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Donald Trump was staying in a hotel in wherever the fuck American politicians of his peculiar repertoire stay when campaigns are headed to an end. You can imagine the spoils of disgusting, generational wealth can afford an anthropomorphized Cheeto in terms of a hotel; probably some penthouse above a marina in the backwash lands of white trash known as ‘Miami, Florida.’
It was the morning the election results for the 45th American Presidency for the United States were to be announced. Trump was picking out the fluff from his belly button in the bathroom after applying his fake tanner. Normally, he forewent lifting the folds of his bulging belly to pick the fluff out. After applying the fake tanner, however, he found his abdomen appeared more like a McCains Smiley Potato than a Cheeto. And anyone or anything in relation to John McCain was poor taste, in his opinion. It was appropriate clear out the fluff in order to see through his inauguration as neatly as possible.
"People would vote for me. They just would. Why? Maybe because I'm so good looking!" He recited to himself.
Trump lifted the bulge of his stomach when he knocked over the phone on his bathroom counter with his elbow. Swearing to himself, he bent down to recover the phone. To his horror, the phone had landed screen first in a pool of fake tan. He tried to wipe off the residue with his stained, white towel, but it was folly. The phone was irreparable like his venular STD.
“Well, butter my arse and call me a biscuit!” Trump cried. He was reliant on his phone for news of the results today. This way, he’d know whether to pull Plan A (Incite a ‘peaceful protest’) at his inauguration this evening, or Plan B (Grab America By the Pussy and Make America Cheeto Again).
He threw his stained towel aside on the toilet, caring little if the ivory seat that totally came from an elephants trunk because he’s filthy fucking rich so why the fuck would he care, and sauntered out into the penthouse kitchen. The fake tan was casing him to itch a little, so he grabbed a back scratcher from the countertop and relieved himself with it. It was only when he reached his arse that he realized it was the TV remote.
“I knew that – I was looking for that.” He said. After all, he’s intelligent. Some people would say he’s very, very, very intelligent.
Switching on the television, he found Modern Family was playing. “Ugh!” He seethed scratching his arse again with the remote. “A show written by a moron, really boring. Writer has the mind of a very dumb and backward child.”
He flicked through the channels until he landed on Fox, covering the results. To his disgust, Biden was in the lead. “No! This is a catastrophe!” He cried with his arms held up high. “I don’t believe it - We are up BIG, but they are trying to STEAL the Election. We will never let them do it.”
In a fit of anger, he threw the remote. “Votes cannot be cast after the Polls are closed!”
The sound of glass splattering was cast across the room and Trump cringed. He threw the remote too hard, aimed to well. It had smashed the LCD TV above his kitchen table.
“Fuckin’ shit on a hard pressed stick!” He grunted looking at crumbs of the television shattered over his floor. White marble, of course, because if the fucking Shah Jahan can commission it from Punjab, why the fuck shouldn’t he? That’s not racist, nor is it exploitative, or so he tells himself. Hell, he thought, he should use the same marble to build a wall around his penthouse suite in his balls to the wall expansive and expensive hotel. Better yet, Mexico could pay for it!
But that would have to happen after he won the election this evening. Back to the plot!
Trump swore, moving into the other rooms of his penthouse to fixate on the results. Each time he resolved to the same result of smashing the television.
“The ballots are out of control!” he roared, spit mixed with fake tan propelling from his botoxed lips . “You know it. And you know who knows it better than anybody else? The Democrats!”
Boy, oh boy! Trump was as pissed as a cat who’s realized a laser pointer has been outsmarting them. He needed to know the results from the ballots, but he just kept getting so dang angry!
In a mad rush, he threw on a bathrobe, made of 100% Egyptian Cotton because he’s filthy rich and don’t you fuckin’ know it, and made his way out of the penthouse. He needed to find another television even if it fucked him sideways and upwards.
To his frustration, in the lobby were journalists waiting for his impending arrival. “Ahh, blow me down and freeze me barnacles!” He swore, frantically pressing the upwards button of the elevator. Them paparazzi folk and them journos are really gonna throw lies now about him.
When the elevator dinged and he stepped out into the hall, he realised something wasn’t right. He was not in his penthouse. In his frustration and need of a quick escape from the pappos and journos, he hadn’t pressed the right floor. He was on a floor shared by common peasants! That is, folk who only earn, like, fuckin’ $420k a year or something. Scum.
He was wiped his feet on the carpet to rid himself of the peasantry crud ready to leave in cleanly peace when one of the doors opened. Trump should have ran away then and made for the elevator, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the being he sorely looked up too in his downtime. It was as if he had met a celebrity himself, but it wasn’t himself this time.
