President Donald J. Trump didn’t have a reason for partnering with Israel to attack Iran; he gave a half dozen different rationales, but his endgame is clear.
“We’ll leave when I feel it in my bones,” Trump tells The Lint Screen. “It might be today, or tomorrow, or it could be never. No one knows for sure, not even me, but we’ll see what happens.” He shrugs.
“One thing’s for sure, sir,” chimes in Sec. of Defense Pete Hegseth, “you have unleashed an epic fury of manly warriors, fighting with sweaty muscular bodies, glistening in the sunshine for the triumph of Christianity over the heathen religions. We are battling to burnish your greatness for all time. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the––”
“I deserve the Nobel Peace Prize,” Trump shouts. “Many, many Nobel Peace Prizes. And my face should be put on Mount Rushmore because I won this war in the first minutes. We obliterated everything in Iran, and now we’re just bombing for the fun of it.”
“And it’s a real gas, sir! I’m having a terrific time and––”
“We took a little excursion to Iran, and they fought dirty by closing the Strait of Hormuz and causing oil prices to go up. No one in a million years could have predicted that would happen. No one.”
“It was a dirty move, sir. They cheated.”
“But Iran wants to make it up to me. The Ayatollah called me the other day, crying with tears in his eyes, and he said, ‘Sir, we’re sorry for not being so nice. I’m going to send you a very special gift.’ I told him I like gifts, but it had better not be a scented candle or a standard-length necktie. I hate those. He promised his gift wasn’t those, and that I’d love his present. And it arrived today, and it is very expensive and valuable. I like it bigly.”
“If he had sent a bad gift, we’d have unleashed more macho on them!” Hegseth says, punching his right fist into his left palm. “I am so jacked with man juice, I wanna kill something!”
“Calm down, Pete, before you have an accident, like last time.”
“Sorry, sir. I’ll pay for the rug, I swear I will. I just got so excited when you said we were going to war.”
Trump reaches into his desk drawer and tosses a rawhide chew toy to Hegseth, who catches it in his teeth and runs away.
“Down, boy!” Trump watches his “Secretary of War” rolling on the floor, delighted with his treat. Trump smiles. “Like everyone in my Cabinet, Pete’s from central casting. He’s perfect.” Trump leans forward, touches his nose, and grins. “I think the Ayatollah gets me. I told him to keep the expensive gifts coming, and maybe we’ll stop the bombing.”
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