Monday, October 24, 2016

Trump's Stormy Afternoon Round at Edgewood

So much for the Art of the Deal. Jessica Drake wanted no part of Trump's offer of 10 large and a free ride on his fuck-me-jet. Telling the hot and bothered billionaire with his stiff little putter and saggy overvalued bag of monogrammed balls to go take a cold bath in the lake. Lake Tahoe that is. Lake Tahoe Nevada. Stateline. Edgewood. July, 2006.

Stormy Daniels on the other hand may have been a different story. You can read about the stormy adventures of Stormy at the Smoking Gun:
Donald Trump and Stormy Daniels

Jessica Drake, meanwhile, claims that The Donald invited her to his hotel room, an invitation she accepted, but also decided to bring along a couple of friends just to be on the safe side.

The Donald greeted the entourage wearing his PJs and immediately fondled his way to first base with his three guests. Presumably on his way for second, and in all best case planning scenarios, all the way around third and on to the plate.

The tossing off of the pajamas after sliding into home would provide an artfully canny and stylish final flourish to the closing of the deal. That, evidently, was the transactional strategy The Donald had in mind since there is little other explanation for the pajama party theme outlined in Jessica Drake's story.

The Jessica, on the other hand, had no intention of brokering such illusions with respect to the meeting and no desire to grant The Donald any kind of afternoon bump and run trifecta. This time, what was to be for The Donald a sweet deal, was for The Drake and company a smarmy group grope and ambushcaded round of unwelcome lip lock.

For Donald this leg of the round would indeed prove to be a frustrating setback he wasn't expecting. After a promising initial drive his game would unravel from there and he'd ultimately wind up settling for three shots lost to the out of bounds markers and a big fat ugly divot on his scorecard. Not the kind of thing a winner likes to see.

Trump aggressively greeted the trio in his pajamas, according to Drake. “He grabbed each of us tightly in a hug and kissed each of us on the lips without asking for permission,”


The three women left after Trump inquired about Drake’s relationship status and experiences as an adult film star.

NY Daily News

Now you might be thinking: pajamas, really? Who in their right mind would be that transparently seedy outside of a tacky porn flick. This has to be a set up, right?

Well sure: Trump returns to his hotel suite after a round of Nassau and there is a gift box on his bed. He opens the box and inside is a pair of pajamas with a note card that reads "wear me".

So, being a sport, the best sport ever, Trump puts on the pajamas and the next thing you know the room is filling up with wicked hot adult entertainment starlets. Unbelievably wicked hot starlets. Beautiful, the most beautiful, wicked hot starlets you have ever seen. And Trump knows hot beautiful starlets when he sees 'em. Mark my words: nobody knows hot beautiful starlets like Trump. NOBODY. So much winning.

So what would you do if you were Trump? Of course you'd go right for the ace on the par three. Or in this case, to be more precise, you go for the hot pussy on the hotel room bed. What Vladimir Putin might code name "troika, kiska, gol!" You get the idea. They don't necessarily have to be porn starlets either. Just hot.

But wait. Remember, this must be some kind of a set-up, right? Those pajamas with the "wear me" note were left on the bed by a bag man sent to the suite by elite globalist George Soros or the Freemasons or Media Matters for America or ACORN or the NYTimes or Paul Ryan and the RNC or some other establishment terrorist group.

Maybe even the founder of ISIS... Crooked Hillary herself. And as soon as Donald puts on those jammies...well you get the idea: in walk the ladies and - bingo bango bongo - the whole thing is a set-up. Rigged from the tee-off. And Donald has bird-dogged himself right into a honey-bunker. Big league!

And now, Donald, you're going to have to hack your way out of the trap. So you begin babbling biggly about free plane rides and duffle bags filled with ten thousand Grovers.

But it's too late. No one is taking you up on the offer and just as you're squirming out of the PJs and back into your Under Armour golf pants you look up and Gloria Allred - Mooslim! - is standing there smiling at you the way an alligator smiles at a fat kid in a pond at Myakka Pines.