The purple Teletubby met Trumps eyes. Tinky Winky, that OG Teletubby, whom Trump knew was the squad leader of the TV screen crew. Tinky was rocking that purple swag, and flexing his little purse. He had this antenna on his head that's like the OG version of being always connected – WiFi before WiFi was cool. And that purse he was lugging? Trump knew it's not just for show. Any idiot could tell you that it was Tinky’s paraphernalia of Mary Poppins, pulling out surprises that'll make you go "whoa, cool man!"
Basically, Tinky Winky was the purple trailblazer of the Tubbyland, bringing the vibes and keeping it real with his Teletubby squad. And right now, he and Trump were in a hall together.
Trump’s lips pursed together as he tried to corroborate something coherent to say to this majestic purple people pleaser.
Tinky Winky looked Trump up and down in his bathrobe and in a low voice, hummed, “Eh…ohhh?”
Trump added cream to his orange Cheeto balls and Twister.
Trump cleared his throat. “Tinky Winky, what are you doing here?”
Tinky Winky batted his eyelids. “Tinky Winky, woo, woo, woo. Came to see… you, you you.”
Trump raised an eyebrow – he felt the glue that held his brow hairs in perfect formation crackle. “You… you came to see me?”
“Biden, boo boo, boo.” Tinky hummed.
“Oh my…” Trump said. Then it occurred to him! “Hey, are you going anywhere?” He asked looking at Tinky’s television on his belly. “I could really use your help. My TV’s are all blown, and the lobby is full. I need to see the results.”
“Ohh.” Tinky Winky blushed, bringing his hands to his face in a girlish giggle. “Ooh, pinkle winkle. To do that, you need to tinkle with my periwinkle.”
“Your – wait, what!” Trump asked, flabbergasted. Was he hearing this terrific Teletubby correctly? He knew more about Teletubbies better than anybody. But was Tinky Winky really suggesting…
Tinky Winky puckered their lips. They brought one hand up to their triangular antenna and began stroking it. “Ballots so whumpy bumpy. Trumpy Whumpy can watch them if he gives Tinky a humpy.”
Trump was lost for words. Tinky Winky wanted him to tickle his purple pickle, and Trump was not about that. Well… that’s not true. Trump is the most ‘Pro-Gay President’ ever. Shit, even South Park agreed with when they used Jenner. But that’s chicks with dicks.
Straight up Teletubbies though? Fuck, that was a purple pickle to be in.
Tinky Winky was bold, though. They skipped towards Trump, closing the distance between them. Their faces were so close. Well, as close as two beings with protruding beer bellies will allow them. Tinky wiggled their wet tongue over the top of their lips as they brushed their fingertips across the waistband of Trumps expensive as golden shit bathrobe.
“Wee woo…” They said. “You’re like an orange Teleboo.”
Tinky Winky leaned down to plant a wet one on Trump. Trump stumbled backwards into the wall, making a crashing sound that made him squirm. The whole floor probably heard that! He was trapped between Tinky Winky’s colossal grape-coloured physique and the wall. Tinky Winky used this opportunity to grasp the waistband of the stupid expensive bathrobe and draw it open.
Trump froze in spot. He was exposed now. Tinky Winky eyed him, lowering his gaze from his McCain’s Smiley Potato torso to his Twister and Cheeto Puffs. Trump squirmed around but he was stuck – but also, he was rather... turned on. Trump had a way of grabbing women by the pussy, but he’d never been the pussy himself…
Tinky Winky fluttered their lashes. “You’re so pretty, witty, little twitty.”
Tinky Winky leaned down and planted a kiss on Trumps forehead. Then he smacked a sloppy wet one on his lips, and Trump returned that kiss with hunger. It was wet and moist, and resembled what he imagined it would be like to mack on with a washing machine.
Tinky Winky grasped Trumps caked on face and pulled back, a twinkle winkle in his eye. “If you wanna watch my tele, you have to kiss my belly.”
Trump gawked down ay the protruding purple belly with the television in place. He needed to see the results. And he needed Tinky Winky’s purple prickle pickle antennae inside him. Without saying a word, Trump nodded and Tinky Winky led him inside his purple peasantry pentroom.
Tinky Winky’s beddy buy bye was covered with a cheeter fleece. It reminded Trump briefly of his friend Joe Exotic, and the thought made his hard eggs boil. This did not go past Tinky Winky who sat Trump down gently by his shoulders onto the fur fleece before tapping his Telebelly.
“Kissy wissy to feel blissy – hehe!” Tinky Winky giggled.
Trump hesitated. He looked up over the belly horizon to meet Tinky’s eyes. “If I do this, you’ll let me watch the election?” Tinky nodded. Trump drew in a deep breath and planted a light kiss on Tinky’s purple belly. “How’s that?”
