PRESIDENTIAL DOODIES

The Hyperbole Filter

Exaggerated canines are not meant to be taken literally

This week, I lost my dog. Everybody knows about it. The Boy Scouts of America were out looking for her, but then they got arrested and are now part of another general population.

Then, Sarah McLachlan, the singer turned into the queen of saving animals from cruelty, called and asked if she could help. She started a worldwide campaign to find my puppy which was accompanied by some very sad earworm music.

However, once Sarah found out my dog had her own caterer and manicurist, she said “I can’t in good conscience help a douchebag like you and your spoiled pup.”

The President finally called me. I couldn't believe how long it took him. My dog was missing for like half an hour before my phone rang. Finally, he put his own shit aside, called, and asked how I was holding up.

Not Biden. He’s too busy trying to figure out how to Manchurian candidate Joe Manchin and get Kyrsten Sinema drunk enough to find out who she reports to.

President Clinton called. I could hear Hillary in the background asking him where he hid the fried snickers. Clinton heard about my missing dog and was under the impression I was an intern.

“I like helping interns move up from under the table,” he giggled. I said a prayer and a national apology to Monika Lewinsky and told him he must have procured a copy of my old CV from the 1980s. I told him my granddaughter was an intern, so he said, “Okay. What is she wearing?”

I used to want to be President until I found out I was a girl. That was upsetting but it explained all the bras and birth control pills I stored in my closet. I also realized I going to have to sleep my way to the top and then everyone would just call me a slut. Maybe not worth it.

I decided I would rather find someone who liked buying me diamonds, move to the suburbs, have five kids, and buy a dog. Then, I’d only have to sleep with one person, not including my harem of male lovers.

This brings me back to the issue at hand. I’m sure you read about it in the New York Times. Or maybe you attended one of the parades of people carrying torches looking for my dog. Or perhaps you watch CNN, MSNBC, and even FOX news. My dog's pictures were circulating everywhere. She’s pretty famous.

You might have seen her in the new and not improved Little House on the Prairie 2.0. It’s called Penthouse Condo on the Upper East Side. It’s a story about a serial sex offender who becomes President and his little dog, Melania Dump. It ran for one excruciating season but they’re thinking of bringing it back. I’ve already started to dig my hole to China.

I know you’re probably wondering why my famous 12-pound mini labradoodle would run away in the first place. What kind of crazy dog with her very own personal shopper runs away from home?

It wasn’t her fault. She’d been hanging out with some neighborhood cats who led her astray. They’d convinced my little doodle she was part-cat and that screwed her up for a while. She ended up paw deep in an identity crisis.

She ran away to the Jungian Institute where they simulated her rebirth. Unfortunately, during her simulation, she started chewing on her paws, which screwed up the birth sequence and she came back thinking she was a flank steak.

The good news is she likes flank steak more than cats. The bad news is she’s become a total narcissist and spends all day ogling herself in the mirror and licking her chops.

Thanks to Andrew Rodwin for making such a big deal about hyperboles. And Holly J. See for knowing where commas go.