To make matters worse she's holding a photo depicting a guy who looks just like you -- probably Alec Baldwin -- and a young woman who looks really familiar too but you just can't put your short stubby finger on it. And then it hits you! You, the Donald, are the total loser in this corrupt unfolding daylit night terror. You might even say, in a manner of speaking, you are facing possible bankruptcy in the court of social propriety.

But wait again. It could be worse. Much worse. Melania is standing there too. Right next to Gloria Allred and holding a sawed off shotgun and a copy of your tax returns informing you she wants a divorce and is running off to live in the Ecuadorian embassy with that shackle dragging busybody Julian Assange. Oh good christ what to do? Where's my Secret Service detail? Where's Rudy? Where's my crazy butler? Where's that yappy halfwit Hannity? Where's that dumpy rancid breath neo-nazi Steve Bannon? Where's Kellyanne! Oh shit, its 2006, they're still 10 years away.

Remain calm. Think clearly. What would Norman Vincent Peale do? Even bad coverage is good. Use misdirection. Play to people’s fantasies. "Gloria, what do you want? How much? Look at this duffle bag, it's the best duffel bag ever, all the best polls say so, it's filled with ten thousand dollars - make it fifteen - it's all yours and I'll throw in a free plane ride back to LA right now... first class Trump seating with adjustable armrest! Gloria, believe me, nobody has more respect for Gloria Allred than Trump. Nobody!"

At this point the phone rings. Trump answers it. It's Ben Roethlisberger reminding him that they are having dinner together later that evening and he's bringing along a hot looking hostess he met in a bathroom at the Horizon casino. "No" cries Donald, "not the hostess! Stay away from the hostesses! They're all in on it... the entire hostess system is rigged!" But Roethlisberger has hung up and Allred has vanished as well.

And now, standing in the doorway to the room, is Stormy Daniels holding a TRAINERmat and a nine iron and singing Happy Birthday Mr. President. "Well hellooo Donny" she purrs. "Remember me; from the celebrity gift suite?"

What the fuck now?

Still agitated by what has been rapidly transpiring Donald asks her if she saw anyone else in the room when she arrived. She says no. He looks in the bathroom just to make sure Gloria Allred isn't hiding behind the shower curtain. He notices that the duffel bag full of money is still on the floor by the bed but the pajamas and accompanying note are gone as well. He takes a deep breath and relaxes. Whew. Things are looking up once more.

She asks him again if he remembers her from the celebrity gift suite. Donald smiles. Of course he does. Nobody has more respect for celebrity gift suites than Trump. Nobody.

He asks her if she'd like to have dinner with him and Big Ben Roethlisberger later that evening. She accepts the invitation and he throws in a free ride on a jet plane to New York to appear as a contestant on his hugely popular Peabody Award winning TV show “The Apprentice." Of course she would. Who wouldn't? So much winning!

Stormy turns on the TV in the room. Gloria Allred is on the TV in LA talking about the marriage of her client Amber Frey to a corrections officer named Robert. "They plan to live in the Fresno area” says Allred. Donald points at Allred on the TV. "Nasty woman" he says. "So nasty, unbelievably nasty."

Donald thinks. He comes to the conclusion that the visitation from Allred must have been some kind of hallucination. Some kind of spooky chimera conjuring affliction. I must have stayed on that fucking tanning bed to long Donald thinks.

He slides the duffel bag under a chair with his foot and lays back on the bed feeling satisfied. He credits his sudden upward swing in fortune to personal bravado and the power of positive thinking. Life is good. Trump wins again. What could possibly go wrong.

For some unexplainable reason he has a sudden urge to buy the largest newspaper in Nevada, The Las Vegas Review-Journal, but the craving fades as quickly as it materialized. Like the fleeting evanescent hint of delicate lingerie in a fine perfume. Or the momentary shiver of excitement one discerns at the uninvited graze of a women's breast beneath her delicate blouse. Or something. A cursory urge nonetheless. I'll have my people sue the Hotel and the tanning bed attendant, who's probably a Mexican, first thing in the morning he reminds himself.

He asks Stormy to take off her shirt and sing that song she was singing when she first came into the room. "Happy Birthday Mr. President wasn't it? Yeah, that's the one. You do know I have buildings all over the world don't you? Fantastic buildings. The best buildings - EVER."

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