Tinky Winky’s antennae drooped. “Droopy woopy, kiss again you doopy.”
Trump swallowed. “Okay…” He planted a few more gentle kisses on Tinky Winky’s belly. He looked over the belly horizon and saw the antennae rising again. “How about that?”
“Tongue my hole you orange Cheeto puff.” Tinky said in a growling voice.
“Huh?!” Trump said sitting back upright.
“Oh!” Tinky said bringing his hands over his mouth. “Oh, teehee. Tonguey-wongey my belly bungey?”
“When am I gonna watch your television!” Donald Trump demanded.
“Ooh wee! Getting cranky.” Tinky Winky giggled before leaning down. “Tongue my bung.”
It was more of a demand than a statement, and Trump was scared to find out what would happen if he didn’t meet Tinky’s demands. Trump eyed the button – it was a television button in the centre of his belly. It wasn’t full of orange fluff like Trump’s was, so he wasn’t concerned of flossing his teeth with purple bellybutton fluff. Trump tensed up his tongue and pressed the button.
“Harder, tarter.” Tinky Winky cooed.
Trump began tonguing the button harder. He was getting into it, like a bowl of ice-cream. He slobbered about the button, pressing harder each time, and even blowing on it. Tinky Winky’s ran their fingers through Trumps toupee.
Trump couldn’t take it much longer. “Turn on you sly tubby.”
“Tubby wubby…” Tinky Winky said before laying on the bed next to Trump. “Tinky began stroking their antennae. The television on their belly flickered about with static.
Trump stared agape at the screen. “It’s working!... Kind of.” The static stopped and Trump slapped the television. “Why did it stop.”
“Spanky wanky!” Tinky Winky giggled.
“No!” Trump said standing and fastening his robe to cover his modesty (lol – modesty?). “I’m not doing shit until I get some reception here!”
“Spanky wanky and you will get panky.”
Trump squinted. “Panky?”
“Panky.”
Trump pursed his lips. “Fine.” He got between Tinky Winkys thighs and then placed a firm spank on their bottom. “Happy?”
Tinky Winky giggled but shook their head. Trump spanked them harder. “Now?”
The television flickered on. Biden was giving a speech. It made Trump’s face hot with rage.
“Look like Po Po, you do do.” Tinky remarked.
“This guy has a dog whistle as big as a foghorn!” Trump said, spanking Tinky Winky, this time out of rage.
“Foghorn, foghorn!”
Biden continued on with his speech, addressing his lead in the polls.
Trump spanked Tinky again. “Joe, I ran because of you. I ran because of Barack Obama. Because you did a poor job. If I thought you did a good job, I would have never run!”
“Foghorn, foghorn!” Tinky Winky squealed. “Let’s make porn! Oh!”
Tinky Winky’s antennae began vibrating. The television went static again despite Donalds spanking. “What’s happening?”
A mischievous smile grew over Tinky Winky’s pasty round face. “Television goes winky… you need to stick my antennae up your stinky.”
Trump’s face went from red hot anger to code red panic quicker than you could say "hashtag wtf."
Tinky Winky, that purple trendsetter, dropped that request harder than a surprise raid on the Mar O-Largo Papers. Tinky Winky's eyes locked in on Trump’s, the magic bag beside him rustling. It's like Trump’s brain was buffering, trying to process the absurdity Tinky Winky’s request, and yet, also feeling like it would be his only chance to see the results.
“You…” Trump stuttered. “You want to stick your antennae up my pooper?”
“I do, I do!”
Trump’s face twisted as the 'Mission Impossible' theme song began playing in his head. He was contemplating his life choices, each moment that led to this Teletubby conundrum. But all the TV’s were broken, and his was the only that worked.
He swallowed – he had take this one for the team. The Republican Team.
Tinky Winky wrapped his dump-truck legs around Trump’s fridge-freezer torso. He flipped Trump so that the 45th US president was lying down on the bed, with Tinky Winky straddling him. Trumps face was shadowed with fear, and an absurd light of fucked up curiosity. Whether for fucking a Teletubby or for the election results, who could possibly tell?
Tinky Winky tapped his tubby tele tummy. It switched on and Trumps eyes widened as Biden and Clinton sat side by side sharing stories of their campaigns.
Tinky Winky lifted Trumps thighs and spread them like Nutella on an orange slice of bread. Trump’s pooper was bleached. “Oooh weee!” Tinky said spitting on Trump’s taint. Tinky toyed with the hole with his finger, which was the size of a horses cock. It was painful for Trump to have Tinky shove his whole finger in his ass semi-dry, but Tinky was swift with purple pooper fingers and Trumps own buttons easily.
