Trump Lets Musk Rub His Nub On His Winking Hemorrhoid Hole

 (Warning: This post contains some gross stuff. This is your only warning.)

Please do not continue reading this post if you have a weak constitution and cannot handle disturbing content. I would like to inform you that this text may be offensive to some readers, as it contains adult themes and language. It should not be read by anyone under the age of 18. It was never an easy read, not even by me.

Trump Lets Musk Rub His Nub On His Winking Hemorrhoid Hole

Trump was at the Resolute Desk, signing Executive Orders designed to hurt people, when Elon burst through the doors of the Oval Office, laden with too many shopping bags. He tossed them onto a couch, rushed up behind Trump, and wrapped him in a tight embrace, his teeth playfully worrying the lobe of Trump’s ear like a warm pink prune.

"Did you miss me?" Elon purred, that ridiculous, ever-morphing accent wrapping itself around each syllable.

"I miss you whenever you're away," Trump murmured, turning just enough to pat Elon’s groin with the lazy familiarity of a man touching something he technically owns. "Did you get me anything?"

"Did I get you anything?" Elon gasped, feigning outrage. "Of course I did! Elon has to take care of Daddy."

With a flourish, he produced two bags of Arby’s and three of Long John Silver’s.

"Long John Silver’s?! Where did you get that?!" Trump rose—struggling, but determined—toward the feast.

"Flew it in special for you," Elon beamed, setting out paper plates and plastic utensils like a fast-food sommelier. "I know how much you love the hushpuppies."

They devoured their garbage food in the companionable silence of men who, at their core, are nothing more than raccoons in human suits. Trump’s breathing was labored, the price of enduring his latest bout with COVID-26. Elon, meanwhile, felt depleted from his latest hobby—jacking off into over a hundred cups earlier that day. Not for sperm donation. Just for the thrill of it. It was something he liked to do when Trump allowed him out of the White House.

"What should we do tonight?" Trump asked innocently.

Elon grinned, revealing teeth flecked with unclaimed morsels of fried fish.

"Well, Daddy," Elon purred, "I thought maybe tonight... we could go all the way."

Trump grunted, a sound that contained equal parts fear, anticipation, and digestive distress.

"Yeah, sport? You want a shot at the gold hole?" Trump's expression was unreadable. "It's gonna cost you..."

"Ooooh," Elon cooed, eyes gleaming. "Does that mean you'll let me watch you pee?" His voice carried the eager, breathless excitement of a toddler seeing a giraffe for the first time.

Trump exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the Resolute Desk.

"Why would I let you see me pee?"

Elon hopped onto the desk, his hideous body bouncing like a man just shy of catching his reflection in a ceiling mirror. "Because it will be my first time, and it's very important to me. I never want to miss a single second of history in the making!"

Trump's eyes drifted to the Presidential Seal on the carpet. He was thinking—really thinking. His best math brain whirred into action, calculating the potential fortune sitting in his Presidential Savings Account, the sum that could one day be his, if only he could hold onto power long enough.

"Daddy," Elon interrupted, eyes gleaming with need.

"Yeah, sport? What is it?" Trump’s voice was distant, lost in financial reveries. Before Elon could respond, Trump powered through. "We’ll have to divide the money by the minimum requirements to sustain all the things you’ll need me to do. Then we’ll divide that by the number of days we live together while I’m on vacation for my hemorrhoids."

"Your hemorrhoids are really bad, aren’t they, Daddy?" Elon’s voice was almost reverent, like a disciple before a suffering saint.

Trump’s face turned an alarming shade of red. The blood was draining from all necessary places, pooling into his neglected, overworked organs. It was going to hurt.

Then, suddenly, Trump moved. Faster than any human should, given his condition. He leapt from the couch with the desperate agility of a man trying to escape an incoming audit. His arms flailed. His mouth opened wide.

"IT'S SHOWTIME, BABY!"

And then he was gone. Barreling out of the Oval Office like a rabid penguin, straight toward the safety of the bunker.

Inside the bunker, Trump pulled out his phone and texted his good buddy, Vlad.

HELP.

Vlad responded almost immediately.

WHAT DID YOU DO?

Trump sighed, rubbing his temples as he typed.

Promised my son I’d help him with a thing, and now he wants to watch me pee.

Vlad’s reply was swift and understanding.

Ha! What a good papa you are! If you want, I can send someone to suck your nub while you take care of your hemorrhoids.

Trump scoffed. No, no, Vlad. We need to talk about something serious. My base wants me to attend a NASCAR event and ride a bald eagle while signing an order declaring 'WAP' the new national anthem. Also, there's the matter of banning all fonts except Comic Sans. But first, I need to get the best prostate screening money can buy. You never know when you’ll get testicular cancer from having too many people watch you work.

Vlad chuckled. A leader’s burdens are many. But I must go—there are war crimes to commit.

Trump sighed. Same.

Meanwhile, back in the Oval Office, Elon waited. The room was quiet. The hushpuppies were gone. The President had vanished. The world held its breath.

When Trump returned, he was flanked by Secret Service agents, White House medical staff, and a team of bewildered doctors clutching medical instruments. They moved like a bizarre parade, their expressions a mix of duty and existential dread.

The lead doctor cleared his throat. "Mr. President, for the sake of the country, could you—please—pee on command?"

Trump hesitated. The room waited. America waited. History was being written in real time.

And then, he did it. He peed. Standing up. Like a big boy. No adult diaper. No assistance. The relief was glorious. The national anthem played softly in the background.

As his stream hit the bowl, he continued signing the final executive orders, his hemorrhoids being carefully frozen off and served to Elon like delicately chilled caviar.

Executive Order #4567: A national day of observance was declared by the U.S. for the day when the President of the United States finally pees on command for America.

Executive Order #4568: The day that America would no longer be a democracy.

And so, the world turned. Spinning forever under the weight of a billionaire’s devotion, a fast-food king’s hemorrhoids, and a love story that refused to die.