St. Valentine’s at the Orange House
(The MAGA Saga, S2E4)
President Ronald J. Dump was attempting sleep, despite a long and highly successful day. He was watching the FAUX News, admiring a panel of perpetually aggrieved blondes chirping about how “our President is a businessman! All his relationships are transactional, the greatest manager in US history, making America great again!”
Normally, Ronald J. Dump found such commentary to be entirely accurate and insightful. However, tonight he found himself oddly restless and tortured by painful feeling that those dolls had treated him very badly.
He attempted to apply a “reframing” technique suggested by that Canadian psycho-quack, last week at Mar-de-Lardo, and convince himself that at least FAUX wasn’t spelling out his name in full—Ronald Jerk Dump. To be honest, that was a real concern. The subtle but powerful beauty of his name could easily be perverted by some deranged vegetarian lunatics.
The repeated mention of “transactions” proved unexpectedly disruptive to Presidential sleep cycle – and that’s what made him literally lose his sleep. The chicks in the TV had inadvertently reminded him that he hadn't had any “transactions” with Lemonia since November's election. November! Well, it definitely felt like a terrible very long period of time. So much so that he had to share this concern with his close friends.
He had to share this national crisis with someone. He dialed his best friend and confidant, President Vlad.
Vlad’s familiar falsetto rattled the Presidential Sound System, designed for more noble frequencies, while his unhelpful advice further disturbed Ronald J. Trump’s tired brain. “Make Lemonia a Congress Leader, like I did with… a certain someone,” he suggested, grinning his signature smirk. "Of course, she couldn't exist in that cesspool and almost instantly decided to better take a maternity leave, at whatever cost. Then another one, back-to-back..."
That was decidedly not helpful. Too Communist. "She doesn't care about politics," Dump tried to appear objective.
President Vlad joked back "Do U?" and shared another milk-curdling grin. But Ronald J. Dump quickly realized that in this delicate matter, he had to go by brain power – and was already dialing a more wise friend – Chairman His Dick Pin.
Ronald J. Dump has always been transparent about his excellent rapport with his friend, asserting FAUX: "But I like Chairman Pin very much. I've always liked His Dick!" Today however, to President Dump’s complete disappointment, His Dick Pin offered similarly unhelpful advice. In his very Oriental, deeply cryptic manner, His Dick Pin suggested that maybe a man shouldn’t pursue his woman unless there's an election, and advised to purchase a quantity of Chinese ginseng, the unrivaled Chinese remedy for electile dysfunction, and buy it fast, before the tariffs hit.
Ronald J. Dump didn't get it. Indeed, His Dick was surprisingly nonsensical today. Wait four more years? And use ginseng root in the meantime? For what …? He tried to visualize that, and the very image sent shivers down his spine.
Frustrated and upset, Ronald J. Dump slammed the video phone down and scrolled through his gold-plated iPhone, encrusted with forty-seven diamonds. As of yesterday, though, the actual count was forty-five – a cruel reminder of his previous season, one that has not ended in standing ovation and extended contract. The two missing diamonds were casualties of Lone Skum child’s tantrum. The single father had nobody to babysit his spectrum toddler, and this little cute prop monster had grabbed the Presidential iPhone off the Resolute desk and chewed off a hunk of the designer casing.
His next call though was GREAT SUCCESS. Gussie Vile, his Chief of Staff, answered the phone before the first ring and helped extinguish the firestorm. "Why not use tomorrow as an excuse to make up with Lemonia?"
Ronald J. Dump squinted at her blankly. "What's tomorrow?"
Always polite and perpetually unimpressed Gussie's voice betrayed surprise. "St. Valentine's Day?"
Sensing a potential merit in a subordinate’s suggestion, Ronald J. Dump was predictably irritated. “No! Bad look. Lone Skum just shredded St. Valentine's portraits at the Birds Life Matters Agency and ordered his flying monkeys to…”
Gussie sighed, the sound drier than the LA area before Ronald J. Dump ordered the best, the most beautiful water to flow there. "That’s St. Francis, sir. A much weaker saint. Not even in the same league as you. Frankly – a loser. Never built anything tremendous. And they're not related."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Then tell me more."
Gussie's eyes glazed over as she spun a convincing, albeit heavily embellished, narrative of romance, chocolate, and strategically timed pardon opportunities.
