By Michelle Hogmire
“‘Christie enthusiasm level: hostage video,’ wrote Matt Duss, president of the Foundation for Middle East Peace […] ‘So pathetic seeing Chris Christie behind Trump last night. He is Trump’s dog now,’” tweeted Jeff Stahl.
“Everyone is still talking about Chris Christie face,” by David K. Li, New York Post
As the nation continues to recover from Trump’s shocking Super Tuesday victory (or even more disgusting—let’s be honest—as the nation admits that they totally expected it and allowed this to happen), a somehow even more shocking announcement surfaced today from the Trump campaign. Looks like, no matter whether Hillary Clinton or Trump seals the nomination, the US will be looking at its first First Man in the White House (or would that be first guy? how about first dude? who the hell knows?).
“That’s right, assholes,” Trump said, in a special announcement from his personal airliner, “when I told Chris to ‘get on the plane and go home,’ I meant my plane, my home.” The camera then panned right, revealing Christie on his hands and knees in a cage, spike choke-collared and black leather-vested to the nines. “Chris is my Sub for life. I’m his Dom Donald. His Dom Drumpf.”
Turns out both men have left their respective spouses, in order to pursue a fulltime BDSM partnership—involving everything from cock-and ball-torture and rubber fetishism to spreader bars and verbal humiliation. Each member of the couple has settled into their respective sadomasochistic position quite comfortably, and neither one can wait to bring their role playing to the Oval Office.
“You think the stunt you pulled on the George Washington Bridge was bad,” said Dom Donald, dangling a hoagie on a string in front of Sub Christie’s face. “I’ve filed for bankruptcy four times, and people still want me to run this country. I’ve been endorsed by white supremacists, and I just killed on Super Tuesday.” Dom Donald took an enormous bite of the hoagie, making it clear that Sub Christie would get no dinner tonight. “Face it, Christie, I’m the man. You’re weak.”
“You’re right, Dom,” Sub Christie said. He proudly displayed his new signature stone face. “I mean, people want me to resign as governor of New Jersey, but I’ll still never be as big a piece of shit as you. Plus, you have those incredibly tiny hands!”
Dom Donald spit out the second half of his hoagie onto the floor of Sub Christie’s cage. “What did you just say, Christie? Don’t make me leave you for Marco Rubio. I’m not kidding. I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”
“Oh, sorry Dom, I mean, it’s me! I’m the one with the small hands. Don’t leave me. At this point, I’ve alienated myself from everyone so much that I actually need you.”
“No, Chris, you know what? In retrospect, you’re right. I do have small hands.” Dom Donald held up both of his miniscule hands and wiggled all of his teeny cocktail weenie fingers. “Because you know what they say about guys with little hands?”
“They say that idiots will vote for them for president.”
Michelle Hogmire is a literary agent assistant at Barbara Braun Associates and the Business Manager for Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art. She grew up in West Virginia and has a BA in Creative Writing from Marshall University. She currently attends the MFA program at Columbia University and lives in New York City.