No one thought that MacTrump—Lord of MacTrump Towers, Son of New York—would ascend to the highest position in the kingdom. Yet with the help of his unhappy but dutiful wife Lady MacTrump, his clever daughter Dame Desdivanka, and his coterie of advisers, MacTrump is comfortably ensconced in the White Hold as President of the United Fiefdoms, free to make proclamations to his subjects through his favorite messenger, McTweet.
The Democrati, mourning the loss of their cherished leader O’Bama, won’t give up without a fight. They still remember the disastrous reign of George the Lesser, and they can see Putain’s dark influence on MacTrump. Their greatest hope is MacMueller, tasked with investigating the plot that empowered MacTrump’s rise to the throne.
As Desdivanka schemes to overthrow her father’s councilors, and as Donnison and Ericson—trapped in their own Rosencrantz and Guildenstern-like storyline—prove useless to their father, MacTrump soon realizes he has no true allies. Will he be able to hold on to his throne? Only time will tell in this tragicomic tale of ambition, greed, and royal ineptitude.
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About the Author
Jacopo Della Quercia is the pseudonym for a former Obama staffer. He is the author of The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy and License to Quill, a scholar with the New York Council for the Humanities, and a history writer who has authored more than 100 articles for the comedy website Cracked.com.
Read an Excerpt
Washingtown, the United Fiefdoms, in the New World.
CHORUS One nation, under God, divides in twain—
Half to the right, their power on the rise,
Half to the left, in fury and disdain—
Two peoples held by aging, fragile ties.
Is this America, which once, so proud,
Above the height of lesser nations stood?
How hath there come this overwhelming cloud
To darken freedom’s light, so pure and good?
Election, like an axe assaults a stump,
Hath torn the country easily in two.
And, from the wreckage, riseth one MacTrump,
Whose government begins with much ado.
If thou hast humor, hear our history,
Which may prove comedy or tragedy.
The streets of Washingtown in winter.
Enter McTweet, writing on a scroll
of parchment with a blue quill.
McTWEET All politics is but a theater,
And all the politicians merely actors;
They read their lines and play their fleeting parts
In pageants we the people judge by vote.
It hath been dubb’d a great experiment
But is, in truth, a motley entertainment—
The perfect spectacle in which some knave
May strut and fret his feathers on the stage
And single-handedly may steal the show—
E’en if those hands be orangish and small.
[McTweet sticks his quill in his cap.
Such is American democracy,
The greatest government the world has known.
At least, ’tis how these actors puff their chests,
Which I should know, for I am bound to parrot
Each peep and cheep its rabble tittle-tattles.
[McTweet reads from several scraps of paper.
One crow doth cry, “Democracy is humbug,
A shiny yarn of silken shadow that
Is puppeteer’d by spiders from dark corners,”
To which another bustard groans, “The founders
Were all bad eggs, and their fowl government
As pining, pass’d, and shagg’d as dodos damn’d.”
This buzzard pecks at young millennilarks
With sniping hashtags, not with talons sharp.
One night owl older than the dawn of time
Proclaimeth, “Politics is not for chicks,
Unless their kind be hooters, tits, or boobies.”
Still others—an asylum of cuckoos—
Dumb birdbrains who rely on faux reports,
Whitewash our windows with their fascist facts!
So sings our aviary’s jarring choir
Of tweeting doves and hawks and eagles bald.
If I thy feathers ruffle, be not peckish—
For I am but a humble messenger,
And ’tis a sin to kill a mockingbird—
Yet such is but a horse of diff’rent feather.
My song is ending now, and I must fly—
A new day dawns, the birds again are chirping,
And one enormous cock anon approacheth.
[Exit McTweet to rapid drumming.
Enter soldier. Drumming continues.
SOLDIER Make way for Lord MacTrump!
McTWEET [offstage:] —MacTrump!
SUPPORTERS [offstage:] —MacTrump!
Enter more soldiers, marching with drum and colors.
SOLDIERS [chanting:] A-thump! A-thump! A-thump, here comes MacTrump!
