old man rubbed his beady red eyes. Stared hard at the television which kept repeating his name. They were in a state of shock. He had somehow won they kept saying.

He scanned the room for something to prove he wasn’t dreaming. Four empty bottles of ketchup on the desk next to the framed love letter from the North Korean Dictator, a mini-bottle of Diet Coke by his favorite photo of his daughter-wife. It all looked as he had remembered leaving it, but he didn’t remember anything else.

He knew he’d been getting more and more confused as of late, forgetting more names, mixing up times and places, flushing the light switch and turning on the toilet… so he knew (only HE knew) that his mind had been flickering like a fading light.

But to miss an entire election?!? He didn’t recall any of it??!? None of his many, many trials either? He remembered finishing off that second bucket of KFC while flipping the channels back and forth with his grease-slicked fun-sized fingers to see which newscasters complimented his rally sycophantically enough and which ones needed a phone call the next morning, and that was it.

He looked at Walt, tears of joy streaming down his face, scanned the minefield of discarded chewed-on chicken bones and piles of national security secrets scattered around the room, and finally focused his full attention on the tv repeating the news he couldn’t believe.

“Is it really true, Walt?” He asked wondering at that moment if Walt was even real.

Walt nodded. Handed him one of his cellphones and told him to call his daughter if he didn’t believe it.

He struggled to get out of the Mariana’s Trench-like depression his body had made in that unlucky mattress after all those years, and spoke into the phone, “Siri, call my honey bunny sex kitten.”

She answered quickly. In her best breathy, damsel-in-distress voice, she said, “Isn’t it wonderful, Daddy!?! You’ve won!!!”