Unexpectedly, Gussie's plan clicked into place. It aligned perfectly with the Change Project 2025 scope, requiring only a few judiciously worded executive orders. Even today’s frustrating call with Vlad could be logged as “lengthy and highly productive” and crucial for the beginning of yet another transaction. Most importantly, it would divert public attention from the soaring price of eggs and gasoline, and the impending appointment of a Secretary of Health, a longtime heroin aficionado, even though he was a good match for another naturally talented man, the already appointed Secretary of Defence, who also maintained that rehab was not an option for real men.
Moreover, keeping the masses distracted was a bigly achievement because the attention span of those masses was so short that it was a challenge to even catch it. Now Ronald J. Dump saw the light. He could kill several birds with one stone, and no St. Francis would stop him. He was the greatest stone-killer of all time, like you’ve never seen before!
The next morning, a Friday, while even his security detail were still asleep, Ronald J. Dump was already in the Orange Office, texting his Executive Orders to the world.
First, St. Valentine's Day was declared a National Holiday, a day off for everyone! Then, he decided he would make history by creating a new American tradition, like G.W. Bush has with Thanksgiving, but bigger, better, more Dumpian. He would officially pardon lovers! Right on the Orange House lawn, with TV cameras, fake news, and randomly selected, security-cleared citizens present.
The inaugural St-Valentine’s pardons were obvious: Stormy Weathers and E. Mean Carroll.
Shocking! Unexpected! A newsworthy action guaranteed to make fake news explode! Even Sleepy Joe would have to wake up for this one!
On the Orange Housekeeping level, he texted his staff to stay home with their loved ones. "ENJOY YOURSELVES! BE HAPPY! AND REMEMBER I'M DOING IT FOR YOU!"
Finally – the strategic masterstroke, courtesy of Gussie – he texted Lemonia: "Inviting ALL your incredible relatives and neighbors from your hometown, Slivovitsa, to a HUGE party at the Orange House! Two drinks, free for the ladies! Get ready for a celebration, just like the old country!"
“This was going to be something tremendous, an event like you have never seen before,” he mused.
Now for the climax – implementation. He prepped himself for the moment the world had been waiting for. Snatching a bouquet of reasonably fresh flowers from the vase on Gussie’s desk, he checked his dental fixtures in the mirror, adjusted his new sleeping gown emblazoned with “4” and “7” in shimmering gold, and marched toward Lemonia’s wing, ready to greet her with a smile brighter than the sun rising over the Mar-de-Lardo golf course.
Time for a long-awaited transaction because it’s St-Valentines. He threw open the door, ready to flood the room with his magnificent presence, like a warm sunset over the contested Adriatic shoreline...
Lemonia was erect in her king bed, wide awake, on the phone with the Mayor of Slivovitsa, gesturing for him, Ronald J. Dump, to be quiet.
This was not in the script.
Ronald J. Dump was not a man to be silenced, especially not by a woman of his fancy. Striding into her sacred chamber, he planted himself in the middle of the room and, like a Roman God (or maybe St. Valentine himself, who really knew?), flung open his gown…
Lemonia stopped mid-sentence, covered the phone, and stared at him, a mix of surprise and annoyance flickering across her face. Then, as if a crucial memory had surfaced, her expression softened, and a hesitant smile bloomed. "Hvala. Imam obiska. Se vidiva kmalu, draga," she said quickly into the phone, hung up, and pointing vaguely at Dump, still in his Roman God pose exclaimed: "Right! I forgot to tell the Cook to buy Little Smokies."
"What?!... Why?"
"Because not everybody likes cocktails with Big Macs and French Fries. I have some refined family coming from overseas, and they like cocktail wieners."
A eerily familiar Size-X black MAGA cap sat out of place on the night table in her designer sleeping quarters. She snatched it and yanked it down over her eyes—both to roll them safely and to shield herself from her lawful husband’s bewildered stare. “And they have DIGNITY!” she added with dignity.
And then, like a badly aimed golf ball at Mar-de-Lardo, it hit him—his transactional approach had failed. Again. And, apparently, a transaction with some faraway Imam Obiska—what’s-his-face—was already in the works.
Ronald J. Dump spun on the heels of his elevator slippers and stormed back to the Orange Office, gripping his diamond-studded iPhone, a Commander-in-Chief clutching battle plans.
"OK, Obiska, so-called Imam, and your miserable flock—you asked for it. It’s coming. Canada, Mexico—you’re fucked now. Tariffs go up 50% today!"
But momentarily, he regained full control over himself. Thinking already far ahead, a real leader, he corrected himself: "Forty-seven percent! Let's give the fake news something really bigly to chew on!"
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