Enter McTweet, also marching.
ALL A-thump! A-thump! A-thump, here comes MacTrump!
Enter police, guards, journalists, supporters,
protestors, and spectators. Marching continues.
McTweet takes and delivers messages throughout the crowd.
SUPPORTERS [singing:] O beautiful, for spacious skies . . .
PROTESTORS [singing:] We’ll not accept his vicious lies!
SPECTATOR 1 I hear his hair was woven out of hay.
McTWEET Like Doris Johnston and Teresa Nay!
SPECTATOR 2 His hands look smaller than an infant boy’s.
McTWEET But not as small as his most fav’rite toys.
PROTESTOR 1 Nay, he was sent here by the devil’s grace!
SUPPORTER 1 Thank God for his most upright, Christian base!
JOURNALIST If any of his speeches have offended—
PROTESTOR 2 Go thou to hell, for nothing hath been mended!
ALL A-thump! A-thump! A-thump, here comes MacTrump!
Enter senators, generals, parliamentarians, and MacTrump’s
ministers and advisors, including Lady Kelleyanne Boleyn,
who file in and take seats above. Enter Lady Justine, who
is blind, led by the arm by Lady Marianne. The two stand
and listen among the protestors. The drumming stops.
SOLDIER All hail Lord Michael Pound, who hither comes,
Your newfound Viceroy of th’United Fiefdoms!
Enter Viceroy Michael Pound and Lady Pound.
SUPPORTERS Hail! Hail!
[Lord Pound and Lady Pound stand and wave.
JUSTINE —Lesser than MacTrump, yet faker.
MARIANNE One not so sleazy, yet far sketchier.
SOLDIER All hail to Donnison and Ericson—
Lord men-but-children to our liege MacTrump!
Enter Donnison and Ericson.
MARIANNE —This Ericson looks like a salmon,
A fishy visage with the skin to match.
JUSTINE Mayhap it is a blessing I am blind.
SOLDIER All hail Lady MacTrump—third wife, first lady!
McTWEET [to Marianne and Justine:] —Would ye see pictures of her nude?
MARIANNE If thou wish’st we shoot not the messenger,
In turn shouldst thou respect her privacy.
JUSTINE An I could live to see one hundred years,
Such nonsense I should never wish to see.
McTWEET Is that, then, thy reply?
[Marianne takes McTweet’s quill and writes on his parchment.
—“Block’d.” Thank you, ladies!
MARIANNE Fly hence, thou feather duster. Get thee gone!
[Marianne pokes McTweet with his quill and he leaves them.
SOLDIER All hail Dame Desdivanka, daughter to
MacTrump and noble wife unto Lord Kushrew!
Enter Dame Desdivanka and Lord Jared Kushrew.
MARIANNE —What thinkest thou of her, my friend?
JUSTINE Methinks she is the one we must observe.
Americans, we are a fickle breed—
No other folk more passionately seek
More power, property, and reputation.
MacTrump loves her beyond a father’s love,
For she is more than daughter: she’s his prize.
Her trophy, though, remaineth to be won.
MARIANNE Then please restrain me from quick judgment, sister.
Without thy wisdom, truly, mine is naught.
SOLDIER All Hail Chief Justice John of Robertson,
Lord President of our esteem’d High Court!
Enter Chief Justice John of Robertson.
SUPPORTERS —Double fail!
JUSTINE —What sentence wouldst thou give him?
MARIANNE I have two minds about him, verily,
Yet both are born of woman.
JUSTINE —Here’s a thought:
How can we be a land of liberty
If all our laws be slaves to men in robes?
SOLDIER All rise! [All stand.] All hail your sovereigN MacTrump!
First champion of the Republicons,
Defeater of the Democrati ranks,
Lord High Commander of the military,
Defender of the hallow’d Constitution—
McTWEET [aside:] Defender or pretender? Time will tell!
SOLDIER And president-elect of this, our land,
Th’United Fiefdoms of America!
Both cheers and sobs erupt from the crowd.