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The Trumpster was so proud. Befitting his image as the ultimate deal broker, he was the finisher, the man who had come out on top. The sexiest and most powerful man alive had sealed the deal, had conquered the unconquerable, had ended the war in one fell swoop.
Their suits dripping wet in sexual innuendo, Trump and his cronies reminded the world that size counts, and the man with the orange hair and the red hat had the biggest instrument with the greatest penetration. Forget about all that Israeli-Iranian foreplay, Trump had brought the war to its climax. Gosh, if there had ever been the remotest chance of a shot with Melania, tonight might just be the night.
Total obliteration, said the Confounder-in-Chief. Iran would never be able to make a bomb again—ever! Because if they could, then what was the point? After all, Bibi assured me that it would be only one mission and total victory. In and out, one time, all pleasure and no pain. And of course Bibi, my friend and ally, would never deceive me. Bibi would never exaggerate nor would he ever attempt to manipulate me. Manipulation is my specialty, it goes in only one direction, doesn’t it? We signed on to be one-shot heroes. We would be seal the deal in one bold adventure, and we would walk off in absolute triumph. “Total obliteration” is a really really great term, says the Trumpster to himself. We should really find a way to use over again, hey, maybe for all those illegals.
And then some naïve fool in the our own intelligence community, a high ranking official the US Defense Intelligence Agency, wrote a report saying that we may have delayed the Iranian nuclear program by only a few months. Oh man, I wouldn’t want to be that guy. Talk about “obliterated,” that’s what will happen to that poor guy’s career. He is Out. Gone. Extinguished. Forever.
Why is that guy in such hot water? That unsuspecting scientist violated one the of the cardinal rules of the Trump administration: If you are an official in this government, never ever write or say anything that Trump won’t like. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. Actually, it’s not true because we all know that the only true facts, as opposed to false facts, are the ones we like to hear. “They got it wrong,” said the President’s press secretary, believing that she could stuff the genie back into the bottle without anyone noticing. Not quite in control of his emotions, the President dropped the f-word when asked for a comment on the report.
The message to the world was meant to be direct and straightforward, with JD Vance coming out the next day to tell a simple story. All hostilities had ended. Iran was on its back–permanently-and Donald Trump was declared heavyweight champion of the world via one-punch knockout.
The US had won what will forever be gloriously known as the Twelve Days War.
One problem Mr. Vice President: Missiles are still flying on the thirteenth day, and in all likelihood the Twelve Days War will go on for weeks if not months.
Welcome, Mr. Trump, to the Twelve Days and Counting War.
