Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Donald Trump, Jr., Returns To Meet With His Attorney


“I’m awake! I’m awake!”

“How did you fall asleep? I was speaking to you.”

“You’ve got a real boring voice. No offense, Mr Jenkins.”

“How could I possibly take offense to that? Are you awake now?”

“Little sleepy.”

“You want a coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take a quesadilla if you have one.”

“We don’t.”

“What kind of law office is this?”

“Junior, concentrate. In our last meeting, you said that there were five people in the meeting.”

“Which meeting?”

“The one with the Russians.”

“You’re gonna need to be much more specific.”

“The meeting that took place in Trump Tower during June of 2016.”

“Ohhhh. That meeting with the Russians.”

“Junior, were there any meetings with the Russians you’re not telling me about?’

“Can I plead the Fifth?”


“What about the Sixth?”


“Mrs. Woods, are you back?”

“I’m right here, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Thank God. My mother dead yet?”

“No, sir.”

“So I have not inherited her estate and therefore must continue to work at this job?”

“Hit the nail on the head, sir.”

“Mrs. Woods?”

“For the last time, sir, I will not murder your mother.”

“I told you that you could have half!”


“Okay, Junior. So, we need to…JUNIOR!”

“I’m awake! I’m awake!”

“Are you not sleeping at night, son?”

“I sleep, like, sixteen hours a day.”

“If you increased that by fifty percent, then none of us would be in this mess.”

“I was told there would be no math.”

“Right. Let’s go back to the meeting.”

“Awesome. Can we stop for quesadillas?”

“I meant that we should discuss the meeting.”

“I took you literally.”

“You did. Now I want you to tell me the whole truth. Who was in this meeting?”

“Okay. Lemme see. It was me and Goldy. Russian lawyer lady. Mr. Manafort and Fart-head. Three guys in track suits squatting on the table and smoking. Another lady who was translating. Seven-foot tall mad monk. Another lady–”


“–who was…yeah?”

“Mad monk?”

“He was creepy, dude. I cut my finger on a staple and he stopped the bleeding with his magic.”

“Y’know what? Fine. At this point? Fine. What was the staple in?”

“The top-secret information on Hillary Clinton they gave us.”


“Yeah, I lied. Lol.”

“You have to stop lying to me, Junior.”

“The strategy’s worked up til now. Listen, man: can’t we just settle with whoever’s suing us for 40 cents on the dollar?”

“Yeah, that’s not how treason works.”

“Treason? Is that a restaurant? Is it near Dorsia?”

“Concentrate. Who else was at the meeting?”

“No one else. I mean, no one else was there there.”


“There was a guy Skyping in.”

“What guy?”

“He had the friendliest face you’ve ever seen. Like, I looked at him and just felt love and acceptance.”

“Siri, show me a picture of Vladimir Putin.”


“That’s him!”

“Of course it is.”

“Do you know him? He’s the shit, man.”


“Mrs. Woods?”

“Da. Is Mrs. Voods.”

“Who is this?”

“I tell you. Is Mrs. Voods. Is loyal American voman secretary.”

“Mrs. Woods, do you have any vodka?”

“Da. Have two gallons in purse.”

“Then come on in here and let’s do some colluding.”


“We getting drunk, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Me and Mrs. Woods are.”


1 Comment

  1. SmokingLeather

    July 14, 2017 at 11:29 pm

    Da. Have two gallons in purse.

    Sometimes the poetry is not in the spam folder.

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