Previews from the Trump-Biden Debate, 2024
Two born leaders discuss the most important topics of the century
[The stadium is bursting with patriotic gore, seventy thousand attendees jeering in predatory snarls, tribal chants, hooting and hollering in the claustrophobic air. TRUMP and BIDEN enter the stage from a deteriorating driftwood staircase leading up from a subterranean fog-chilled dungeon. They are in ankle and wrist shackles, tugged along by a chain around their neck that’s pulled by the completely masked man, Ye. Fog machines chug red, white, and blue crop duster smoke, which the contestants breathe deeply through their noses, posturing that they are in fact the one who can suck in the aroma of America the most. They are dressed simply, Biden in cheap linen peasant rags, and Trump in an old giant coffee bag with holes cut out for the head and arms to stick out. Our hosts, the impish human-pug, FUCKER CARLTON, has permed his chest hair for the occasion, and wears several long delicate gold chains around his neck that get caught in his bronzed nest like a tangle of weeds; and DONNY LIMESTONE, a debonair gay man still feigning a lackluster chivalry, grotesquely curtsying his way to the podium.]
FUCKER CARLTON:
Thank you all for joining us tonight for this exciting debate. The winner of course will become President of all of you ridiculous cretins, and those who love him will have a false sense of victory, a false sense that the country is progressing toward its true ideals. The contender who loses will be forced to watch reruns of M.A.S.H. and eat frozen dinners until they die, which, by the looks of it, could be now. So, without further ado, the topic of debate by popular demand is “Are you trans, or is that a Mangina?” Now, the prompt continues, and I quote, “Since politics has only become a poisonous cesspool of culture war issues, and no one wants to discuss why both parties flagrantly increase military spending while basic healthcare provisions are—
[The crowd jeers. People from both political camps throw loose cabbages and old tomatoes at the host. A garishly obese man with Patriot war paint smeared across his face, bucked teeth and a bowl cut yells:]
BIDEN IS TRANS! TRUMP HAS THE BIGGEST MANGINA!! CONVERSATION OVER, MOTHERFUCKER!
[The Trump faction are jumping and slamming their chests into one another.]
DONNY LIMESTONE:
Now listen, let’s all settle down shall we? Whatever the result of this debate, we can get out of here peacefully. This debate is brought to you by Oxycontin: “Find your true calling, and get addicted.” You’ll each receive a free trial ten pack after the debate if you exit peacefully. After all, these debates are only about ratings, and rating sell more commercials. Now, President Biden, since you are the Commander in Chief, would you like to make a commanding start?
BIDEN:
Listen Jack, when my sister Jill used to rub coconut oil on my legs—
[His wife, JILL, laughs, as if this was a rehearsed joke. In fact, all the Biden supporters laugh as if it was a rehearsed joke. And the Trump supporters cackle menacingly, pointing accusingly that the old man has lost his mind. Jill touches her husband’s arm and reassures him that she’s not his sister, she’s his wife.]
BIDEN:
Who are you? Don’t touch me, woman, have some goddamn respect. Anyways, when she used to rub that stuff on my legs it would always make my leg hair greasy and sparkly, it would shine in the sun. I like the sun! I like my leg hair, but I don’t like greasy leg hair! And when I was a lifeguard I’d watch my leg hair dance around in the water like ballet dancers, and this real fat ass, I mean she was just a walrus, came into the pool, and suddenly we were swimming in a wave pool. I wanted to go surfing. [he laughs.]
[The stadium is mostly quiet except for a few notable coughs from the back.]
So the first thing I’m going to do as Principle of this country is make bathing your goddamn legs mandatory. You’ve heard me up on this stage before, chanting More Soap, Less Dope. Speaking of which, have you ever washed your balls with tea tree oil soap? Goddamn man, makes them sting like a hornet’s nest. Every time I take a shower now, I tuck my balls back behind my legs into a mangina so the tea tree doesn’t sting them. Sometimes I run out and scare the Secret Service guys with my mangina, and make them think I’m Jill. And those boys, lemme tell you, those boys in the Secret Service are the real heroes. They really know how to keep a secret, I once told them how I used to smoke crack with my boy Hunter, and I swear to god they didn’t tell a damn soul.
[He raises his voice now into one of his signature yelling fits.]
And that’s what this country was founded on, goddamnit! We got the right to party with our boys, to have manginas if we want. I’m not trans but I love a good mangina! That’s why I’m running for Tryptillflapperjackmejill of this place!
[The crowd erupts into a deafening thunder of opposing reactions. Half of the crowd is cheering with glee. A crossdresser with neon blue Disney-villain hair is crying with joy, thick streaks of mascara are dripping down his face, as he waves a sign that says “BIGGER BROADS FOR BIDEN.” The other half of the crowd is a ghoulish pig battalion, wearing pig noses, oinking menacingly as a sign of disagreement. They clearly feel threatened. Their pig leader in his upside-down coffee sack sees that the pressure is on, and he tries to scoff but only a bubbly oink comes out.]
DONNY LIMESTONE:
That’s really brilliant stuff Mr. President. You seem to have answered all confusion as to
[He pauses. He adjusts his glasses, and looks down at his notes. He flips a couple of pages, then places a finger on a line.]
as to whether or not you have the mental acuity to finish the job. That’s inarguable now, and I imagine that even the most disagreeable people now must be the most agreeable. I think we need to reflect a lot as a country and think about
[He puts his finger to his earpiece, listening for a moment]
Goddamnit Jan, I can’t focus when you’re speaking in my ear like that! You fucking bitch!
