The current election cycle is so boring. Joe Biden is really old! Yawn. The God Emperor Daddy is a cheap conperson! Zzzzzz. I miss the old days. I miss the Russian Pee Whores.

British Intelligence (actually a former Brit Intel guy, now struggling with an outrageous alcohol problem) came forward with a dossier (a couple of pages of text) that told a fantastic story with brio about pee whores . . .

The God Emperor Daddy cradled within his heart a disdain for the Big B.O. As he perseverated over what a giant creep the Big B.O. is, he thought to himself, "I'd really love to get that guy!"

Melania, cat-like and full of grace, said to the G.E.D. one day, "Donald. Can we talk about something other than the Big B.O.? Please? For just once?"

"You mean like how much you enjoy relieving yourself on my beautiful golden toilets? I mean, people rave about John Lennon's toilets, and he had some pretty good toilets, they played his biggest hits, and I guess they were OK. They were 'OK'. But my toilets, well, I've got the best toilets."

Melania just stared at the ceiling and then went to play tennis with some friends who aren't obsessed with the Big B.O. and toilets and stuff.

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Anyway, the God Emperor Daddy wanted to open a hotel in Red Square and so needed to fly over there to the Land of the Slavs (where drinking to permanent loss of eyesight is an officially recognized national sport) and have a bunch of shady meetings with husky men who reeked of government-sanctioned criminality. Plus, he might get to spend a few with Pooty-Poot, the small robotic ex-KGB agent who had somehow found a way to install himself as the GED of Russia! (That didn't go well. At their introduction Pooty-Poot informed the God Emperor Daddy that "Only George the Younger may say to me 'Pooty-Poot'. I am sorry if this upsets you.)

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Anyway, as the God Emperor Daddy and his exquisite wife were on-line searching for a place to stay, they found a joint that billed itself as Best Hotel All Russia, and to back that shit up they listed the names of the high-ranking officials and heads-of-state and successful actors (and actresses!) who had stayed within their walls. Can you guess one of the names on the list? Yep, none other than that Big B.O. himself. The God Emperor Daddy went bananas. Melania, cat-like and full of grace, thought to herself, "Son of a bitch shit."

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Even though there were unexplained problems with the first seventeen credit cards they used, the God Emperor Daddy and his kinda-scary wife did book the exact same suite that the Big B.O. had once slept in.

Then the emails started, hot and heavy, between the GED and the General Manager/Asst. Director of Best Hotel All Russia:

"Are you sure that the Big B.O. slept in that room? Because I gotta tell ya that I'm not sure he did."

"I'm certain of it," wrote the G.M/A.D. "All of us remember. Because we didn't have to run his credit card for three days, something that, you may believe what you want, is unusual for our clientel."

"No, no. I can believe it. He likes to play games. But, let me tell you something. I was checking out your website (by the way could you send me the name of the design firm who did that? I plan to open a hotel of my own that will unfortunately probably put Best Hotel All Russia out of business, hey, that's business, but I will pay you for the referral if we end up using them, thanks, you're a wonderful person, etc.) and I noticed that you guys say that Walt Disney stayed there and, well, the thing is, that Walt was dead-and-buried before Best Hotel All Russia even had a foundation poured. You understand what I'm saying? It didn't happen."

"We will have this error corrected immediately. But I assure you that this Big B.O. did sleep at Best Hotel All Russia. You Gooble. You will see."

"Fake News!" exclaimed the God Emperor Daddy. "Look, I'm sorry, I don't know what to tell ya, but, you know? I don't trust the Fake News." And what followed was the G.M./A.D. put Ruslana, G.M./A.D. of the Big B.O.'s one-time suite on the blower.

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"Hello?"

"Yeah, hey there, Honey, listen, did the Big B.O. really stay in the suite of which you are G.M./A.D.? And by the way, please don't take this the wrong way, but if you guys have titled people looking after individual suites, then, well, maybe that's why you can't make any money. Ok? Ok. But what I want to know is: did he do anything kinda weird, maybe a little funny, something that most responsible people like you might kinda feel a little bit screwy about? Did he, just as an example, try to grab you by the pussy?"

"He nice man," said Ruslana.

"Alright. Ok. You think you're some kind of expert on nice men. I get it. But, believe me, when you meet me? Well, you're going to adjust what you think you know about nice men. That's all I'm going to say. Are you wearing one of those Maid uniforms? The white and black and frills?"

"Da."

"That's fantastic! Could you check something for me, Sweetie? Has the mattress in your suite been changed since the Big B.O. slept in it?"

"Changed?"

"Yeah, I mean, is it the same one or a different one?"

"It is same."

"Do you keep records, HoneyBunch? Could you verify the provenance of that mattress for me?"

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After the Best Hotel All Russia sent the GED scans of computer print-outs that, for some reason, had been embedded in MS Word documents, and the GED had a nephew show him how to open them, the God Emperor Daddy again went bananas and brought in a gaggle of pee whores for interview. You see, He had decided to humiliate the Big B.O. by cavorting with a bunch of Russian pee whores in the very bed that the Big B.O. had slept in a couple of years ago.

Melania, cat-like and full of grace, said, "Husband. If you have decided to pay these women to make a pee-pee all over your face on the Big B.O.'s mattress, then, please, use cash instead of emailing your lawyers to start writing lots of checks."

"Hey, c'mon, you know I'm allergic to cash. I have testimonies from the most respected doctors in the world."

Then Melania went to play tennis with some friends who aren't into convoluted pee whore revenge fantasies and stuff.

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As the God Emperor Daddy was in the shower trying to loofa the urine of young Russian pee whores from his body, his phone went off. And because whoever was calling had his private number, he started to feel around the back of the toilet where he had left the phone after an epic fusilade of Tweets.

Pooty was calling to let Donald know that he (Pooty) possessed audio/visual recordings of Donald's only minutes old pee escapades.

"What're trying to do? Blackmail me?" asked the incredulous GED.

"Of course not. If you are ashamed of your actions, that isn't a matter of interest to me. Still. I can help you keep all these pee games you played on the mattress of the Big B.O. private between you and me and several dozen high-ranking officials of my secret police. We Russians have a saying, very old: You nice me, I nice you."

The GED considered this as he flailed at his face to get the suds off, and then asked, "But the mattress really was the one the Big B.O. snoozed on, right? I mean, you didn't set me up, did you? (Although if you did, I've gotta give you points for style.)

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But that was all back when politics was CC:FUN!