Donald laid in the middle of his bed, shaking, scratching and farting. As he shook, he heard the bed frame creak. As the bedframe creaked, his comforter—the one embossed with the presidential seal, the number 45 and rust-colored stains—partially fell to the floor. As the comforter hit the floor, Donald expelled a loud fart.
And as his feculent odor filled the room, Donald inhaled, smiled and thought, “I’m alive. I survived another night. I’m alive to fight my battles for another day.”
But before fighting, he stretched his legs, rubbed his swollen ankles and warmed his cold feet with his hands. Donald’s calloused fingers massaged his crooked arthritic toes.
During the night, Donald’s Bronx Colors Urban Cosmetics makeup irritated his skin causing a facial rash. A red, bumpy, scaly rash that begged to be scratched. So Donald obliged. With his manicured fingernails, he scratched his face until it bled.
Those flesh colored, white tipped nails tore gashes into his skin. And the gashes bled on to his comforter. And when the red and the orange colors mixed, they turned into vermilion blotches.
He hated those blotches. They made him rant like an insane asylum lunatic.
“Damn it, I’m f’ing 77 years old, the skin on my arms, face and hands is crepey, like tissue paper.
G-d old age sucks. I hate it.
I hate my skin. I hate my fat belly. I hate my orange paint. I hate my life.
I hate my lawyers, my persecutors and the judges assigned to my cases.
I hate playing a victim. It makes me feel like such a loser. But I know that victims are easy to love. And when I get reelected, I’ll go on the attack. I’ll teach those bastards a lesson, they won’t forget.”
Donald rolled to the other side of the bed. Now he saw how cluttered his life was. A life jumbled with minutia—pills, aches, pains, cramps and constipation.
He thought, “My bedroom was once loaded with broads, beautiful broads, like models and movie stars and now they were replaced with doctors. My sex life resides only in my head, not in this bed.”
Donald lowered the voice in his head, “I’m not going to allow old age to bring me down. Fuck old age.”
“I only fear three things—death, prison and falling off of my bed in the middle of the night.”
The word “prison” triggered his nightly nightmare. He called it his Ryker’s Island nightmare.
The slamming of jail cell doors pierced his eardrums. The smells of sewerage and flatulence made him vomit into a steel seatless toilet bowl. As he wiped the puke off of his chin, he heard his 250 pound, eye-patch wearing cellmate, jump off the top bunk.
“You orange-hued orangutan, your farts and stinking up my cell. So I’m gonna stick my shiv deep into your fat belly. From now on, your smelly gases will shoot out of the hole in your stomach and not your ass.”
Donald’s hands quickly covered his stomach. He felt warm pee running down the legs of his orange jumpsuit.
The wetness caused Donald to open his eyes. He found himself lying in the middle of his bed, shaking and partially covered by his presidential comforter.
————————————————————————
Descriptive as all hell. Wow.—Tracy
Foul Play! And to think that instead of prison, The Orange Monster has a chance at being re-elected to the Presidency of the United States. What’s happening to our country, Mort?—David
As always I enjoy reading your stories.—Marianne
Thumbs up.—Ginger
Thumbs up.—Jason
Thumbs up.—Marilyn
Thumbs up.—Frank
Thumbs up.—Joan
Perry, Thanks for sharing.—Mort
Thumbs up.—Laurie
Thumbs up.—David
Thumbs up.—Geoffrey
Thumbs up.—Allan
Thumbs up.—Rebecca
Thumbs up.—Tuoi
Thumbs up.—Mary
Thumbs up.—Mark
Thumbs up.—Neil
Thumbs up.—Susan
Mort—Once again you have brought some joy to the world when it sorely needs it.—Richie
Thumbs up.—Brian
Thumbs up.—Jewels
Thumbs up.—Gail
Thumbs up.—Max
Thumbs up.—Jeffery
Thumbs up.—Bella
Thumbs up.—Joseph
Thumbs up.—Judy
Thumbs up.—Helene
Thumbs up.—Michelle
Thumbs up.—Eileen
29. Nice.—Joel
Thumbs up.—Fah Kyoo
Thumbs up.—Carl
Thumbs up.—Joan
Thumbs up.—Fay
Thumbs up.—Irving
Thumbs up.—Jay
Very funny.—Pablo
40. Thumbs up.—Joanne
41. Thumbs up.—John