Tinky went on slicking his purple pooper fingers as he rimmed Trump. He went round and round with his fingers, putting more slippery, sloppyery, slobbery saliva around Trump’s asshole before going in with 2 fingers. He stretched Trump out before using 3 fingers to go in and finger his hole slowly, going all the way up to his knuckles as he pushed them in and out of Trumps tainted tooter.
Trump squirmed and whimpered, but not from Tinky’s invasion – from the election!
“There's a reason why he's bringing up all this malarkey…” Joe said on Tinky Winky’s television set. “He doesn't want to talk about the substantive issues. It's not about his family and my family. It's about your family."
“HOGWASH!” Trump cried out loud.
“I represent all of you, whether you voted for me or against me. And I'm going to make sure you're represented.” Biden said with cheers applauding him.
“He doesn’t represent what I stand for.” Trump growled.
Tinky Winky flicked Trump’s flippy flappy. “I know, I know!”
Satisfied Trumps taint was wet and slippery, Tinky Winky shuffled over so he was hovering over Trump. Trumps face was nestled snug between Tinky’s thighs, held upright so Trump could watch the tubby television tummy. Tinky nestled his own head between Trumps thighs.
Tinky Winky removed Trumps stupid expensive bathrobe. Using one hand to hold Trump’s ass in place and using the other to slick up his antennae, Tinky Winky pumped himself a few times before lining his triangular tip at the entrance of Trumps chocolate, orange flavoured starfish.
With a careful thrust that tore Trump’s taint red and bloody, Tinky Winky began to fuck his ass. He tried to be gentle, but Trump’s moaning and groaning (over the election results, but nonetheless) was hard to ignore and egged him on. With Tinky Winky now fucking him like a mangy mut, Trump managed to remove the damning results from his mind with every thrust of that triangular purple people pleaser that was rearranging his guts so good that he was almost certain he’d shit out his entrails at the inauguration this evening.
“Oh Tinky…” Trump moaned loudly as Tinky pounded into him, enjoying the feel of his ass being clapping his head and the smell of his musty, sweaty Cheeto Balls and Twister on his nose. “Oh Tinky Winky, I – FUCK!”
Tinky Winky grinned thinking he had made Trump cum. But no sticky strings of Cheeto juice covered his face. He looked up at Trump who’s eyes were glued to the television screen.
“THE ELECTION IS RIGGED!” Trump groaned, his twister growing flaccid. “The only way we’re going to lose this election is if the election is rigged! Fuck, fuck!”
Tinky Winky was annoyed by this. He thrusted hard into Trumps ass causing the bastard to yelp.
“Ouch!”
“Trumpy Whumpy is making Tinky Winky Grumpy.” Tinky said thrusting his antennae into Trump’s taint again aggressively.
“Ouch! Quit it!” Trump said trying to swat Tinky Winky away. But Tinky Winky’s huge body was no match for Trumps tuck shop arms, and he continued to fuck Trump’s ass. Trump threw his head back as Tinky Winky did this. Between Tinky Winky’s assault on his ass and Biden being an ass, Trump was beyond mortified!
It was doing something to Tinky Winky though, having Trump moan and call him a bitch underneath him. It made him go faster or harder like the top he was. Oh yeah, seeing that wannabe orange Teletubby squirming below him was so fucking hot.
“Oh, Ronald McDonald – Ahh, I mean, Trumpy Whumpy!”
“Ughh, Tinky, fuck!” Trump cried.
“Oh, Trumpy Whumpy, I’ma cum in your dumpy!” Moaned Tinky Winky as he thrust one last time into Trumps orange chocolate starfish so hard that he hit his button. Tinky Winky filled Trump’s ass up with hot, purple cum, taking care to shoot his load so far up inside him that Trump would shortly burp purple glitter.
“Oh God. Oh God.” Trump cried as Tinky Winky pulled out from him. Tinky Winky’s post-nut clarity began to toil over him. He looked down at the blood mixed with purple cum and a single, teeny plop of turd.
“Oh wee, oh no!” Tinky Winky said rolling off of Trump and feeling deeply ashamed.
But Trump’s tears were not for Tinky Winky’s assault on him. It was for the television. He cried as he brought his nose onto Tinky Winky’s belly, which was shivering and quivering. Tears streamed down his face as he watched his campaign go down the toilet.
“Crooked! This is a crooked election!” He cried.
“Trumpy Whumpy still grumpy?” Tinky Winky asked.
Trump burped, a cloud of purple glitter splattering over the television on Tinky’s tummy.
“I don’t get it! I think I’ve lost.” Trump shook his head as he wiped away the purple glitter burp cum from the television. “People love me. And you know what? I've been very successful. Everybody loves me.”
…
How the fuck do I end this atrocity?