We go now live to the White House, where the 45th president of the United States is on his 126th hour of insomnia, thanks to a powerful cocktail of dexamethasone and Sunny Delight.
The Resolution desk is empty, save for scattered crayons, ketchup, and the remnants of a mega bucket. The curtains have been drawn in the hope of calming Mr Grumpypants down enough for a little nap. On the Oval Office sofa, the Oompah Loompah-In-Chief is jumping up and down like Tom Cruise with a beard to sell.
“I wanna win! I did win! You can’t make me not win! I hate Fox News, they were my friend and now they’re so mean and are friends with Joe Biden! And now Georgia. I thought Georgia was my girlfriend but now she likes Joe! Mommy, I want to bomb Georgia!”
“OK first off, I’m not your Mommy. And second, you can’t bomb your own country,” says Ivanka. “We can sue Georgia, would that make you happy, little dinkums?”
An official pipes up from outside the door, which has been barricaded with furniture to stop the toddler getting out. “Uh, Mr President, suing is not going well so far. Judges keep asking us for evidence.”
Donny throws himself on the floor, screaming at the ceiling. “We have the evidence! I have told everyone! They are not letting us watch!”
“Uh, sir, no, there are literally Republican observers in every count. What’s happening is that WE’RE not letting YOU watch the television.”
A bust of Winston Churchill shatters against the barricade.
From the other sofa where she sits reading Vague with icy calm, one of the immigrants who made it in before the wall wasn’t built drawls: “Donny is silly boy.”
“I am NOT silly! I am the president! I have been populist and that means people all like me and I have won again!”
She sighs and turns a page. “You declare victory in rigged election. You did this las’ time. Is stupid.”
“Don’t call me stupid! I had a great plan for this and it’s all going WRONG!”
“Your plan was to tell your voters to vote on the day, while Joe told his friends to vote by mail. Zen you get your friends in Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin to delay the counting of Joe’s votes until later so you could say they were fake. All zat haz happened is whole world see you losing every day for week. You look bigger loser than if lost already.”
“I am not a loser. If you call me a loser I will poo in your shoes again. MY shoes. I bought them!”
Melania stands, smooths down her skirt, and fixes the squalling baby with a withering glare. “Shoes in pre-nup. More shoes in alimony. Divorce on desk.” With that, she turns and glides out of the Oval Office, and into a meeting with her new image consultant to discuss a podcast called I Don’t Really Care, Do U?
Behind her, Trumpelstiltskin dances a jig, biting his lower lip, chuffing his elbows like an arthritic coal train, jerking each knee as though a proctologist has just performed an intimate examination on a cold, dry day.
“Loupooptins, Loupooptins, you got Loupooptins! I didn’t like you anyway. IMMIGRANT! Well, if I can’t watch TV I will go on it instead and say how all the things people can see aren’t happening.”
The phone rings. It’s Barack Obama. “Donald, you need to concede. For the good of the nation. For the sanity of the free world. So John King on CNN can get some sleep.”
“NEVER! Joe’s such a LOSER!” The phone crashes into its cradle. “Hey, you! You! Whatever your name is. Have I fired you yet? No? Then listen, I want them to stop counting Joe’s friends. It’s making me look like I don’t have as many friends. I’m going to tweet it.”
A terrified White House staffer who’d been hiding behind the curtains says: “Uh, sir, if we stop counting now, Mr Biden would win.”
“He wouldn’t win because it’s rigged. If he wins when it’s rigged, that means I’ve won.”
“And doesn’t that also mean you can’t win, even if you do? If we only count Joe’s friends until you say that he has too many, and then we count all your friends until you say that’s enough, then that’s not really winning, is it?”
The phone rings again. “You’re fired,” says Trumpkin to the relieved staffer. “Who is this?”
“It is I, Putin. You need concede you big baby. You make me look bad. I not raise you to behave like loser.”
“But I’m not losing! Not really! Not if I get people banging on windows, and driving their weaponised Hummers around, and intimidating election officials.”
“You look like loser, you sound like loser, so you loser. You make me look like democrat though, so there’s that. I give Deutsche Bank your new number, they want talk to you about that $900million. Also I think that pee tape on Reddit soon. Bye bye.”
Outside the Oval Office, there are sounds of furniture splintering as the New York state attorney general tries to get in to ask about racketeering. She looks like she wants to seize his assets. Through the window, a Manhattan grand jury is looking into allegations of bank, tax and insurance fraud. Federal prosecutors are on the roof, preparing to abseil down the facade with charges relating to illegal use of campaign funds to pay off Stormy Daniels. Along Pennsylvania Avenue march a group of women with civil writs for sexual assault, slander and defamation, and an email pings in to say someone wants a word about illegal use of government property.
And on the White House lawn, SWAT teams are sharpening their chisels and preparing to storm the Residence to remove an illegal squatter who has overstayed his never-particularly-warm welcome.
“I don’t understand!” wails the baby. “I had the biggest crowd at my inauguration ever, period! I beat a very unpopular candidate in 2016 who got more votes than me! I did everything people wanted, except build the wall, or keep them safe. I made everyone nice and angry! It was an accident. It was someone else’s fault. I don’t have $900million. I WANT MY MOMMY!”
And, as the Proud Boys faced off with the NFAC, and Centrist Grandad Joe tried to calm everyone down, the Woo Woo in the White House stamped, and shouted, and did not notice that everyone who gathered around him when he was strong, were leaving him now he wasn’t. He litigated and he wailed, even as the grown-ups ushered him out of the door.
The best bit about a screaming pre-schooler is realising they’re not hurt, sick, or hungry, but just being a git. And the second best is putting them in a room on their own to cry it out, and closing the door on them.
But you know the problem is still there. It must be dealt with. And when they go quiet is the time to start worrying.