— I —

Before the beginning, there was nothing—no earth, no heavens, no stars, no sky: there was a Chick-fil-A but it had no drive-thru and the waffle fries were inconsistent—sometimes soggy, sometimes burnt.

To the north was NueYjork, the dark world. Here two turbid rivers surrounded the inhospitable island called Menheitten. NueYjork was cold and dark, and a murky mist cloaked all that stood there, making golf almost impossible. That said, it was the only place where you could get a proper bagel. Oh, I forgot to mention, there were forty-seven Rite-Aids.

To the south was Mayr-a-Layrgo. Mayr-a-Layrgo was the shit. Everything glowed like gold—the flagpoles, the furniture, the toilets, everything except the gold, which actually looked a bit dull just sitting there in its unsculpted state. It’s like, hey, why don’t you turn that gold into a doorknob, or a watch, or a paperweight shaped like a bear riding an eagle? Anyway, Mayr-a-Layrgo was cool.

In Mayr-a-Layrgo, at the edge of the staff entrance, stood Pootin, who existed before the primaries. He is there now. He sits upon a giant steed, wearing pants but no shirt or shoes, chest oiled for some reason.

It is said that on the Election of a Democrat, which is the end of the world, and only then, Pootin will leave his station, and one by one the Republicans will try to broker some good real estate deals or maybe land a couple of well-paying speaking engagements.

— II —

Between NueYjork and Mayr-a-Layrgo was an empty swamp of nothingness, without form.

Fuck it. It’s Washington. I’m talking about Washington D.C.

In this formless swamp, life appeared. the likeness of a person bigger than most residents of Tarrytown or Yonkers, huger than any Poughkeepsian has ever been. He was all male and he had a mustache that looked like someone had sewn two Toy Poodles together for the purpose of making a life raft. This creature was the ancestor of all the Republicans, and it called itself Fred.

Fred took a wife from among the immigrant population of giants—which is fucked up when you think about it—and they had a son, whom they called Don. Don married MeliVanaMarla, a mash-up of three giant women, and together they had two sons: Donuyner and The Other One. He also had a couple daughters, but this is a Republican mythology, so we’ll just say they are sweet ladies and leave it at that.

Soon, Don began to tire of the formless swamp. There was no sea and no sand, no grass nor rocks, no soil, no trees. I mean, trees he didn’t so much care about, but there were no Kentucky Fried Chickens, so he was pretty bummed, as you can imagine. There was no world, no heaven and no earth, at that time. Inexplicably, there were lots of guns, very shooty guns, the kind that go pow and prove to people that you don’t have boobies. Otherwise, it was an empty place waiting to be filled with life, existence, and the thunderous sound of Kid Rock’s Bawitdaba.

It was time for the creation of everything. Don, Donuyner and The Other One looked at each other and spoke of what was needful to do, there in the void of Washington. They spoke of the MAGA, and of golfing, and of the Wall, and then they just said fuck it and went golfing.

Soon after, Don killed the giant McCajyne. It had to be done. Besides, Don liked giants who weren't so giant. There was no other way to make a presidency than by killing giants, denigrating large swaths of giants, and paying off a bunch of giants so they don’t go blabbing to the press about what may or may not have happened in a janitor’s closest at that golf Pro-Am event sponsored by Chuck Norris’s charity that teaches karate to retired service dogs.

Don and his sons made the soil from the ashes of moderate giants. The moderate giant’s bones they piled up into hotels and a tennis pavilion. I mean, The Other One didn’t do much but get in the way. Every few hours you’d have to just give him the keys to the golf cart and hope he didn’t do too much damage while you tried to repair where he had tried to “help.”

— III —

The world is a flat disk—no, really. Hey, if you’re not going to stop laughing, I’m not going to tell you the rest of this story.

Okay, then.

The world is a flat disk, and the sea encircles the perimeter. Immigrants live at the edges of the world, in places called Not America. To keep the Immigrants at bay, Don and Donuyner (The Other One was also there) made a wall from McCajyne’s eyelashes and set up a four-foot-wide piece of it in front of Washington. The rest of the wall is coming soon, I swear.

Don and Donuyner and, to a lesser extent, The Other One knew that a Washington is not a Washington until it is inhabited. They wandered halfway down the driveway, looking for people, and they found nothing. At last, under one of the limos parked by the fountain, they found two muddy rocks, and under those rocks they found some mold-covered cocaine. Donuyner said he had no idea how the cocaine ended up under those rocks. Probably a miracle of some sort.

Regardless, they took the cocaine and molded it into piles the height of people. Seriously, it was a lot of cocaine. There was a Post-it note adhered to the rocks that said “Not Cocaine,” but, come on, really?

Don hugged the piles of cocaine in a manner that can only be described as distant uncle creepy, and one by one he breathed life into the piles. No longer were they piles of cocaine in a parking lot: now they were alive.

Donuyner gave them will (Not the person I would have chosen for this particular job, but what are you going to do?). The Other One gave them intelligence and some gum he found stuck to a stick. They gave them shape and ears and noses and feet and red hats that said MAGA. Some got large breasts. Some got Marco Rubio’s haircut.

Last of all they gave the newly-formed people names: The men they called Republicans and the women, they would get to later.

In Washington they would make their homes, protected from progressive ideas and ideas in general, and all the dangers that wait in the wastes. In Washington they could ignore facts and science in peace.

That is why Don is called the President. Because he was their president, and because he breathed life into those moldy piles of cocaine. One day, the Election of a Democrat will be upon them, like the sun shining anew, and Pootin will return the Republicans to their nascent state, transferring the land back to the giants. And it will be left to the giants to figure out how to get rid of all that cocaine.

And the game begins anew.