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BoJack Horseman Urges Trump to Destroy Insecurities with Booze Instead of Destroying America

The President is too old school for Netflix, and as a man with only a fake sense of humor he doesn’t watch Comedy Central.

And yet, somehow, while flipping channels late one night in the White House, chock full of Mueller-and-Victimhood-induced insomnia, he stumbled across the depressingly good show “BoJack Horseman. Originally a Netflix original, whose reruns got syndicated on Comedy Central, its oft-animal cast of characters lacked the lead roll “Fox” that might have got it on the President’s favorite network.

“Say this is pretty good!” the President said, just happening to have caught the pilot episode, at the start of a marathon.

Comfy in his bathrobe, his drug of choice (a cell phone) held in the hand that wasn’t cupping his manhood, he felt a kinship with the eponymous LA horse who always had his drug of choice (booze) in his hand.

“He knows what it’s like to be famous! He knows what it’s like to be rich! He knows what it’s like to be a victim of the whole World that doesn’t love him enough and that’s just jealous!”

The President had an idea.

“Nah,” he said, quickly dismissing the idea. “I’m gonna declare a national emergency and make myself President for life. And then use it to live forever. But maybe… he should be my vice president?”

Lifting his phone, the President dialed 911.

“Hello police? This is an emergency. Get me BoJack Horseman. What? Well figure it out! Tell him that even though I prefer to use the stick, I have carrots too. What? No I don’t think black lives matter!”

He slammed his cell phone on the bed. But it didn’t hang up, or even make a slamming sound. Because, you know, quilt.

“Stupid Democrats, he mumbled.

Time passed.

The President realized he should get a dog like Mr. Peanutbutter. Nixon had Checkers, after all. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

“I wanna live in LA like this horse,” he said, his gaze flicking often to the window, waiting for the headlights of the helicopter that would bring BoJack from LA. “But I’m glad I don’t drink like him. Or get crushes on women with poop-colored skin.”

The President, at last, heard propeller blades.

He moved to the window, pressing his face to the glass, like a kid outside a toy store. He saw BoJack get out, wearing a bathrobe just like him!

“Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” he cried.

Soon BoJack, whiskey in hand and confusion in-face, sat on the sofa in Trump’s bedroom.

“So where’s Melania?” BoJack asked. “You didn’t grind her up into horse chow for me, did you? She’s hot. But we both know she’s too old. Am I right?”

“She’s sleeping with the fishes,” Trump answered.

“What? I was kidding.”

“She has a big tank of fishes. Her favorite is called Wanda. When she’s in a bad mood she tells me not to eat Wanda like I ate her youth and love of life.”

“Oh.”

An uncomfortable silence fell on the room. Like a soft poop snow.

“So!” BoJack said. “Can I… ask why you called me here?”

“I think we have a lot in common. You’re famous. Rich. And people don’t understand that they should love you. Plus you really want a wall between you and the things that scare you.”

“You mean my feelings? So true!”

BoJack, realizing he’d opened up a can of worms, changed the subject fast. He quickly decided not to talk about what people in LA thought of his host.

“Say. Can I really order anything I want from the kitchen Mr. President?”

“Yup.”

“So like if I wanted to order, like pizza with cotton candy on top and all of it stuffed into Toaster Strudels and Pop Tarts your cook could do that?”

The President nodded.

“Nice! Buuuuut… for some reason I’m not hungry. I know you don’t drink, but can I order some booze? I missed breakfast.”

“Sure. I’ll get a Diet Coke.”

A quick call later, a whole bar arrived, stuffed onto a room service cart, and pushed in by the Secret Service. BoJack started with the beer. He drank five while the President watched, shaking his head at the waste of fame.

“Now I’m buzzed,” BoJack said, burping and tossing the fifth bottle onto the floor. He gulped some down. “Maybe I could use a pizza….”

“Now,” the President said. “I want to talk to you about being my vice president.”

BoJack spat out a mouthful of beer onto the President’s face. For some reason, the President took it in stride, merely wiping it away with his robe.

“What?”

“My vice president. I want to ride you to the top. I don’t think Pence is loyal. I don’t think he understands that I’m the most religious person he ever met.”

BoJack spat more beer onto the orange mug. Again the President took it.

“What?!?!”

“Think big! Don’t you want the whole World to love you? The whole World loves me and does what I say. That’s what being a President is all about. Even one who’s all about vice.”

“I helicoptered into the Twilight Zone,” BoJack mumbled, as if through some fourth wall.

“When the Democrats lie about me,” Trump said, “I feel the same way.”

BoJack drank the rest of his beer.

Then he drank a bottle of absinth.

Then, as if to seem high brow, he drank a glass of white wine. Of course it was white.

“You know Mr. President, that-”

“Everything.”

“What?”

“I know everything.”

“Of course you do. Anyway, I don’t want to be on politics. I’d just mess America up, the way I mess up everything I love. I’ve made so many mistakes….”

“I don’t know that word,” Trump replied, looking confused.

“Love?” BoJack said.

“No not that one. I love money. I mean… what was it… mustwerks?”

BoJack blinked.

“You mean… mistakes?”

“Right.”

“Like when you do something wrong.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

BoJack blinked again.

“You know, Mr. President, I-”

“I said everything!”

“Whatever. It’s just that, well, maybe it’s a bad thing you don’t drink. If you tried to flush all kinds of booze down that black hole in your heart, maybe you wouldn’t have to flush all kinds of, like, Democracy stuff down it. Does that make sense? I can’t tell if I’m making sense. Boy am I drunk.”

The President shook his head.

“That’s why I don’t drink. I love making sense.”

“Oh God…” BoJack said, passing out on the couch.

The President, looking like he was changing his mind about his vice presidential offer, shook his head again.

“Now you sound like Pence. I’ll let you sleep off all that dumb pain. And if it isn’t gone in the morning, I’m President, and I can make sure you’re turned into glue. All this American carnage really broke stuff.”


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