[He clears his throat and continues addressing the contestants normally.]
I don’t think it would hurt to just call the debate now, as Biden has clearly won our hearts and minds.
FUCKER CARLTON:
What’s going on here? You can’t just call the debate. Becoming president of this country isn’t an easy job, and certainly not one that we should award to someone who does unimpressive manginas.
[Carlton cocks his head to the side and makes his trademark face that looks like a confused dog given conflicting commands. He continues, holding this same look all the way through.]
Does smoking crack with your son really make you qualified to lead this country into war? What about the rest of the country? Why aren’t we smoking crack? Has smoking crack become so elitist that only the president and his son are allowed to do it? I’m only asking questions here. Am I asking questions? If I’m only asking questions, then can you ever accuse me of my utter contempt for all of you, you disgusting heathens, you pig scoundrels, you’re a pig army stomping in your own excrement, you are filth, all of you. Did I just say that out loud? What going on here?
TRUMP:
My opponent seems to think he has a perfectly acceptable mangina to lead this country. I’ll tell you one thing right now. Where’s the camera?
[He looks directly into the camera. His ashen mustard face preserved with the formaldehyde of a mummy. Creases around his mouth deepen as he puckers his lips.]
Now listen to me very carefully because I’m only going to say this one time. I have the best man-gine-ah on this stage. Nobody has a better man-gine-ah than me. Now, I’m not a braggadocios person, I have the humility to admit that maybe Abraham Lincoln had a better man-gine-ah. But I have one of those big floppy anteaters for a cock, and my testicles are closer to a billy goat’s, so I got a buncha animals in my trousers, really. And if you have average-sized genitals or god forbid below average, then it’s too difficult to tuck them back there, but if they’re long and meaty like mine then it’s easy to tuck them all the way back. That’s why I have the best one in the history of this country.
[The Trump faction of the audience erupt in uproarious applause. They are shirtless, even the women, painted from head to toe in runny streaks of red, white, and blue, their paunch porcine bellies panicking in the lull between meals, their pig noses slipping off the greasy and melting face paint. They punch the starless, sordid air in unison as they chant together. “Man-Gine-Ah! Man-Gine-Ah! Man-Gine-Ah!”]
TRUMP:
But the woke mob of Marxist radicals that control this man like one of those famous Lady Penelope puppets would be too politically correct to say Man-gine-ah. They would probably say Them-gine-ah. Not me! I can say it all day and not get offended. Remember the good ‘ol days when we used to play Smear The Queer, and beat the shit out of some kid on the playground?
[screams of agreement ensue]
Yeah, well, that’s what Make America Great Again means. We’re going to bring back games like Smear the Queer, Beat the Meat, Smother your Mother, Queef the Beef. I can almost taste it now. Biden wants you to wash your legs? What for? I on the other hand don’t really give a shit. You can wash them if you want, it doesn’t make a difference to me. What I care about is what every regular American cares about, and that’s owning, and not getting owned. Am I right folks? Who’s your daddy now?
FUCKER CARLTON:
[to the camera, still looking like a confused dog] Who are you really? Have you ever thought about that? I’m asking you. I’m asking you? When you look at yourself in the mirror, and realize you’re just an untethered patchwork of identities, and the majority of what you believe is just a hobby of entertainments and outrages to help you through the years of a wasted life. What am I saying? Am I saying this out loud? What’s going on here? With such a fleeting, miserable existence, if we win, we can scorn half of this country for being imbecilic failures, for being a weak people, for being Neanderthals. If we lose, we can then energize you all to take back the country next election cycle. It’s often better to lose, because then you’re more motivated. Political identity in this case is a far less surprising feature in a buoyant middle class, but what about the unbridgeable wasteland between the rich and the poor? Most of you live lives of little prospect, so having political opinions makes sense only as sport. Do we really want things to improve? I’m only asking questions, I have little desire to answer them.
DONNY LIMESTONE:
Okay, thank you for that. Up next, we have a surprising special guest for you all. No, a surprise special guest. She will decide who she thinks won the debate, and then columnists from every outlet, as well as the multitudes of amateur freaks and heathens can argue about it on endless comment threads on every conceivable social media platform. She’s the California Senator that you know and love, the mummified queen of the kingdom, the lady who’s following in the footsteps of Ruth Bader Ginsberg, in that she didn’t achieve much and then didn’t retire when she should have and ruined things even more for the rest of us. God, I loathe women—did I just say that out loud? It’s the great Diane Feinstein everyone!
[A smatter of distant applause ensues. Diane Feinstein staggers onto the stage. She steals the microphone from Fucker Carlton, and puckers her lips to speak.]
DIANE FEINSTEIN:
You know what? I declare myself the winner. Because they’re both losers.
FUCKER CARLTON:
I think we have a winner everyone! The next President of the United States, Diane Feinstein!
[A moment of considerable thought from the crowd, and then a slow acknowledgement that she is fact the winner, and the best choice for President in this uncertain future. Some new blood, as it were. People begin nodding their heads in agreement, and a few lone claps encourage others until the whole stadium stampedes with applause and joy. Ribbons and confetti shoot out of cannons from the ceiling; a live symphony begins playing Brahms’ “Hungarian Dance”, and people begin dancing appropriately. Trump and Biden are carted away, back into their dungeon, still talking, still debating to themselves or each other, until their witless cries are muffled whimpers behind the stone wall.]