Why I Stopped Inviting Trump over for Dinner

His shenanigans aren’t welcome at my house.

“You’re late” I said opening the door and stepping to the side.

Donald walked in and threw his coat over my shoulder. “No I’m not”, he said pushing past. With two vigorous kicks he managed to dislodge each of his shoes and cast them into the corner.

“It’s 7pm, You said you would get here by 6pm”

“Nope, never said that.

I pulled out my phone and played the voicemail from him stating he would be there at 6.

“Fake voicemail.” he said without even glancing back, his interest obviously caught by the two women he had just noticed sitting on my couch. He walked purposely into the room and stopped just short of the coffee table.

“It was like time itself had stopped. Gone were the background noises of singing birds, gone was the smell from Donald’s feet. The man who had just entered the room became the focal point of the two girls universe. Hormones began to…”

“Donald!” I yelled. “You’re vocally reciting the narrative in your head out loud again.”

The two girls giggled and Donald fired two finger pistols at them. He quickly turned to me. “Dibs on the one on the left.”

“That’s my daughter”

“So… No? Fine, the one on the right will do”

I was astounded, “What? No. What! They just wanted to meet the President of the United States.”

“Well, don’t be surprised if they fall for me. Most women do. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you that I’m very attractive to women. It’s the power, I can do anything I want. They can’t help themselves.”

Donald loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt proclaiming it to be “real hot”. He ran his fist through his chest hair and ripped a clump out. “For you darling,” he proclaimed handing it to my speechless daughter.

I had to get this misogynist away from my daughter and her friend. “Donald, go in the kitchen and get a beer from Julie”.

Donald turned and walked to the back of the house, but not before winking at my daughter.

I looked at my daughter, horror etched in her face, holding a clump of Donald’s chest hair. “Give me that” I said taking it away from her. “Jeezo, even his chest hair is orange”.

In the kitchen, Julie was busy making a cake with her left hand, a casserole with her right, and crushing grapes into wine with her feet.

Donald took a look at how busy she was and shook his head, “Get me a beer will you Julie?”

Julie wiped a torrent of sweat off her forehead with her sleeve, “Sure Donald, but..”

“I don’t remember making this a committee. Get me a drink.” Donald punctuated his sentence with a pouted lip smile to let her know that even though he meant it, he was kidding. Unless of course she failed to appropriate the proper alcoholic beverage within the appointed time. Upon termination of the allowed time, she would become tardy, resulting in a more serious demand for alcohol and two demerits in Donald’s book of reasons a woman can’t do a mans job. All of which was conveyed in that pouted lipped smile.

Donald quickly whipped out his unsecure phone and started texting furiously.

In the front room, I could hear the indistinct conversation between my wife and Donald as I washed my hands after handling Donald’s clumped chest hair. My phone dinged with a tweet notification.

The tweet read, “Having dinner at friends house, wife and daughter are both making moves on me”

I dried my hands yelling, “Donald, get over here!”

Donald shambled in from the back, shooting finger pistols at the girls again.

“Did you just tweet that my wife and daughter were making moves on you?”

“No”

“You aren’t @ real Donald Trump on Twitter?” I asked. I already knew he was, he tweets over 100 times a day sometimes. Plus he always has to show the tweet he just tweeted to the person next to him like it won’t be in the news later.

“Women flirt with me consciously or unconsciously, that’s to be expected” he said punctuating the sentence with his patented lip pout. “You know, I was the inspiration for twitter. I hired people. I gave them some very, very good advice. They had no idea what to do. They couldn’t have done it without me. Ask anyone on the 8 continents of the world, they know.”

I looked at Donald and I was done with him. I’d tried to give him every chance I possibly could to grow up. I couldn’t do the 7th grade arguments or pretend he wasn’t bullying a little climate change girl anymore. Fact check time, 8 continents??? He invented Twitter??? It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. This had been a long time coming and I was suddenly embarrassed at how much I had let happen.

“Donald, get the hell out. You aren’t welcome in my house anymore. You need to leave right now!” I pointed toward the door.

He pointed back and said “You’re fired!”.

I shook my head, “Donald, this isn’t The Apprentice and hasn’t been for awhile. You need to realize that.”

He stomped to the front door and slipped his shoes on. “I didn’t realize I was in the house of a Democrat!” he muttered.

I opened the front door for him. “You aren’t, I’m just a human being that has come to his senses. Out you go now”

And that my friends, was the last time I invited Donald to my house and I’ve never felt better.