Posted in writing


It’s the wee hours of the morning in Palm Beach, Florida.

A pompous pimple of a man with very bad hair and a constant snarl sits on the golden throne in his bedroom.  He is wearing nothing but a fuzzy white bathrobe.

He grabs his cell phone, launches Twitter and begins scrolling through his tweets.  He chuckles to himself as he reads some of his past posts.

“Ah, so many people love me!” he shouts to nobody.  “Such adoration!”

Then a tweet about his connections to Russia catches his attention.  He once again feels his blood boil.  He recalls the day he went psycho after learning his Attorney General decided to recuse himself from investigations regarding his Russian buddies meddling in the 2016 campaign.

“Goddamn Sessions!” he mumbles under his breath.  “He’s such a pussy!  And I stupidly invited him to come along for our Russian dinner party this weekend!  Fuck!”

I need a plan, he thinks.  A really, really good plan.  Another plan to distract from all this Russia bullshit.  They’re catching on too bigly now.  Nobody cared about the photos I tweeted showing Schumer and Vlad sharing a donut.  And that Pelosi bitch was having a simple dinner meeting with them.  They didn’t sneak him into their home like I had to.  Nothing was under oath.  Like with Sessions.  Goddamn him!

Then a distant memory pops into his angry mind.  He recalls a movie he once saw.  Something about an enemy wire-tapping his victim in order to obtain trade secrets.

“That’s it!” he exclaims to the empty room.

His little fingers start typing feverishly, before he loses his thought.

Terrible! Just found out that Obama had my “wires tapped” in Trump Tower just before the victory. Nothing found. This is McCarthyism!


The pompous angry man laughs maniacally and rubs his hands together as he continues with his Twitter rant.



How low has President Obama gone to tapp my phones during the very sacred election process. This is Nixon/Watergate. Bad (or sick) guy!


“Ha!  I love it!  Bad or sick guy!  Yeah!  That’ll teach that baboon Obama!”  He shouts which causes his voice to echo in the sparsely furnished room.

Suddenly there is a knock on his bedroom door.  He stands up and hurriedly slips his phone into its secret hiding place–in the pages of an empty book.  Nobody would ever look for it there because they know he doesn’t read.

“What is it?” he calls to the person intruding on his latest dawn Tweet-fest.

“Good morning, Mr. Trump.  I have your morning paper and orange juice for you.”

The person that enters the room is a stout, silver-haired woman of about sixty.  She is wearing a lab coat and her name tag identifies herself as a nurse named Cara.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks as she sets the tray on his dresser.

He gives her the fake smile he is famous for.  “Better than ever.”

She smirks and hands him a little cup containing three pills.  “Can’t forget your meds, Don.”

“Of course,” he says popping them into his mouth.

“The doctor will be in to see you soon,” Cara says.

“Oh, little missy, do you think you could get my pal Vlad on the phone for me?  He said he would call yesterday but he didn’t.”

Cara rolls her eyes.  She goes through this with him every day.  “Donald, Vladimir Putin was eradicated to Siberia years ago after it was discovered you and he–”

Donald holds up his hand.  “Okay, then, get me Stevie on the phone.”

“Bannon?” Cara asks.

Don runs a hand through his thinning hair.  “Yeah.  I think that is his last name.”

Cara sighs.  “That fat bastard died of a heart attack shortly after you arrived here at Woodbridge.  I’ll be sure to tell the doctor you’re having problems remembering again.”

Donald doesn’t say anything as he grabs the paper.  “What’s happening in the world today?  Anything I need to know about?  Anything that I need to fix?  We need to make America great again, you know.  How’s the wall doing?”

Cara heads to the door.  Before she turns to leave she blurts, “Your wall was never built and President Obama has just dedicated a memorial to refugees from war-torn countries.”

Donald flips open the paper to the front page to read the headline.  “What?!  How can that be?  I’m the President! Not Barack Obama!”

Cara opens the door.  “Not Barack Obama.  Michelle.  Remember she was unanimously elected to take your place after you–oh, never mind.  Maybe you should just rest.  That’ll be good for your mind.”

Cara mumbles “you old fool” under her breath as she leaves.

“Goddamn Obamas!” the pompous little man yells, slamming his frumpy little head against the wall.




I'm a writer. I'm also a wife and a parent who works too much and lives too little. In addition to writing I also love to read, listen to music, travel, cook, I enjoy looking for bargains at flea markets or thrift stores, Christmas, football and of course writing! How did I come up with the title of my blog? Two things: 1. I live in New England (duh) and 2. Canadian singer Alan Frew once arrogantly told me to "get a New England life"--again--DUH! I already HAVE one!

One thought on “Psikhushka

Comments are closed.