WASHINGTON, D.C. — Tensions are flaring between America’s next First Family, and reports are the Eric Trump, President-Elect Donald Trump’s second oldest son, is in what family servants are calling “a real snit.”
“It’s just not fair, Daddy,” Eric was overheard telling his father, “why does Ivanka always get the best stuff? She always gets your favoritism! Why is that, Daddy?”
Trump smiled at his son, knowingly.
“Well, you don’t have Ivanka’s ass, for starters,” Trump said matter of factly, “and your tits aren’t nearly as superb as hers. I mean, if Ivanka wasn’t my daughter I’d – ”
“I know Dad! You say it all the time,” Eric said, “and it’s getting old. It’s not my fault I wasn’t hot enough for you! I’m never hot enough for you, Daddy, never! It seems like I can’t ever do anything right enough for you.”
President-Elect Trump put down the taco bowl he was eating, and looked up at his son.
“Now, son, that’s just not true,” the elder Trump said in a sympathetic tone.
“It is true, Daddy,” Eric shot back, “like remember in eighth grade you said my arm wasn’t at a perfect 45-degree angle when I saluted you, but your precious Ivanka did it right every time? Remember in high school when I shot that lion on safari, and you said it didn’t count because it was too big a lion to be all that proud of, Daddy?”
“Well, yes I do remember that Eric,” President-Elect Trump said, “but that’s because it felt ridiculously large in my hands.”
“Thumb tacks feel too large in your hands, Daddy,” Eric shot back.
“Yes, that’s true, but your sister Ivanka has ways to make my hands not feel so small,” the senior Trump said, “she just always somehow makes it feel like my hands are huge, know what I mean? And besides, I don’t show her favoritism.”
Eric was incredulous. He stamped his feet. He shouted.
“Then how come you gave her the good office, Daddy, how come,” Eric asked, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Because I’m not giving you a White House office at all, my dear son,” Papa Trump said.
“You’re not,” Eric said with even more incredulity in his voice, “see, I told you! She’s your favorite!”
President-Elect Trump laughed and laughed.
“Well, of course she’s my favorite,” Trump said, “you can’t do that that thing with your pelvis she can…but anyway, that’s not why you’re not getting an office at the White House, my boy.”
Eric was genuinely confused. This wasn’t a new feeling to him. He had always been given to moments of not knowing what the hell was going on around him. His mother had told him it was all the inbreeding his father’s family had done “to keep it in the family.”
“But…but…why then, Daddy, why am I not getting a White House office,” Eric asked balefully.
The man who will soon be commander in chief laughed heartily again.
“Because, dear son of mine,” Mr. Trump said, “you’re going to have a much more important job.”
“What’s that, Daddy,” Eric asked, excitement in his voice.
“You’re going to pretend to run my companies for me while I’m doing all the presidentifying and shit,” Trump said, “you and your brother are the key to convincing all those rubes — excuse me the good American patriots who voted for me — that I’m not just using the presidency like a money printing outfit, lining my pockets every chance I get. I need you, boy.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Eric said, “I’ll do it!”
Donald patted Eric on the head. Father handed son a cigar from a desk humidor emblazoned with some kind of bent cross motif. Using a stack of hundred dollar bills, Trump lit the cigar for his son and laughed again.
“Dad, what about all that money you just set on fire,” Eric asked, a little worried.
“Don’t worry son,” Trump said, “my rubes — er, excuse me, supporters, will let us just replace it with fifteen times that much.”
A pause. A moment of reflection. Donald Trump turned and looked right into the lens of a camera that Eric and everyone else in the room hadn’t seen up to that point.
“It’s good to be da king,” Trump said with smug satisfaction.
Follow James on Twitter @JamboSchlarmbo.